Lola and the Boy Next Door
Page 37

I don’t want him to stay away.
What DO I want? The answers are murky and unreadable, though it’s clear I don’t want another broken heart. Not his and certainly not mine. He needs to stay away.
I don’t want him to stay away.
“That Bell boy grew up well,” Norah says.
I startle. She’s in the turquoise chaise longue that rests against the front bay window. How long has she been here? She must have seen us. Did she hear us? She watches him, until I assume his figure disappears, before turning her attention to me.
“You look tired, Lola.”
“Speak for yourself.”
“Fair enough.”
But she’s right. I’m exhausted. We stare at each other. Norah is blurry, but I can see enough. Her gray shirt hangs loosely against her chest, and she’s wearing one of Andy’s grandmother’s old quilts wrapped around her for warmth. Her long hair and her thin arms are limp. Everything about her hangs. It’s as if her own body has rejected her.
I wonder what she sees when she looks at me.
“You know what we need?” she asks.
I don’t like her use of the word we. “What?”
“Tea. We need tea.”
I sigh. “I don’t need tea. I need to go to bed.”
Norah pulls herself up. She groans as if her joints are sore, as if they were as old as the blanket around her shoulders. She takes my arm, and I flinch. The warm, comforting feeling of Cricket’s hand disappears and is replaced by hers, clammy and sharp. She leads me into the kitchen, and I’m too worn out to stop her.
Norah pulls out a chair at the table. I sag into it.
“I’ll be right back,” she says. I hear her climb the stairs, followed by the sound of my bedroom door being opened. Before I can get worked up, my door shuts again. She returns and hands me another pair of eyeglasses.
I’m surprised. “Thanks.”
“What happened to the pair you left in?”
“They got stepped on.”
“Someone stepped on your glasses?” Now she sounds pissed.
“Not on purpose. Jeez.” I scowl. “Are my parents still on their date?”
“I guess. Why should I care?” She fills the copper teakettle with tap water and sets it down with more force than necessary. It shakes the stove.
“You had another fight,” I say.
Norah doesn’t respond, but the manner in which she roots through her cardboard box of tea is resentful and angry.
Her box of tea.
“No!” I jump up. “You’re not reading my leaves.”
“Nonsense. This is what you nee—”
“You don’t know a thing about what I really need.” The bitter words spit out before I can stop them.
She freezes. Her hair falls before her face like a shield. And then she tucks it behind her ears as if I didn’t say anything, and she removes something from her box. “Fenghuang dancong oolong. Fenghuang means ‘phoenix.’ This is the one for you.”
“No.”
Norah opens our cabinet of drinking glasses and takes out a pink teacup. I don’t recognize it, so it must be one of hers. My blood fires again. “You put your cups in our cabinets?”
“Just two.” She pulls out another, the color of jade. “This one is mine.”
“So where’s your crystal ball? Beside the television? Will I find your turban in the laundry room?”
The empty cups rattle against their saucers as she sets them on the table. “You know I hate that crap. A costume doesn’t signify meaning or experience. It’s a lie.”
“And what you do isn’t lying?”
“Sit down,” she says calmly.
“I’ve never let you read my leaves before, so why would I start now?”
Norah thinks for a moment. “Aren’t you the least bit curious?”
“No.” But I say it too quickly. She spots a waver as the back corners of my mind answer differently. Who isn’t the least bit curious? I know fortune-telling is a deception, but my life has become such a struggle that I can’t help but hope for an answer anyway. Maybe the fortune will tell me something about Cricket. Maybe it knows something I don’t, or maybe it will make me think of something I wouldn’t have otherwise realized.
Smugness on her lips. I sit back down but avert my eyes to show how much I dislike being here. The kettle whistles, and Norah scoops a spoonful of tea directly into it. The house creaks quietly while the oolong steeps. The longer we wait, the edgier I become. I almost get up to leave a dozen times, but curiosity has a strong hold on me.
“Drink,” Norah says, when it’s finished. “Leave about half a teaspoon of liquid.”
I sip the tea, because it’s hot. The flavor is light, and it tastes like a peach, but with something darker hidden inside. Like smoke. Norah doesn’t mind the heat. She gulps hers down and pours another cup. I finally reach the bottom. I hold the pink cup close and frown at the brown-green leaves, looking for symbols. It’s all lumped together.
“Now what?”
“Take the cup with your left hand.”
“Is that my magic hand?”
She ignores this, too. “Now turn it three times, counterclockwise—faster than that. Yes, good. Turn it over onto your saucer.”
“Won’t all the leaves run out?”
“Shh. Keep your hand on the bottom of the cup. And close your eyes and take a moment to think about what you’d like to know.”
I feel stupid. THAT is what I think about. And . . . I think about Cricket Bell.
“Turn it back over. Carefully,” she adds. I slow down and right my teacup. The leaves have used the last remaining droplets of liquid to stick to the sides. “I’ll take that now.” She’s silent for many minutes. Her bony hands tilt the cup every which way, to gain different perspectives or perhaps just to see the shapes better in the dimmed kitchen light. “Well.” Norah sets it down and gestures for me to scoot closer. I do. “Do you see this cloud here, close to the handle?”
“Sort of.Yeah.”
“That means you’re in a stage of confusion or trouble. But with me living here, we didn’t need leaves to tell us that. And this triangle down here, that means you possess a natural talent for creativity. But we didn’t need them to know that either.”