Lola and the Boy Next Door
Page 64
I feel a surge of hope. Strength.
I step forward to work, and things become crazy. Everyone has an opinion, and Mrs. Bell’s turns out to be even stronger than her daughter’s. The next half hour is hectic as arguments are had, fabric is trod upon, and garments are ripped. I’m trying to measure Calliope when Andy bumps into me, and I crunch against the sharp edge of my desk.
“OUT,” I say. “Everybody out!”
They freeze.
“I’m serious, everyone except Calliope. I can’t work like this.”
“GO,” Calliope says, and they scatter away. But Cricket lingers behind. I give him a coquettish smile. “You, too.”
His smile back is dazed.
Nathan clears his throat from the hallway. “Technically, you aren’t even allowed in my daughter’s room.”
“Sorry, sir.” Cricket tucks his hands in his pockets. “Call me if you need anything.” He glances at Calliope, but his eyes return to mine. “If either of you need anything.”
He leaves, and I’m grinning all the way down to my glittery toenail polish as I resume taking her measurements. She picks up an eyelash curler from my desktop and taps it against her hand. “Why isn’t my brother allowed in your room?”
“Oh. Um, I’m not allowed to have any guys in here.”
“Please. Did Nathan catch you doing something? NO. Yuck. Don’t tell me.”
I yank the measuring tape around her waist a little too hard.
“Ow.”
I don’t apologize. I finish my work in silence. Calliope clears her throat as I write down the remaining measurements. “I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s nice of you to do this for me. I know I don’t deserve it.”
I stop mid-scratch.
She slams down my eyelash curler. “You were right. I thought he knew, but he didn’t.”
I’m confused. “Knew what?”
“That he’s important to our family.” She crosses her arms. “When Cricket was accepted into Berkeley, that was when I decided to return to my old coach. I wanted to move back here so that I could stay close to him. Our parents did, too.”
It looks like Calliope has more to say, so I wait for her to continue. She lowers herself into my desk chair. “Listen, it’s not a secret that I’ve made my family’s life difficult. There are things that Cricket hasn’t had or experienced because of me. And I haven’t had them either, and I’ve hated it, but it was my choice. He didn’t have a choice. And he’s accepted everything with this . . . exuberance and good nature. It would’ve been impossible for our family to hold it together if we didn’t have Cricket doing the hardest part. Keeping us happy.” She raises her eyes to meet mine. “I want you to know that I feel terrible about what I’ve done to my brother.”
“Calliope . . . I don’t think . . . Cricket doesn’t feel that way. You know he doesn’t.”
“Are you sure?” Her voice catches. “How can you be sure?”
“I’m sure. He loves you. He’s proud of you.”
She’s silent for a minute. Seeing such a strong person struggle to hold it together is heartbreaking. “My family should tell him more often how remarkable he is.”
“Yes, he is. And, yes, you should.”
“He thinks you are, too. He always has.” Calliope looks at me again. “I’m sorry I’ve held that against you.”
And I’m too astonished by this admission to reply.
She rests her hand on the ruffled costume beside her. “Just answer this one question. My brother never got over you. Did you ever get over him?”
I swallow. “There are some people in life that you can’t get over.”
“Good.” Calliope stands and gives me a grim smile. “But break Cricket’s heart? I’ll break your face.”
We work together for a half hour, picking out pieces, throwing ideas back and forth. She knows what she wants, but I’m pleased to discover that she respects my opinion. We settle on a design using only her black costumes, and she collects the others to take home.
“So where’s your dress?” she asks.
I have no idea what she’s talking about. “What dress?”
“The Marie Antoinette dress. I saw your binder.”
“You what?”
“Cricket was carrying it around at one of my competitions, practically fondling the damn thing. I teased him mercilessly, of course, but . . . it was interesting. You put a lot of work into those pages. He said you’d put a lot of work into the real thing, too.” She looks around my room. “I didn’t think it was possible to hide a giant-ass ball gown, but apparently I was wrong.”
“Oh. Uh, it’s not in here. I stopped working on it. I’m not going to the dance.”
“What? WHY?You’ve been working on it for a half a year.”
“Yeah, but . . . it’s lame, right? To show up alone?”
She looks at me like I’m an idiot. “So show up with my brother.”
I’m thrilled by her suggestion—permission!—but I’ve already considered it. “The dance is next weekend. He’ll still be on the other side of the country for Nationals.”
Nationals are a full week. Practice sessions, acclimation to the ice and rink, interviews with the media, two programs, plus an additional exhibition if she medals. Cricket will be staying with her the entire time for support.
“Oh,” she says.
“Besides, it’s stupid anyway.” I stare at the notes for her costume, and I tug on a strand of hair. “You know, big dance. Big dress. What’s the point?”
“Lola.” Her tone is flat. “It’s not stupid to want to go to a dance. It’s not stupid to want to put on a pretty dress and feel beautiful for a night. And you don’t need a date for that.”
I’m quiet.
She shakes her head. “If you don’t go, then you are stupid. And you don’t deserve my brother.”
Chapter thirty-two
I work all day and night on Calliope’s costume—seamripping the old ones, stitching new pieces together, adding flourishes from my own stashes—only stopping for a quick break at my window around midnight. Cricket joins me. He leans forward, elbows resting against his windowsill. The position looks remarkably insectlike with his long arms and long fingers. It’s cute. Very cute.
I step forward to work, and things become crazy. Everyone has an opinion, and Mrs. Bell’s turns out to be even stronger than her daughter’s. The next half hour is hectic as arguments are had, fabric is trod upon, and garments are ripped. I’m trying to measure Calliope when Andy bumps into me, and I crunch against the sharp edge of my desk.
“OUT,” I say. “Everybody out!”
They freeze.
“I’m serious, everyone except Calliope. I can’t work like this.”
“GO,” Calliope says, and they scatter away. But Cricket lingers behind. I give him a coquettish smile. “You, too.”
His smile back is dazed.
Nathan clears his throat from the hallway. “Technically, you aren’t even allowed in my daughter’s room.”
“Sorry, sir.” Cricket tucks his hands in his pockets. “Call me if you need anything.” He glances at Calliope, but his eyes return to mine. “If either of you need anything.”
He leaves, and I’m grinning all the way down to my glittery toenail polish as I resume taking her measurements. She picks up an eyelash curler from my desktop and taps it against her hand. “Why isn’t my brother allowed in your room?”
“Oh. Um, I’m not allowed to have any guys in here.”
“Please. Did Nathan catch you doing something? NO. Yuck. Don’t tell me.”
I yank the measuring tape around her waist a little too hard.
“Ow.”
I don’t apologize. I finish my work in silence. Calliope clears her throat as I write down the remaining measurements. “I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s nice of you to do this for me. I know I don’t deserve it.”
I stop mid-scratch.
She slams down my eyelash curler. “You were right. I thought he knew, but he didn’t.”
I’m confused. “Knew what?”
“That he’s important to our family.” She crosses her arms. “When Cricket was accepted into Berkeley, that was when I decided to return to my old coach. I wanted to move back here so that I could stay close to him. Our parents did, too.”
It looks like Calliope has more to say, so I wait for her to continue. She lowers herself into my desk chair. “Listen, it’s not a secret that I’ve made my family’s life difficult. There are things that Cricket hasn’t had or experienced because of me. And I haven’t had them either, and I’ve hated it, but it was my choice. He didn’t have a choice. And he’s accepted everything with this . . . exuberance and good nature. It would’ve been impossible for our family to hold it together if we didn’t have Cricket doing the hardest part. Keeping us happy.” She raises her eyes to meet mine. “I want you to know that I feel terrible about what I’ve done to my brother.”
“Calliope . . . I don’t think . . . Cricket doesn’t feel that way. You know he doesn’t.”
“Are you sure?” Her voice catches. “How can you be sure?”
“I’m sure. He loves you. He’s proud of you.”
She’s silent for a minute. Seeing such a strong person struggle to hold it together is heartbreaking. “My family should tell him more often how remarkable he is.”
“Yes, he is. And, yes, you should.”
“He thinks you are, too. He always has.” Calliope looks at me again. “I’m sorry I’ve held that against you.”
And I’m too astonished by this admission to reply.
She rests her hand on the ruffled costume beside her. “Just answer this one question. My brother never got over you. Did you ever get over him?”
I swallow. “There are some people in life that you can’t get over.”
“Good.” Calliope stands and gives me a grim smile. “But break Cricket’s heart? I’ll break your face.”
We work together for a half hour, picking out pieces, throwing ideas back and forth. She knows what she wants, but I’m pleased to discover that she respects my opinion. We settle on a design using only her black costumes, and she collects the others to take home.
“So where’s your dress?” she asks.
I have no idea what she’s talking about. “What dress?”
“The Marie Antoinette dress. I saw your binder.”
“You what?”
“Cricket was carrying it around at one of my competitions, practically fondling the damn thing. I teased him mercilessly, of course, but . . . it was interesting. You put a lot of work into those pages. He said you’d put a lot of work into the real thing, too.” She looks around my room. “I didn’t think it was possible to hide a giant-ass ball gown, but apparently I was wrong.”
“Oh. Uh, it’s not in here. I stopped working on it. I’m not going to the dance.”
“What? WHY?You’ve been working on it for a half a year.”
“Yeah, but . . . it’s lame, right? To show up alone?”
She looks at me like I’m an idiot. “So show up with my brother.”
I’m thrilled by her suggestion—permission!—but I’ve already considered it. “The dance is next weekend. He’ll still be on the other side of the country for Nationals.”
Nationals are a full week. Practice sessions, acclimation to the ice and rink, interviews with the media, two programs, plus an additional exhibition if she medals. Cricket will be staying with her the entire time for support.
“Oh,” she says.
“Besides, it’s stupid anyway.” I stare at the notes for her costume, and I tug on a strand of hair. “You know, big dance. Big dress. What’s the point?”
“Lola.” Her tone is flat. “It’s not stupid to want to go to a dance. It’s not stupid to want to put on a pretty dress and feel beautiful for a night. And you don’t need a date for that.”
I’m quiet.
She shakes her head. “If you don’t go, then you are stupid. And you don’t deserve my brother.”
Chapter thirty-two
I work all day and night on Calliope’s costume—seamripping the old ones, stitching new pieces together, adding flourishes from my own stashes—only stopping for a quick break at my window around midnight. Cricket joins me. He leans forward, elbows resting against his windowsill. The position looks remarkably insectlike with his long arms and long fingers. It’s cute. Very cute.
