So that’s that.
“So,” Cricket says, one quiet block later. “Tell me about this famous dress.”
“What dress?”
“The one you’re making the stays for. It sounds important.”
My conversation with Max rushes back in, and I’m embarrassed. Dances are such feminine affairs. I can’t bear to hear scorn from Cricket, too. “It’s for my winter formal,” I say. “And it’s
not
important.”
“Tell me about it.”
“It’s . . . just a big dress.”
“Big like a parachute? Big like a circus tent?”
As always, he makes me smile when I’m determined not to. “Big like Marie Antoinette.”
He whistles. “That
is
big. What are those things called? Hoop skirts?”
“Sort of. In that period, they were called panniers. They went out to the side, rather than around in a perfect circle.”
“Sounds challenging.”
“It is.”
“Sounds fun.”
“Maybe it would be if I had any idea what I was doing. Panniers are these giant, structural contraptions. Making them isn’t sewing; it’s construction. And I have illustrations, but I can’t find decent instructions.”
“Do you want to show me the illustrations?”
My brow creases. “Why?”
He shrugs. “Maybe I could figure it out.”
I’m about to say I don’t need his help, when I realize . . . he’s
exactly
the right person for the job. “Um. Yeah. That’d be nice, thanks.” We’ve reached my steps. I gently squeeze his arm and let go. “I’ve got this part.”
“I’ve taken you this far.” His voice becomes unsteady. “I can take you that much farther.” And he reaches for me one last time.
I brace myself for the contact.
“Cricket!” A call from between our houses, and his arm drops like an anchor. She must have been taking out the trash. Calliope hugs him from behind, and I can’t really see her, but she sounds like she’s about to cry. “Practice was a nightmare. I can’t believe you’re here, you said you couldn’t come. God, it’s good to see you. I’ll make hot cocoa and tell you all—Oh. Lola.”
Cricket is oddly petrified into silence.
“Your very kind brother walked me home from work,” I explain. “My glasses broke, and I’m completely blind.”
She pauses. “Where is it you work again? The movie theater?”
I’m surprised she knows. “Yeah.”
Calliope turns back to Cricket. “You went to the movies? What about that huuuge project due tomorrow? I thought that’s why you couldn’t come home. How
strange.
”
“Cal—” he says.
“I’ll be in the kitchen.” She stalks away.
I wait until she’s inside. “You have a project due tomorrow?”
He waits a long time before answering. “Yes.”
“You weren’t coming home tonight, were you?”
“No.”
“You came home for me.”
“Yes.”
We’re quiet again. I take his arm. “Then take me home.”
chapter eighteen
I’m encouraging him. And I can’t stop.
Why can’t I stop?
I press my palm against the front door, and my forehead comes to rest against it, too. I listen to his footsteps descend on the other side. They’re slow, unhurried. I’m the one making our lives harder. I’m the one making this friendship difficult.
But he’s the one who won’t stop coming back.
He’s smarter than that. He should know it’s time to move on and to stay away from me.
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.