“Cut it out.” Anna pushes him off, laughing. “You’ll get fired. And then I’ll have to support your sorry
arse
for the rest of our lives.”
The rest of their lives.
Why does this always make me uneasy? I’m not bothered that
they’re
happy, am I? He hops into his usual sitting position on the counter, and they’re already laughing about something else. Cricket waits on the other side of the glass, looking amused. I hand the couple their change. “So . . . what are you doing in the city on a weekday?” I ask him.
“I ran into St. Clair an hour ago, and he talked me into coming along. He said we’d see a movie,” he adds loudly.
“RIGHT,” St. Clair says. “That moving-pictures thing. Let’s do it.” But he returns to his conversation with Anna.
Cricket and I exchange smiles. “Come in.” I nod at the box-office door. A man in a fuzzy chartreuse sweater approaches my window, but even that’s not enough to distract me from watching Cricket as he moves toward the door. Those long, easy strides. My chest swells with both heartache and heartbreak. He enters, and I jerk away my gaze.
“Enjoy the show,” I tell the sweater man. Cricket waits behind me while I print tickets for two more people. It’s impossible to concentrate with him standing there. The lobby empties again, and he takes the chair beside me. His hems rise and reveal his socks. Blue and purple stripes. On his left hand is a list: CH 12, SHAMPOO, BOX.
“How are you?” he asks. It’s not a casual question.
I remove my glasses for a moment to rub my tired eyes. “Surviving.”
“But she won’t be there for much longer.” He fidgets with his watch. “Will she?”
“Her credit is shot, and she’s failed the background check for every potential apartment.”
He grimaces. “In other words, she’s not leaving tomorrow.”
“The break-in charges from when she tried to get back inside her apartment aren’t helping either.” I cross my arms. “She wants Nathan to sue to have the charges against her dropped, but he won’t. Not when she was in the wrong.”
Cricket’s frown deepens, and I realize that he doesn’t know about Norah’s recent arrest. I fill him in, because . . . he already knows everything else.
“I’m sorry.” His voice turns to anguish. “Is there anything I can do to help?” There’s a certain restraint in his muscles as he struggles to keep from reaching out to me.
“What’s box?” I blurt.
He’s thrown. “What?”
I point at his hand. “Read chapter twelve and buy shampoo, right? What’s box?”
His right hand absentmindedly covers his left. “Oh. Uh, I need to find one.”
I wait for more.
He looks away, and his body follows him. “And I did. Find one. I’m moving some stuff back into my parents’ house. My room at school is crowded. And my other bedroom is empty. It has lots of space. For things.”
“You . . . you
do
spend a lot of weekends there.”
“Andschoolbreaks andsummers.” The words tumble out, and his face darkens as if shamed by his eagerness. No conversation is safe anymore. St. Clair interrupts with timing so perfect that he must have been listening. “Hey, did you know that
Cricket Bell
is related to
Alexander Graham Bell
?”
“Everyone who knows Cricket knows that,” I say.
“Really?” Anna looks genuinely interested. “That’s cool.”
Cricket rubs his neck. “No, it’s dumb trivia, that’s all.”
“Are you joking?” St. Clair says. “He’s one of the most important inventors in the entire history of the world. Ever! And—”
“It’s nothing,” Cricket interrupts.
I’m taken aback, but then I remember that first night he was home, when I mentioned his middle name and our conversation grew awkward. Something has changed. But what?
“Forgive his enthusiasm.” Anna grins at her boyfriend. “He’s a history nerd.”
I can’t resist bragging. “Cricket happens to be a brilliant inventor himself.”
“I’m not.” Cricket squirms. “I mess around. It’s not a big deal.”
St. Clair looks enraptured. “Just think. You’re the direct descendant of the man who invented”—he pulls out his cell—“this !”
“He didn’t invent that,” Cricket says drily.
“Well, not
this,
” St. Clair says. “But the idea. The first one.”
“No.” This is the most frustrated I’ve ever seen Cricket. “I mean he didn’t invent the telephone. Period.”
The three of us blink at him.
“Anna confused,” Anna says.
“Alexander Graham Bell didn’t invent the telephone, a man named Elisha Gray did. My great-great-great-grandfather stole the idea from him. And Gray wasn’t even the first. There were others, one before Alexander was even born. They just didn’t realize the full implications of what they’d created.”
St. Clair is fascinated. “What do you mean, he stole the idea?”
“I mean, Alexander stole the idea, took credit for it, and made an unbelievable sum of money that shouldn’t have been his.” Cricket is furious now. “My family’s entire legacy is based on a lie.”
Well. That would explain the change.
St. Clair looks guilty for unintentionally goading Cricket into telling us. He opens his mouth to speak, but Cricket shakes his head. “Sorry, I shouldn’t let it get to me.”
“When did you learn this?” I ask quietly.
“A couple of years ago. There was a book.”
I don’t like the expression on his face. Further memories of his reluctance to talk about his inventions creep into my mind. “Cricket . . . just because he stole the idea doesn’t mean what
you
do is—”
But he launches toward St. Clair. “Movie?”
Anna and I stare at him in concern, but St. Clair easily takes over again. “Yes, if you ladies no longer require our services, I believe we’re off.” Cricket is already halfway to the door. My heart screams in surprised agony.
He halts. It’s as if he’s physically stopped by something we can’t see. “Will you be here later?” he asks me. “When the movie gets out?”
My throat dries. “I should be here.”
He bites his bottom lip. And then they’re gone.
“He’s so into you,” Anna says.
I rearrange a stack of quarters and try to calm my thumping chest. What just happened? “Cricket’s a nice guy. He’s always been like that.”
“Then he’s always been into you.”
Yes. He has.
Anna whisks out the glass cleaner and sprays a smudge that St. Clair left behind on the window. Her smile fades as she grows deeper in thought. “What’s the matter?” I ask. I’m desperate for a topic change.
“Me? Nothing, I’m fine.”
“No way,” I say. “It’s your turn. Spill it.”
“It’s . . . my family is coming to visit.” She sets down the cleaner, but her hand tightens on the nozzle. “They met Étienne at our graduation last year, and they liked him, but my mom is pretty freaked out by how fast we’re moving. This visit could be
so
uncomfortable.”
I pry the cleaner away from her. “Do you think you’re moving too fast?”
Anna loosens and smiles again, love-struck. “Definitely not.”
“Then you’ll be fine.” I nudge her. “Besides, everyone loves your boyfriend. Maybe your mom has just forgotten how gosh darn
charming