Lola and the Boy Next Door

by Stephanie Perkins

  They’re black with a pink stripe down the center of each nail. And then . . . I know how I can touch him. “Hey. Let me paint yours.” I’m already getting up for my favorite dark blue polish. Somehow, I know he won’t protest.

  I carry it to the floor, where he’s still leaning against my bed. He sits up straight. “Will this hurt?” he asks.

  “Badly.” I shake the bottle. “But try to keep your screams low, I don’t want Nathan coming back.”

  Cricket smiles as I reach for my chemistry textbook. “Put this on your lap, I’ll need a steady surface. Now place your hands on it.” We’re close to each other, much closer than we’ve been while working on my dress. “I’m going to take your left hand now.”

  He swallows. “Okay.”

  Cricket holds it up slightly. Tonight the back of his hand has a star drawn on it. I wonder what it means as I slide my hand underneath his fingers. His hand twitches violently. “You’ll have to hold it steady,” I say. But I’m smiling. Contact.

  I paint his nails Opening Night blue by the light of the moon. Our grips relax as I focus on my work. Slow, careful strokes. We don’t talk. My skin and his skin. Only a book between my hand and his lap. I feel him watch me the entire time—not my hands, but my face—and his gaze burns like an African sun.

  When I finish, I lift my eyes to his. He stares back. The moon moves across the sky. Her beams hit his eyelashes, and I’m struck anew that I’m alone, in the dark, with a boy who once shattered my heart. Who would kiss me, if I didn’t have a boyfriend. Who I would kiss, if I didn’t have a boyfriend.

  Who I want to kiss anyway.

  I bite my bottom lip. He’s hypnotized. I lean forward, moving the curves of my body into the slender shadow of his. The air between us is physically hot, painfully so. He glances down my shirt. It is very, very close to his line of vision.

  I part my lips.

  And then he’s stumbling away. “I want to,” he croaks. “You know I want to.”

  He tests the bridge for firmness and springs onto it. Cricket Bell doesn’t look back, so he doesn’t see the tears spilling down my face. The only thing he leaves behind is a smudge of blue polish on my window frame.

  chapter twenty-four

  Loooo-laaaa. Beautiful Lola.” Franko’s eyes are red and dilated. As usual.

  I dig through the box-office drawers, throwing dry pens and dusty instruction manuals to the floor. “Have you seen the ink cartridges for the tickets?”

  “No, but have you seen the popcorn today? It’s so . . . aerodynamically inclined. I think I might’ve eaten some. Do I have kernels in my teeth?”

  “No kernels,” I snap.

  “I think I have kernels in my teeth. Like, right between my front teeth.” He stands, and his tongue explores his own mouth in a disgusting form of self–French kissing. “The strings are beautiful tonight.”

  “Sure. The strings.”

  “I mean, I wouldn’t cut one, but if I did, I’d say . . . that’s a beautiful string.”

  Seriously, if he doesn’t shut up soon, I’m strangling him. My patience is at an all-time low. I wave my arms at St. Clair, who is ripping tickets tonight. There’s no one around, so he strolls over. “For the love of God, you two have to switch jobs,” I say.

  “You’re beautiful, St. Clair,” Franko says.

  “Everyone is beautiful to you when you’re high.” He sits in Franko’s seat. “Scat.”

  Franko lumbers away.

  “Thank you,” I say. “I just . . . can’t handle that right now.”

  He gives me a full-bodied shrug. “Right now or for the entire month of November?”

  “Don’t even,” I warn. But it’s true. Since my complete and total humiliation with Cricket two weeks ago—and his subsequent disappearance from my life—I’ve been extremely unpleasant. I’m hurt, and I’m angry. No, I’m furious, because it’s my stupid fault. I threw myself at him. What does he think of me now? Obviously, not much. I’ve called him twice and sent three apology texts, but he’s ignored them all.

  So much for Mr. Nice Guy.

  “Mr. Nice Guy?” St. Clair asks. “Who’s that?”

  Oh, no. I’m talking out loud again. “Me,” I lie. “Mr. Nice Guy is gone.”

  He sighs and checks the clock on the wall. “Fantastic.”

  “I’m sorry.” And I mean it. My friends—Lindsey, Anna, and St. Clair—have all been patient with me. More than I deserve. I told Lindsey what happened, but St. Clair, and through him, Anna, must have heard some version of something from Cricket. I’m not sure what. “Thank you for taking Franko’s place. I appreciate it.”

  The European shrug again.

  We work quietly for the next hour. As the minutes tick by, I feel more and more guilty. It’s time to change my attitude. At least around my friends. “So,” I say during the next customer lull. “How did it go with Anna’s family? Didn’t her mom and brother visit for Thanksgiving?”

  He smiles for the first time since coming in here. “I wooed them off their feet. It was an excellent visit.”

  I grin and then give him a nod with exaggerated formality. “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you,” he says with equal formality. “They stayed with my mum.”

  “That’s . . . weird.”

  “Not really. Mum is cool, easy to get along with.”

  I raise a teasing eyebrow. “So where did YOU guys stay?”

  “Where we always stay.” He stares back solemnly. “In our very separate dormitories.”

  I snort.

  “What about you?” he asks. “Did you spend Thanksgiving with the boyfriend?”

  “Uh, no.” I stumble through an explanation about Norah being difficult and Max being busy, but it sounds hollow and forced. We’re silent for a minute. “How do you . . .” I’m struggling to find the right words. “How do you and Anna make it work?You make it seem easy.”

  “Being with Anna is easy. She’s the one.”

  The one. It stops my heart. I thought Max was the one, but . . . there’s that other one.

  The first one.

  “Do you believe in that?” I ask quietly. “In one person for everyone?”

  Something changes in St. Clair’s eyes. Maybe sadness. “I can’t speak for anyone but myself,” he says. “But, for me, yes. I have to be with Anna. But this is something you have to figure out on your own. I can’t answer that for you, no one can.”

  “Oh.”

  “Lola.” He rolls his chair over to my side. “I know things are shite right now. And in the name of friendship and full disclosure, I went through something similar last year. When I met Anna, I was with someone else. And it took a long time before I found the courage to do the hard thing. But you have to do the hard thing.”

  I swallow. “And what’s the hard thing?”

  “You have to be honest with yourself.”

  “Lola. You look . . . different.”

  The next afternoon and I’m on Max’s doorstep, sans wig and fancy makeup. I’m wearing an understated skirt and a simple blouse, and my natural hair is loose around my shoulders. “Can I come in?” I’m nervous.

  “Of course.” He moves aside, and I enter.

  “Is Johnny here?”

  “No, I’m alone.” Max pauses. “Do your dads know you’re here?”

  “They don’t have to know where I am all the time.”

  He shakes his head. “Right.”

  I wander toward his couch, pick up the Noam Chomsky book on his coffee table, flip through the pages, and set it back down. I don’t know where to begin. I’m here for answers. I’m here to find out if he’s the one.

  Max is staring at me strangely, about something other than my sudden presence. It makes me even more uncomfortable. “What?” I ask. “What’s that look?”

  “Sorry. You . . . look a little young today.”

  My heart wrenches. “Is that bad?”

  “No. You look beautiful.” And he gives me that gorgeous half smile. “Com
e here.” Max collapses onto his beat-up couch, and I climb into his arms. We sit in silence. He waits for me to speak again, aware that I’m here for a reason. But I can’t form the words. I thought being here would be enough. I thought I’d know when I saw him.

  Why is the truth so hard to see?

  I trace his spiderwebs. Max closes his eyes. I lightly brush the boy in the wolf suit in the crook of his elbow. He releases a moan, and our lips find each other. He pulls me onto his lap. I’m helpless against the current.

  “Lolita,” he whispers.

  And my entire body freezes.

  Max doesn’t notice. He lifts the edge of my shirt, and it’s enough to wake me up. I yank it back down. He startles. “What? What’s the matter?”

  I can barely keep my voice steady. “Which one, Max?”

  “Which one, what?” He’s unusually dazed. “What are we talking about?”

  “Which Dolores Nolan are you in love with? Are you in love with me, Lola? Or are you in love with Lolita?”

  “And what is that supposed to mean?”

  “You know exactly what it means. You call me Lolita, but you get weird when I’m not dressed up, when I look my age. So which one? Do you like the older me or the younger me?” A worse thought occurs. “Or do you only like me because I’m young?”

  Max is furious. He pushes me off his lap and stands up. “You really want to have this conversation? Right now?”

  “When would be a better time? When, Max?”

  He swipes up his lighter from the side table. “I thought we’d been over the age thing. I thought it was something that bothered other people.”

  “I just want the truth. Do you love me? Or do you love my age?”

  “How the HELL can you say that?” Max throws his lighter across the room. “In case you’ve forgotten, let me remind you. You chased ME down. I didn’t want this.”

  “What you mean you ‘didn’t want this’?You didn’t want me?”

  “That’s not what I said!” he bursts out. “Oh, I wanted you. But guys like me aren’t supposed to go after girls like you, remember? Isn’t that what we’re talking about? Jesus. I don’t know what you want me to say. It sounds like every answer I give you will be the wrong one.”

  The truth hits me with a vicious punch to the gut. Every answer is the wrong one.

  “You’re right,” I whisper.

  “Damn right, I’m right.” A pause. “Wait. Right about what?”

  “There’s no right answer. It doesn’t exist. There’s no way this can end well.”

  He stares me down. For several moments, neither of us speaks.

  “You’re not serious,” he says at last.

  I force myself to stand. “I think I am.”

  “You think you are.” His jaw hardens. “After your parents. After Sunday brunch? Do you have any idea what I’ve put up with to be with you?”

  “But that’s just it! You shouldn’t have to ‘put up’ with—”

  “Did I have a choice?” Max closes the distance between us.

  “Yes. No! I don’t know . . .” I’m shaking. “I’m just trying to be honest.”

  “Oh.” His nose is an inch from mine. “You’re ready to be honest.”

  I swallow hard.

  “Honestly,” he says, “I don’t know who you are. Every time I see you, you’re someone different. You’re a liar, and you’re a fake. Despite what you think, despite what your dads have told you, there is nothing special about you. You’re just a little girl with a lot of issues. That is what I think about you.”

  And then . . . my world goes black.

  “Love,” I blurt. “I thought you loved me.”

  “I thought I did, too. Thank you for making things so clear.”

  I stumble backward in horror. For one crazy moment, I want to throw myself at his feet and beg for his forgiveness. Promise to be someone else, promise to be one person.

  Max crosses his arms.

  And then . . . I want to hurt him.

  I step back into him, my nose against his. “Guess what?” I hiss back. “I am a liar. I do like Cricket Bell. You’re right. I’ve been hanging out with him this whole time! And he’s been in my bedroom, and I’ve been in his. And I want him, Max. I want him.”

  He’s shaking with rage. “Get. Out.”

  I grab my purse and throw open his front door.

  “I never want to see you again.” His voice is deathly low. “You are nothing to me. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” I say. “Thank you for making things so clear.”

  chapter twenty-five

  I’m dizzy. Seeing spots. Stumbling. Walk or bus? Walk or bus? I’m walking. Yes, I’ll walk home. But then I see the bus and somehow I’m on the bus and I’m sobbing my guts out. A hipster with an ironic mustache shifts down a row. An elderly man in a baseball cap knits his brows at me, and the woman with the quilted jacket looks as if she actually wants to say something. I twist away and continue weeping.

  And then I’m pulling the cord and I’m off the bus and I’m staggering uphill. Toward home. It feels like someone is clawing at my stomach, my chest, my heart. Like my insides are being ripped from my body and stitched to my skin for the world to ridicule.

  How could he? How could he say those things?

  How could my life change so drastically, so quickly? One minute we were fine. The next . . . oh God. It’s over. I want to crawl into bed and disappear. I don’t want to see anyone. I don’t want to talk to anyone. I don’t want to think or do anything.

  Max. I clutch my chest. I can’t breathe.

  Get inside, Dolores. You’re almost there.

  I’m only two houses away when I see them. The Bell family. They’re wrapped in a heated discussion in the center of their small driveway. Mr. Bell—tall and slender like the twins, but with sandy hair—is shaking his head and gesturing at the road. Mrs. Bell—shor ter, but with the twins’ same dark hair—is rubbing her fingers against her temples. Calliope’s back is to me, hands on her hips. And Cricket . . . he’s staring straight at me. He seems shaken, no doubt by both my sudden appearance and how I actually appear. The rest of his body turns to face me, which reveals another surprise.

  There’s a baby on his hip.

  I hide my face with a curtain of hair and run up the stairs to my house. The Bells have stopped talking. They’re watching me and listening to my choked sobs. I glance over as I’m opening the front door. Alexander is there, too. The twins’ older brother. I didn’t see him because he’s standing behind Cricket, several inches shorter.

  The baby. Right. Aleck’s daughter, Abigail.

  Max. His name strikes again like whiplash, and the Bells are forgotten, and I’m slamming the door and racing into my bedroom. Nathan hears my pounding footsteps and chases after me. “What is it, Lola? What’s going on, what happened?”

  I lock my door and fall against it. I collapse. Nathan is knocking and shouting questions and soon Andy and Norah have joined him. Betsy’s tail thumps rapidly against the wall.

  “MAX AND I BROKE UP, OKAY? LEAVE ME ALONE.” The last word is cut off as my throat swells and blocks it. There’s an agitated murmuring on the other side. It sounds like Norah is pulling away my parents, and I hear Betsy’s jingling dog tags follow everyone back downstairs.

  The hall is quiet.

  I’m alone now. I’m actually alone.

  I throw myself into bed, shoes and all. How could Max be so cruel? How could I be so cruel back? He’s right. I’m a liar, and I’m a fake, and . . . I’m not special. There’s nothing special about me. I’m a stupid little girl crying on her bed. Why does my life keep cycling back to this moment? After Cricket, two years ago. After Norah, almost two months ago. And now, after Max. I’ll always be the little girl crying on her bed.

  The thought makes me cry harder.

  “Lola?” I’m not sure how much time has passed when I hear the faint voice outside my window. “Lola?” Louder. He tries a third time, a minute later, but I do
n’t get up. How convenient of Cricket to appear now, when I haven’t seen him in two weeks. When he hasn’t returned my calls. When my soul is bluer than blue, blacker than black.

  I’m a bad person.

  No, Max is a bad person. He’s difficult, he’s condescending, he’s jealous.

  But I’m worse. I’m a child playing dress-up, who can’t even recognize herself under her own costume.

  chapter twenty-six

  The rational side of me knows that I need some kind of release. But I can’t cry anymore. I’m empty. I’m drained. And I can’t move.

  Not that I’d want to.

  Because that’s the thing about depression. When I feel it deeply, I don’t want to let it go. It becomes a comfort. I want to cloak myself under its heavy weight and breathe it into my lungs. I want to nurture it, grow it, cultivate it. It’s mine. I want to check out with it, drift asleep wrapped in its arms and not wake up for a long, long time.

  I’ve been spending a lot of time in bed this week.

  When you’re asleep, no one asks you to do anything. No one expects anything of you. And you don’t have to face any of your troubles. So I’ve been dragging myself to school, and I’ve been dragging myself to work. And I’ve been sleeping.

  Max is gone. And not just gone as in he’s not my boyfriend anymore, but gone as in he’s gone. I asked Lindsey to retrieve a textbook I’d left at his apartment, and his roommate said he left the city on Tuesday. Johnny wouldn’t say where Max went.

  He finally ran away. Without me.

  I wish it didn’t hurt to think about him. And I’m not upset because I want to be with him, I don’t, but he was so much to me for so long. He was my future. And now he’s nothing. I gave him everything, and now he’s nothing. He was my first, which means I’ll never be able to forget him, but I’ll fade from his memory. Soon I’ll just be another notch on his bedpost.

  I didn’t know it was possible to simultaneously hate and ache for someone. I thought Max and I would be together forever. No one believed me. We were going to prove them wrong, but we were the ones who were wrong. Or maybe I’m the only one who was wrong. Did Max think of me as forever?