un
dressed, a feeling intensified when I notice him take in my bare skin. We walk up the hill to the corner of our street. Somehow, we both know where we’re going.
The city is silent. The raucous spirit of Halloween has gone to sleep.
We reach the even bigger hill that separates us from Dolores Park. Eighty steps lead to the top. I’ve counted. About twenty up, he stops. “Are you gonna say what’s on your mind, or are you gonna make me guess? Because I’m not good at guessing games. People should say what they mean to say and not make other people stumble around.”
“Sorry.”
He smiles for the first time in ages. “Hey. No apologizing.”
I smile back, but it falters.
His disappears, too. “Is it Max?”
“Yes,” I say quietly.
We walk slowly up the stairs again. “He seemed surprised to see me today. He doesn’t know we hang out, does he?”
The sadness in his voice makes me climb slower. I wrap my arms around myself. “No. He didn’t know.”
Cricket stops. “Are you embarrassed by me?”
“Why would I be embarrassed by you?”
He puts his hands in his pockets. “Because I’m not cool.”
I’m thrown. Cricket isn’t cool in the same sense as Max, but he’s the most
interesting
person I know. He’s kind and intelligent and attractive. And he’s well dressed. Cricket is REALLY well dressed. “How can you think that?”
“Come on. He’s this sexy rock god, and I’m the boy next door. The stupid science geek, who’s spent his life on the sidelines of figure-skating rinks. With his sister.”
“You’re not . . . you’re not a geek, Cricket. And even if you were, what’s wrong with that? And since when is science
stupid
?”
He looks unusually agitated.
“Oh, no,” I say. “Please tell me this isn’t about your great-great-whatever grandfather. Because that doesn’t mean any—”
“It means
everything.
The inheritance that paid for our house, that pays for Calliope’s training, that pays for my college education, that bought everything I’ve ever owned . . . it wasn’t ours. Do you know what happened to Alexander Graham Bell after he became famous? He spent the rest of his life hiding in a remote part of Canada. In shame of what he’d done.”
“So why did he do it?”
Cricket rakes a hand through his hair. “For the same reason everyone makes mistakes. He fell in love.”
“Oh.” That hurts. I’m not even sure why it hurts so much, but it does.
“Her father was wealthy and powerful. Alexander wasn’t. He had
ideas
for the telephone, but he couldn’t get them to work. Her father discovered that someone—Elisha Gray—was about to patent it, so they went to the patent office on the same day as Elisha, copied his idea, turned it in, and claimed they were there first. Alexander became one of the wealthiest men in America and was allowed to marry my great-great-great-grandmother. By the time Elisha realized he’d been had, it was too late.”
I’m astounded. “That’s terrible.”
“History books are filled with lies. Whoever wins the war tells the story.”
“But Alexander was still a smart man. He was still an inventor. You get
that
much honestly. Life isn’t about what you get, it’s about what you DO with what you get.”
“I build things that have no use.” His tone is flat. “It’s just as bad. I should be creating something that makes a difference, something to . . . make up for the past.”
I’m getting angry. “What do you think would happen if I believed genetics played that kind of role in my life? If I believed that because my birth parents made certain decisions, it meant that my life, my dreams were forfeit, too? Do you know what that would do to me? Do you have any idea what it HAS done to me?”
Cricket is devastated. “I wasn’t thinking, I’m sorry—”
“You should be. You have a gift, and you’re doubting it.” I shake my head to clear my thoughts. “You can’t let that kind of shame dictate who you are.You aren’t your name.Your decisions are your own.”
He stares at me.
I return the stare, and my senses surge. The energy between us ricochets so fiercely that it scares me.
I break our gaze.
We climb the rest of the way to the top, and the entire city stretches before us. The jutting houses, the golden hills, the highrises, the glittering bay. It’s stunning. We sit on an empty slab of asphalt overlooking the view. It’s someone’s driveway, but no one will see us. The eucalyptus tree dangling above us releases its soothing fragrance into the night air.
Cricket inhales, long and slow. He sighs his exhale. “I’ve missed that. Eucalyptus always reminds me of home.”
And I fill with warmth because, even with his second life in Berkeley, he still thinks of this as home. “You know,” I say. “When I was little, my parents were embarrassed by the way I dressed.”
“Really? That’s surprising.”
“They were terrified that people would think THEY were dressing me like that. That THE GAYS were corrupting me with false eyelashes and glitter.”
He laughs.
“But they learned it’s who I am, and they accepted it. And their support gave me some confidence. And then, that summer, you taught me how to accept it for myself. To not worry about what other people said. And then . . . things weren’t bad at all.”
“
I
did?”
“Yeah, you. So I’m telling you this now. I will
never
forget that mechanical bird you made. The one that only sang when you opened its cage door?”
“You remember that?” He’s mystified.
“Or the fifty-step Rube Goldberg machine that sharpened a pencil? Or that insane train of dominoes that took you two weeks to set up, but was over in a minute? It was incredible. Just because something isn’t practical doesn’t mean it’s not worth creating. Sometimes beauty and real-life magic are enough.”
I turn to face him, cross-legged. “It’s like my Marie Antoinette dress. It’s not practical, but . . . for that one moment, arriving at a dance in a beautiful, elaborate dress that no one else is wearing and that everyone will remember? I want that.”
Cricket stares across the city lights toward the bay. “You will. You’ll have it.”
“Not without your help.” I want to give him a friendly shove, but I settle for a verbal jab. “So are you gonna get started on my panniers tomorrow or what?”
“I already started them.” He meets my eyes again. “I stayed in tonight, too. I didn’t just hand out candy.”
I’m touched. “Cricket Bell. You are the nicest guy I know.”
“Yeah.” He snorts. “The nice guy.”
“What?”
“That was what my one-and-only girlfriend said when she broke up with me.”
“Oh.” I’m taken aback. The Girlfriend, at last. “That’s . . . a really,
really
stupid reason.”
Cricket scooches forward, and his knees almost bump mine. Almost. “It’s not uncommon. Nice guys finish last and all.”
There’s a dig at Max amid his self-deprecation, but I ignore it. “Who was she?”
“One of Calliope’s friends. Last year.”
“A figure skater?”
“My social scene doesn’t extend much further.”
The news makes me unhappy. Skaters are
gorgeous.