Lola and the Boy Next Door
Page 38
I’m surprised by her frankness, as well as the rare compliment. I scoot a little closer.
“But do you see these dots, traveling around the edge of the cup?”
I nod.
“A path of dots means a journey. This one will be taken over the course of several months. If it circled all the way back around, it would have been at least a year,” she explains. “But the journey ends here, into this shape. What does that look like to you?”
“Um. A moon, maybe? With a . . . stick coming out of it?”
“How about a cherry?”
“Yeah! I see that.”
“Cherries represent first love. In other words, this path you’re on leads to first love.”
I jolt, and my legs smack the table. The way she doesn’t startle makes me believe she expected this reaction. Does she know how I feel about Cricket? Or, should I say, how I felt about him in the past? She was certainly around, but how much did she observe?
Norah is messing with me.
She pauses. “Why don’t you tell me what shapes you see in the cup?”
I stare into it for several minutes. I look for dogs or shoes or anything recognizable, but all I see are wet leaves. My eyes keep returning to the cherry. I set the cup down. “I don’t know. There’s a pile of sticks on that side. And a curlicue thing.”
“Okay. The loop is near the rim, so that means you’ve been making—or you’ll soon be making—impulsive actions.”
“Good or bad?” I quickly ask.
She shrugs. “Could be either, but are things done on impulse ever really a good idea?”
“Is that something your therapist told you?” I snap.
Norah’s tone darkens. “And see how the sticks are crossed, all on top of each other? That suggests a series of arguments. It usually leads to a parting.” Her voice is short.
“A parting.” I stand. “Yes, thank you. This was very educational.”
Arguments, partings, impulses. Clouds of confusion. I thought fortunes were supposed to make people feel BETTER about their lives. I thought that’s why people paid money to hear them. And a journey to first love? Just because Max insulted her doesn’t mean she has to steer me into the arms of another guy.
Though it did look like a cherry.
I don’t know why I’m giving any of this crap my consideration. Norah thinks my costumes are lies, that they lack meaning? She should look in the mirror. Her entire livelihood—what’s left of it—lacks meaning. I’m steaming as I brush my teeth and get ready for bed. I turn off my lights just as a light behind my curtains flicks on.
So he’s staying the night.
Has he been talking to Calliope? I wonder if he’ll be able to complete his project for school, whatever it is. Probably not. I toss in my bedcovers, unable to sleep from the guilt over Cricket, from the caffeine in the tea, from that stupid freaking cherry. Maybe cherries don’t mean first love. Maybe they mean the person you lose your virginity to. It would make more sense, and in that case, my path leads to Max.
Which means I’m on the right path?
I hear his window slide open.
And then . . . nothing more.
I don’t know why, but I think he’ll call my name. He doesn’t. I grab my glasses and creep out of bed. I peer through the darkness. Cricket is looking up, staring at the sky. I watch him silently. He doesn’t move. I reach for my curtain, that impulse I can’t control, and open my window. “Hi,” I say.
He looks directly at me. His eyes are deepened as if he’s still staring at the stars.
“Is everything okay with your sister?”
Cricket nods slowly. “She’ll survive.”
“I’m sorry about your project.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Will you get to make it up?”
“Maybe.”
“Do . . . do you want those illustrations?”
A small smile. “Sure.”
“Okay. Hold on.” I dig through the piles on my floor until I find the binder of pictures printed from the internet and photocopies xeroxed from books—all of the inspiration for my dress that I’ve collected since I met Max at the beginning of summer. I return to my window, and Cricket is sitting in his, just like the first time I saw him again. At the end of summer. “Should I toss it to you?” I glance at Andy’s compost pile below.
A split second of thought and he says, “I’ll be right back.”
He disappears, leaving me to observe his room. It’s still bare, but traces of him have begun to appear—a science magazine by his bed, a pile of tangled rubber bands on his dresser, a half-filled juice glass on his desk, an unusual coat hanging on the back of his desk chair. Cricket returns a minute later with a broom and a metal basket of fruit. He removes the fruit, one by one, and sets them on his dresser.
I’m terrified he’ll pull out a cherry.
He doesn’t.
He places the empty basket on the wooden broom handle, raises the end, and the basket slides down to his hand. Cricket leans out his window and stretches out the broom handle. His arms are long enough that it reaches me with room to spare.
“Ready?”
I prepare for the catch. “Aye, Captain.”
He tilts the broom, and the basket flies down the stick and into my arms. I laugh in delight. “You know, I really could have thrown it.”
“Wouldn’t want to take the chance. I might have missed it.”
“You never miss a catch.” I tuck the binder inside the basket. “It’s kinda heavy.”
“I’ve got it.” Cricket holds the broom steady and up at an angle. I stretch on my toes to slide the basket’s handle onto the broom. I drop it. The weight lowers the broom, but he raises it in just enough time to send the basket flying back to him. “HA!” His belt buckle clicks against the window frame as he moves his body back inside, and I’m startled to recognize it. It’s the same belt he’s had for years—black, cracked leather. He pulls down his shirt, which has come up a bit. His torso is so long that shirts are always a little short on him. Another detail I’d forgotten.
I shake my head, trying to push away thoughts of his abdomen. But I’m smiling. “That was both ridiculously easy and way more complicated than it should have been.”
He smiles back. “That’s my specialty.”
“But do you see these dots, traveling around the edge of the cup?”
I nod.
“A path of dots means a journey. This one will be taken over the course of several months. If it circled all the way back around, it would have been at least a year,” she explains. “But the journey ends here, into this shape. What does that look like to you?”
“Um. A moon, maybe? With a . . . stick coming out of it?”
“How about a cherry?”
“Yeah! I see that.”
“Cherries represent first love. In other words, this path you’re on leads to first love.”
I jolt, and my legs smack the table. The way she doesn’t startle makes me believe she expected this reaction. Does she know how I feel about Cricket? Or, should I say, how I felt about him in the past? She was certainly around, but how much did she observe?
Norah is messing with me.
She pauses. “Why don’t you tell me what shapes you see in the cup?”
I stare into it for several minutes. I look for dogs or shoes or anything recognizable, but all I see are wet leaves. My eyes keep returning to the cherry. I set the cup down. “I don’t know. There’s a pile of sticks on that side. And a curlicue thing.”
“Okay. The loop is near the rim, so that means you’ve been making—or you’ll soon be making—impulsive actions.”
“Good or bad?” I quickly ask.
She shrugs. “Could be either, but are things done on impulse ever really a good idea?”
“Is that something your therapist told you?” I snap.
Norah’s tone darkens. “And see how the sticks are crossed, all on top of each other? That suggests a series of arguments. It usually leads to a parting.” Her voice is short.
“A parting.” I stand. “Yes, thank you. This was very educational.”
Arguments, partings, impulses. Clouds of confusion. I thought fortunes were supposed to make people feel BETTER about their lives. I thought that’s why people paid money to hear them. And a journey to first love? Just because Max insulted her doesn’t mean she has to steer me into the arms of another guy.
Though it did look like a cherry.
I don’t know why I’m giving any of this crap my consideration. Norah thinks my costumes are lies, that they lack meaning? She should look in the mirror. Her entire livelihood—what’s left of it—lacks meaning. I’m steaming as I brush my teeth and get ready for bed. I turn off my lights just as a light behind my curtains flicks on.
So he’s staying the night.
Has he been talking to Calliope? I wonder if he’ll be able to complete his project for school, whatever it is. Probably not. I toss in my bedcovers, unable to sleep from the guilt over Cricket, from the caffeine in the tea, from that stupid freaking cherry. Maybe cherries don’t mean first love. Maybe they mean the person you lose your virginity to. It would make more sense, and in that case, my path leads to Max.
Which means I’m on the right path?
I hear his window slide open.
And then . . . nothing more.
I don’t know why, but I think he’ll call my name. He doesn’t. I grab my glasses and creep out of bed. I peer through the darkness. Cricket is looking up, staring at the sky. I watch him silently. He doesn’t move. I reach for my curtain, that impulse I can’t control, and open my window. “Hi,” I say.
He looks directly at me. His eyes are deepened as if he’s still staring at the stars.
“Is everything okay with your sister?”
Cricket nods slowly. “She’ll survive.”
“I’m sorry about your project.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Will you get to make it up?”
“Maybe.”
“Do . . . do you want those illustrations?”
A small smile. “Sure.”
“Okay. Hold on.” I dig through the piles on my floor until I find the binder of pictures printed from the internet and photocopies xeroxed from books—all of the inspiration for my dress that I’ve collected since I met Max at the beginning of summer. I return to my window, and Cricket is sitting in his, just like the first time I saw him again. At the end of summer. “Should I toss it to you?” I glance at Andy’s compost pile below.
A split second of thought and he says, “I’ll be right back.”
He disappears, leaving me to observe his room. It’s still bare, but traces of him have begun to appear—a science magazine by his bed, a pile of tangled rubber bands on his dresser, a half-filled juice glass on his desk, an unusual coat hanging on the back of his desk chair. Cricket returns a minute later with a broom and a metal basket of fruit. He removes the fruit, one by one, and sets them on his dresser.
I’m terrified he’ll pull out a cherry.
He doesn’t.
He places the empty basket on the wooden broom handle, raises the end, and the basket slides down to his hand. Cricket leans out his window and stretches out the broom handle. His arms are long enough that it reaches me with room to spare.
“Ready?”
I prepare for the catch. “Aye, Captain.”
He tilts the broom, and the basket flies down the stick and into my arms. I laugh in delight. “You know, I really could have thrown it.”
“Wouldn’t want to take the chance. I might have missed it.”
“You never miss a catch.” I tuck the binder inside the basket. “It’s kinda heavy.”
“I’ve got it.” Cricket holds the broom steady and up at an angle. I stretch on my toes to slide the basket’s handle onto the broom. I drop it. The weight lowers the broom, but he raises it in just enough time to send the basket flying back to him. “HA!” His belt buckle clicks against the window frame as he moves his body back inside, and I’m startled to recognize it. It’s the same belt he’s had for years—black, cracked leather. He pulls down his shirt, which has come up a bit. His torso is so long that shirts are always a little short on him. Another detail I’d forgotten.
I shake my head, trying to push away thoughts of his abdomen. But I’m smiling. “That was both ridiculously easy and way more complicated than it should have been.”
He smiles back. “That’s my specialty.”
