Lola and the Boy Next Door
Page 56

Cricket holds up both hands, and in the daylight, it’s the first time I see that there are still scattered shreds of blue paint on his nails. “I just want you to know that we didn’t do anything but talk and sleep—sleep sleep,” he quickly adds. “Like with eyes closed and hands to oneself and dreaming. Innocent dreams. I would never do anything behind your back. I mean, never anything dishonorable. I mean—”
“Cricket,” I plead.
He looks at me miserably. “I’m sorry.” And then he tears downstairs and out the front door. Nathan storms out of my room, and the master bedroom door slams shut.
Andy is silent for a long time. At last, he sighs. “Care to explain why there was a boy in your bed this morning?”
“We didn’t do anything. You have to believe me! He came over because he knew I was sad. He only wanted to make sure I was okay.”
“Dolores, that’s how boys take advantage of girls. Or other boys,” he adds. “They attack when your guard is down, when you’re feeling vulnerable.”
The implication makes me angry. “Cricket would never take advantage of me.”
“He climbed into your bed fully aware that you’re hurting over someone else.”
“And we didn’t do anything but talk.”
Andy crosses his arms. “How long has this been going on?”
I tell the truth. I want him to believe me so that he’ll also believe Cricket is innocent. “There was only one other time. But he didn’t stay the night.”
He closes his eyes. “Was this before or after you broke up with Max?”
My head sinks into my shoulders. “Before.”
“And did you tell Max?”
It sinks farther. “No.”
“And that didn’t make you wonder if there was something wrong with it?”
I’m crying. “We’re friends, Dad.”
Andy looks pained as he sits on the edge of my bed. “Lola. Everyone and their grandmother knows that boy is in love with you. You know that boy is in love with you. But as wrong as it was for him to be here, it’s so much worse for you to have led him on. You had a boyfriend. What were you thinking? You don’t treat someone like that. You shouldn’t have treated either one of them like that.”
I didn’t know it was possible to feel any worse than I already did.
“Listen.” The look on Andy’s face means he’d rather eat glass than say what he’s about to say. “I know you’re growing up. And as hard as it is, I have to accept that there are certain . . . things you’re doing. But you’re an intelligent young woman, and we’ve had the talk, and I know—from this point on—you’ll make the right decisions.”
Oh God. I can’t look at him.
“But you have to understand this part is difficult for us, especially for Nathan. Norah was your age when she ran away and got pregnant. But you can talk to me. I want you to talk to me.”
“Okay.” I can barely get the word out.
“And I don’t want to find a boy in your room again, you hear me?” He waits until I nod before standing. “All right. I’ll talk to Nathan and see what I can do. But don’t for a second think you’re getting out of this easily.”
“I know.”
He walks to the door. “Never. Again. Understand?”
“What . . . what about when I’m married?”
“We’ll buy a cot. Your husband can sleep on that when he visits.”
I can’t help it. I let out a tiny snort of laughter. He comes back and hugs me.
“I’m not kidding,” he says.
The punishment arrives in the afternoon. I’m grounded through the end of my upcoming winter break from school. Another month of grounding. But, honestly, I don’t even care. It’s the other half of the punishment—the unspoken half—that makes me feel terrible.
My parents no longer trust me. I have to earn it back.
Throughout the day, I try to catch Cricket at our windows, but he never goes inside his bedroom. Around three o’clock, I see his figure dart past his kitchen window, so I know he’s still at home. Why is he avoiding me? Is he embarrassed? Is he angry? Did my parents call his parents? I’ll die if they called Mr. and Mrs. Bell, but I can’t ask, because if they haven’t, it might give them the idea.
I’m a wreck by the time Cricket’s light turns on. It’s just after eight. I throw aside my English homework and run to my window, and he’s already at his. We open them at the same time, and the misty night air explodes . . . with wailing.
Cricket is holding Aleck’s daughter again.
“I’m sorry!” he shouts. “She won’t let me put her down!”
“It’s okay!” I shout back.
And then I realize something. I slam my window shut. Cricket looks startled, but I hold up a finger and mouth ONE SECOND. I rip out a page from my spiral notebook and scribble on it with a fat purple marker. I hold the message against my window.
MY PARENTS!!! TALK LATER? WHEN NO BABY!!!
He looks relieved. And then panicked as he slams his own window shut. The next minute is rife with tension as we wait for my parents to tear into my bedroom. They don’t. But even with our windows closed, I hear Abigail’s cries. Cricket bounces her on his hip, pleading with her, but her face remains contorted in misery.
Where is Aleck? Or Aleck’s wife? Shouldn’t they be taking care of this?
Calliope bursts through Cricket’s door. She takes Abigail from him, and Abigail screams harder. Both of the twins wince as Calliope thrusts her back into Cricket’s arms. The baby grows quieter, but she’s still crying. Calliope glances in my direction. She freezes, and I give a weak wave. She scowls.
Cricket sees her expression and says something that causes her to stalk away. Her bedroom light turns on seconds later. He’s turning back toward me, still bouncing Abigail, when Mrs. Bell enters. I yank my curtains closed. Whatever is going on over there, I don’t want his mom to think I’m spying on it.
I sit back down with my five-paragraph essay for English, but I can’t concentrate. That familiar, nauseating feeling of guilt. When I saw the Bells in their driveway last week, they were clearly in distress about something. And I never asked Cricket what it was about. He was in my bedroom for an entire night, and I didn’t even think to ask. And he’s always concerned about what’s happening in my life. I’m so selfish.