Or I’d forced myself to forget.
Calliope moves with passion, grace, and confidence. She’s a prima ballerina. And it’s not only the way she skates—it’s the expressions on her face, which she carries into her arms, hands, fingers. She acts every emotion of the music. She
feels
every emotion of the music. No wonder Cricket believes in his sister. No wonder he’s sacrificed so much of his own life to see her succeed. She’s extraordinary.
The clip ends, and everyone is silent. Even Nathan is awed. And I’m filled with the overwhelming sensation of Calliope’s presence—this power, this beauty—in the room.
And then . . . I’m aware of another presence.
Cricket stands behind me. The faintest touch of a finger against the back of my silk kimono. I close my eyes. I understand his compulsion, his need to touch. As my parents burst into congratulating Calliope, I slide one hand behind my back. I feel him jerk away in surprise, but I find his hand, and I take it into mine. And I stroke the tender skin down the center of his palm. Just once.
He doesn’t make a sound. But he is still, so still.
I let go, and suddenly
my
hand is in
his
. He repeats the action back. One finger, slowly, down the center of my palm.
I cannot stay silent. I gasp.
It’s the same moment Mrs. Bell explodes into my bedroom, and, thankfully, everyone turns to her and not me. Everyone except for Cricket. The weight of his stare against my body is heavy and intense.
“What’s the progress?” Mrs. Bell asks.
Calliope sighs. “We’re just getting started.”
I spring forward, trying to shake away what has to be the most inappropriate feeling in the world to have when three out of our four parents are present. “Hi, Mrs. Bell,” I say. “It’s good to see you again.”
She tucks her cropped hair behind her ears and launches into a heated discussion with Calliope. It’s like I don’t even exist, and I’m embarrassed that this hurts. I want her to like me. Cricket speaks for the first time since entering our house. “Mom, isn’t it great that Lola is helping us?” His fingers grasp at his wrists for rubber bands that aren’t there.
Mrs. Bell looks up, startled at his awkward intrusion, and then scrutinizes me with a severe eye. I make her uncomfortable. She knows how I feel about her son, or how he feels about me. Or both. I wish I were wearing something respectable. My justrolled-out-of-bed look makes me feel trashy.
This is not how I would choose to represent myself to her.
Mrs. Bell nods. “It is. Thank you.” And she turns back to Calliope.
Cricket glances at me in shame, but I give him an encouraging smile. Okay, so we need to work on our parents. We’ll get there. I turn around to grab a notebook, and that’s when I catch Nathan and Andy exchanging a private look. I’m not sure what it means, but, perhaps, it holds some remorse.
I feel a surge of hope. Strength.
I step forward to work, and things become crazy. Everyone has an opinion, and Mrs. Bell’s turns out to be even stronger than her daughter’s. The next half hour is hectic as arguments are had, fabric is trod upon, and garments are ripped. I’m trying to measure Calliope when Andy bumps into me, and I crunch against the sharp edge of my desk.
“OUT,” I say. “Everybody out!”
They freeze.
“I’m serious, everyone except Calliope. I can’t work like this.”
“GO,” Calliope says, and they scatter away. But Cricket lingers behind. I give him a coquettish smile. “You, too.”
His smile back is dazed.
Nathan clears his throat from the hallway. “Technically, you aren’t even allowed in my daughter’s room.”
“Sorry, sir.” Cricket tucks his hands in his pockets. “Call me if you need anything.” He glances at Calliope, but his eyes return to mine. “If either of you need anything.”
He leaves, and I’m grinning all the way down to my glittery toenail polish as I resume taking her measurements. She picks up an eyelash curler from my desktop and taps it against her hand. “Why isn’t my brother allowed in your room?”
“Oh. Um, I’m not allowed to have any guys in here.”
“Please. Did Nathan catch you doing something? NO. Yuck. Don’t tell me.”
I yank the measuring tape around her waist a little too hard.
“Ow.”
I don’t apologize. I finish my work in silence. Calliope clears her throat as I write down the remaining measurements. “I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s nice of you to do this for me. I know I don’t deserve it.”
I stop mid-scratch.
She slams down my eyelash curler. “You were right. I thought he knew, but he didn’t.”
I’m confused. “Knew what?”
“That he’s important to our family.” She crosses her arms. “When Cricket was accepted into Berkeley, that was when I decided to return to my old coach. I wanted to move back here so that I could stay close to him. Our parents did, too.”
It looks like Calliope has more to say, so I wait for her to continue. She lowers herself into my desk chair. “Listen, it’s not a secret that I’ve made my family’s life difficult. There are things that Cricket hasn’t had or experienced because of me. And I haven’t had them either, and I’ve hated it, but it was my choice. He didn’t have a choice. And he’s accepted everything with this . . . exuberance and good nature. It would’ve been impossible for our family to hold it together if we didn’t have Cricket doing the hardest part. Keeping us happy.” She raises her eyes to meet mine. “I want you to know that I feel
terrible
about what I’ve done to my brother.”
“Calliope . . . I don’t think . . . Cricket doesn’t feel that way. You know he doesn’t.”
“Are you sure?” Her voice catches. “How can you be sure?”
“I’m sure. He loves you. He’s proud of you.”
She’s silent for a minute. Seeing such a strong person struggle to hold it together is heartbreaking. “My family should tell him more often how remarkable he is.”
“Yes, he is. And, yes, you should.”
“He thinks you are, too. He always has.” Calliope looks at me again. “I’m sorry I’ve held that against you.”
And I’m too astonished by this admission to reply.
She rests her hand on the ruffled costume beside her. “Just answer this one question. My brother never got over you. Did you ever get over him?”
I swallow. “There are some people in life that you
can’t
get over.”
“Good.” Calliope stands and gives me a grim smile. “But break Cricket’s heart? I’ll break your face.”
We work together for a half hour, picking out pieces, throwing ideas back and forth. She knows what she wants, but I’m pleased to discover that she respects my opinion. We settle on a design using only her black costumes, and she collects the others to take home.
“So where’s your dress?” she asks.
I have no idea what she’s talking about. “What dress?”
“The Marie Antoinette dress. I saw your binder.”
“You
what
?”
“Cricket was carrying it around at one of my competitions, practically fondling the damn thing. I teased him mercilessly, of course, but . . . it was interesting. You put a lot of work into those pages. He said you’d put a lot of work into the real thing, too.” She looks around my room. “I didn’t think it was possible to hide a giant-ass ball gown, but apparently I was wrong.”
“Oh. Uh, it’s not in here. I stopped working on it. I’m not going to the dance.”