Lola and the Boy Next Door (9 page)
“Hey, Cleopatra. Wanna take a ride down my Nile?”
Speaking of jerks. Gregory Figson bumps knuckles with a muscled friend. I’m wearing a long black wig with straight bangs, a white dress I made from a bedsheet, chunky golden jewelry, and—of course—ancient Egyptian eyes drawn in kohl.
“No,” I say flatly.
Gregory grabs his chest with both hands. “Nice pyramids,” he says, and they swagger away, laughing.
“Just when I thought he couldn’t get any more disgusting.” I set down my veggie burger, appetite eliminated.
“And as if I needed another reason to wait,” Lindsey says. “High school boys are morons.”
“Which is why I don’t date high school boys. I date men.”
Lindsey rolls her eyes. Her main reason for waiting to date is that she believes it’ll get in the way of her agenda.
Agenda
is her term, not mine. She thinks guys are a distraction from her educational goals, so she doesn’t want to date until she’s firmly settled in post-high-school life. I respect her decision, even though I’d rather wear sweatpants in public than give up my boyfriend.
Agenda
is her term, not mine. She thinks guys are a distraction from her educational goals, so she doesn’t want to date until she’s firmly settled in post-high-school life. I respect her decision, even though I’d rather wear sweatpants in public than give up my boyfriend.
Or give up my first opportunity to attend the winter formal. It’s for upperclassmen only, and it’s still months away, but I’m thrilled about my Marie Antoinette dress, which I’ve already started collecting materials for. Shimmering silk dupioni and crisp taffeta. Smooth satin ribbon. Delicate ostrich feathers and ornate crystal jewelry. I’ve never attempted a project this complex, this huge, and it’ll take my entire autumn to create.
I decide to begin when I get home. It’s Friday, and for once I don’t have to work. Also, Amphetamine is playing in a club tonight that doesn’t accept anyone under twenty-one. And won’t allow Max to sneak me in.
From everything I’ve read online, I need to start with the undergarments.
I’ve already bought a ton of fabric for the dress, but the costume still has to be built from the inside out so that when I take the measurements for the actual gown, I can take them over the bulky stays (an eighteenth-century word for corset) and the giant panniers (the oval-shaped hoop skirts Marie and her ladies wore) .
I search for hours for instructions on making historically accurate panniers and come up with zilch. Unless I want to make them with hula hoops, and I don’t, I’ll have to go to the library for more research. Searching for stays brings more success. The diagrams and instructions are overwhelming, but I print out several pages and begin taking measurements and creating a pattern.
I’ve been sewing for three years, and I’m pretty decent. I started with the small stuff, like everyone does—hemming, A-line skirts, pillowcases—but quickly moved on to bigger items, each more complex than the last. I’m not interested in making what’s easy.
I’m interested in making what’s beautiful.
I lose myself in the process: tracing out patterns on tissue paper, fitting them together, retracing, and refitting. Nonsewers don’t realize how much problem solving goes into garment making, and beginners often quit in frustration. But I enjoy the puzzle. If I looked at this dress as one massive
thing,
it would be too overwhelming. No one could create such a gown. But by breaking it into tiny, individual steps, it becomes something I can achieve.
thing,
it would be too overwhelming. No one could create such a gown. But by breaking it into tiny, individual steps, it becomes something I can achieve.
When my room finally grows too dark, I’m forced to rise from the floor and plug in my twinkle lights. I stretch my sore muscles and stare at my window.
Will he come home this weekend?
The idea fills me with unease. I don’t understand why he’s been asking Andy and St. Clair questions about me. There are only three possible solutions, each more improbable than the last. Maybe he’s not making friends at school and, for some twisted reason, has decided I’d make a decent pal again. I mean, he’s come home for the last two weekends. Obviously no one is interesting enough to keep him in Berkeley. Or maybe he feels bad about how things ended between us, and he’s trying to make up for it. Clear his conscience.
Or . . . maybe . . . he likes me. In that other way.
I was fine before he came back, perfectly happy without this complication. It would’ve been better if he’d ignored me. Calliope and I haven’t talked yet; there’s no reason why Cricket and I should have to either. I drift toward my window, and I’m surprised to discover striped curtains hanging in his room.
And then his light turns on.
I yank my curtains closed. My heart pounds as I back against the wall. Through the gap between curtain fabrics, I watch a silhouette that is undeniably Cricket Bell toss two bags to his floor—one shoulder bag and one laundry bag. He moves toward our windows, and dread lurches inside of me. What if he calls my name?
There’s a sudden brightness as he pulls back his own curtains. His body changes from a dark shadow into a fully fleshed human. I slink back farther. He pauses there, and then startles as another figure enters his room. I can barely hear the sound of a girl talking. Calliope.
I can’t hide forever. My curtains are thick, and I need to trust them. I take a deep breath and step away, but I trip backward over my project and tear a pattern. I curse. Laughter comes from next door, and for one panicked second, I think they’ve witnessed my clumsy maneuver. But it’s paranoia talking. Whatever they’re laughing about has nothing to do with me. I hate that they can still get to me like that.
I know what I need. I call him, and he picks up just before his voice mail.
“HEY,” Max says.
“Hi! How is it tonight? When are you guys going on?” The club is loud, and I can’t hear his response. “What?”
“[MUFFLE MUFFLE] AFTER ELEVEN [MUFFLE].”
“Oh. Okay.” I don’t have anything to add. “I miss you.”
“[MUFFLE MUFFLE MUFFLE. MUFFLE.]”
“What? I’m sorry, I can’t hear you!”
“[MUFFLE MUFFLE] BAD TIME [MUFFLE].”
I assume he’s saying he has to go. “Okay! I’ll see you tomorrow! Bye!” A click on the other end, and he’s gone. I should have texted him. But I don’t want to now, because I don’t want to bother him. He doesn’t like talking before shows.
The call leaves me feeling more cold than comforted. The laughter continues next door, and I resist the urge to throw my sewing shears at Cricket’s window to make them shut up. My phone rings, and I answer eagerly. “Max!”
“I need you to tell Nathan to come get me.”
Not Max.
“Where are you?” I’m already hustling downstairs. Nathan is crashed in front of the television, eyes half closed, watching
Antiques Roadshow
with Heavens to Betsy. “Why can’t you tell him yourself?”
Antiques Roadshow
with Heavens to Betsy. “Why can’t you tell him yourself?”
“Because he’s gonna be pissed, and I can’t deal with pissed right now.” The voice is cranky and exhausted.
I stop dead in my tracks. “Not again.”
“Landlord changed my locks, so I was forced to break into my apartment. My
own
apartment. They’re calling it an incident.”
own
apartment. They’re calling it an incident.”
“Incident?” I ask, and Dad’s eyes pop open. I thrust out my phone to him without waiting for a response, disgusted. “Norah needs you to bail her out.”
Nathan swears and grabs my cell. “Where are you? What happened?” He pulls answers from her as he collects his car keys and throws on his shoes. “I’m taking your phone, okay?” he says to me. “Tell Andy where I’m going.” And he’s out the door.
This is not the first time my birth mother has called us from a police station. Norah has a long record, and it’s always for stupid things like shoplifting organic frozen enchiladas or refusing to pay fines from the transit authority. When I was young, the charges were usually public intoxication or disorderly conduct. And believe me, a person has to be pretty darn intoxicated or disorderly to get arrested in this city.
Andy takes the news silently. Our relationship with Norah is hard on everyone, but perhaps it’s hardest on him. She’s neither his sister nor his mother. I know a part of him wishes we could ditch her entirely. A part of me wishes that, too.
When I was little, the Bell twins asked me why I didn’t have a mom. I told them that she was the princess of Pakistan—I’d overheard the name on the news and thought it sounded pretty—and she gave me to my parents, because I was a secret baby with the palace gardener, and her husband, the evil prince, would kill us if he knew I existed.
“So you’re a princess?” Calliope asked.
“No. My mom is a princess.”
“That means you’re a princess, too,” Cricket said, awed.
Calliope narrowed her eyes. “She’s not a princess. There’s no such thing as evil princes or Pakistan.”
“There is, too! And I am!” But I still remember the hot rush of blood I felt when they came back later that afternoon, and I realized I’d been caught.
Calliope crossed her arms. “We know the truth. Our parents told us.”
“Does your mom really not have a house?” Cricket asked. “Is that why you can’t live with her?”
It was one of the most shameful moments of my childhood. So when my classmates began asking, I kept it simple: “I don’t know who she is. I’ve never met her.” I became a regular adoption story, a boring one. Having two fathers isn’t an issue here. But a few years ago, Cricket and I were watching television when he turned to me and unexpectedly asked, “Why do you pretend like you don’t have a mom?”
I squirmed. “Huh?”
Cricket was messing with a paper clip, bending it into a complicated shape. “I mean, she’s okay now. Right?” He meant sober, and she had been for a year. But she was still Norah.
I just
looked
at him.
looked
at him.
And I could see him remembering the past. The Bells had heard my screaming birth mother for years, whenever she’d show up wasted and unannounced.
He lowered his eyes and dropped the subject.
I’m grateful that my genetics don’t bother Max. His father is a mean drunk who lives in a dangerous neighborhood of Oakland, and he doesn’t even know where his mother lives. If anything, Norah makes my relationship with Max stronger. We understand each other.
I leave Andy and head back upstairs. Through my window, I notice Calliope has left Cricket’s bedroom. He’s pacing. My torn pattern mocks me. The sumptuous, pale blue fabrics stacked on my sewing table have lost their luster. I touch them gently. They’re still soft. They still hold the promise of something better.
I’m determined to make up for last night. “Today is all about sparkling.”
Heavens to Betsy cocks her head, listening but not understanding. I place a rhinestone barrette in my pale pink wig. I’m also wearing a sequined prom gown that I’ve altered into a minidress, a jean jacket covered in David Bowie pins, and glittery false eyelashes. I scratch behind Betsy’s ears, and then she trots behind me out of my room. We run into Andy on the stairs, carrying up a basket of clean laundry.
“My eyes!” he says. “The glare!”
“
Très
funny.”
Très
funny.”
“You look like a disco ball.”
I smile and push past. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“When is Max bringing you home?”
“Later!”
Nathan is waiting at the bottom. “When, Dolores? A specific time would be helpful.”
“Your hair is doing the swoopy thing.” I set down my purse to fix it. Nathan and I have the same hair—thick, medium brown, and with a strange wave in the front that never behaves. No one ever doubts that Nathan and I are related. We also share the same wide brown eyes and childish grin. When we allow ourselves to grin. Andy is more slender than Nathan and keeps his prematurely gray hair cropped short. Still, despite his hair and despite his additional nine years on this planet, everyone thinks Andy is younger because he’s the one who’s always smiling. And he wears funny T-shirts.
“When?” Nathan repeats.
“Um, four hours?”
“That’s five-thirty. I’ll expect you home no later.”
I sigh. “Yes, Dad.”
“And three phone-call check-ins.”
“Yes, Dad.”
I don’t know what I did to deserve the world’s strictest parents. I must have been seriously hardcore evil in a past life. It’s not like I’m Norah. Nathan didn’t get home until after midnight. Apparently, her lock was changed because she hasn’t been paying rent, and she caused a scene by smashing in her front window with a neighbor’s deck chair to get back inside. Nathan is going to visit her landlord today to discuss back payments. And that whole broken window situation.
I don’t know what I did to deserve the world’s strictest parents. I must have been seriously hardcore evil in a past life. It’s not like I’m Norah. Nathan didn’t get home until after midnight. Apparently, her lock was changed because she hasn’t been paying rent, and she caused a scene by smashing in her front window with a neighbor’s deck chair to get back inside. Nathan is going to visit her landlord today to discuss back payments. And that whole broken window situation.
“All right, then.” He nods. “Have a good time. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
I hear Andy as I’m walking out the front door. “Honey, that threat doesn’t work when you’re gay.”
I laugh all the way down to the sidewalk. My heavy boots, tattooed with swirls of pink glitter to match my wig, leave a trail of fairy dust as I tramp. “You’re like a shooting star,” a voice calls from the porch next door. “Sparkly.”
My cheer is immediately rendered null and void.
Cricket leaps down his stairs and joins me on the sidewalk. “Going somewhere special?” he asks. “You look nice. Sparkly. I already said that, didn’t I?”
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