“Still hasn’t forgiven you for dyeing the grout in his bathroom black?”
The splotch smears and grows larger. “What do you think?”
She’s staring at Cricket again. “Why didn’t you tell me he was so . . .”
“Tall?” I scour harder. “Unwanted?”
“. . . colorful.”
I look up. Cricket is striding across the street, his long arms swinging with each step. He’s wearing skinny mailmanesque pants with a red stripe down the side seam. They’re a tad short—purposely, I can tell—exposing matching red socks and pointy shoes. His movements suddenly become exaggerated, and he hums an unrecognizable tune. Cricket Bell knows he has an audience.
There’s a familiar clenching in my stomach.
“He’s coming over,” Lindsey says. “What do you want me to do? Kick him in the balls? I’ve been dying to kick him in the balls.”
“Nothing,” I hiss back. “I’ll handle it.”
“How?”
I cough at her as he leaps up the stairs with the ease of a gazelle. “Lola!” His smile is ear to ear. “Funny meeting you here.”
“Funny that. You being on her porch and all,” Lindsey says.
“
Your
house?” Cricket stumbles back down the top steps and widens his eyes dramatically. “They all look so similar.”
We stare at him.
“It’s good to see you again, Lindsey,” he adds after a moment. Now there’s a touch of genuine embarrassment. “I just passed your parents’ restaurant, and it was packed. That’s great.”
“Huh,” she says.
“What are you doing here?” I blurt.
“I live here. Not here-here, but there-here.” He points next door. “Occasionally. On the weekends. Well, my parents told me they set up my bed, so I assume it’s a go.”
“They did. I saw them move it in yesterday,” I say, despite myself. “There still aren’t any curtains on your window,” I add, not wanting him to think that I’ve been
purposefully
watching his room.
One hand fiddles with the bracelets on his other. “Now, that’s a shame. Promise you won’t laugh when you see me in my underwear.”
Lindsey’s eyebrows raise.
“I cut a pathetic figure undressed,” he continues. “Dressed, too, for that matter. Or half dressed. One sock on, one sock off. Just a hat. No hat. You can stop me at any time, you know. Feel free to tell me to shut up.”
“Shut up, Cricket,” I say.
“Thanks. Did you dye your hair? Because you weren’t blond last weekend. Oh, it’s a wig, isn’t it?”
“Ye—”
“Hey, cool shoes. I’ve never seen boots that color before. Except rain boots, of course, but those aren’t rain boots.”
“No—”
The front door opens, and Andy appears in a white apron. He’s holding a flour-dusted wooden spoon as if it were an extension of his arm. “Could I persuade you ladies to sample—”
Cricket pops back onto the porch and stretches his lengthy torso between Lindsey and me to shake my dad’s hand. “It’s nice to see you again, Mr. Nolan. How are you?”
Lindsey mouths,
What’s he been smoking?
I’m as baffled as she is. He’s like Cricket times ten.
“I’m good.” Andy glances at me, trying to determine if he should throw him off our property. I give my dad the smallest shake of my head, and he turns his attention back to Cricket. Which, frankly, would be impossible not to do, considering the sheer energy radiating off him. “And you? Still inventing mysterious and wondrous objects?”
“Ah.” Cricket hesitates. “There’s not really a market for that sort of thing these days. But I hear you’re running a successful pie operation?”
My father looks flattered that the news has spread. “I was just about to ask the girls if they’d mind testing a new pie. Would you like a slice?”
“I would
love
a slice.” And he springs ahead of Andy, who follows him inside.
The porch is silent. I turn to Lindsey. “What just happened?”
“Your father invited the former love of your life in for pie.”
“Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
We’re quiet for a moment.
“There’s still time for an excuse,” she says. “We don’t have to go in there.”
I sigh. “No, we really do.”
“Good. Because that guy demands observation.” And she marches inside.
I take another look at the paint splotch and find that it’s dried. Crap. I spray the last side of my shoes, move the project where it won’t get tripped on, and head inside for whatever torture awaits me. They’re standing around one of the islands in our kitchen. We have an unusually large kitchen for the city, because my parents removed the dining room to add space for Andy’s business. Everyone already has a plate of pie and a glass of milk.
“Unbelievable.” Cricket wipes the crumbs from his lips with his long fingers. “I would have never thought to put kiwi in a pie.”
Andy spots me hovering in the doorway. “Better hurry before this one eats it all.” He nods toward his guest. Outwardly, my dad is collected, but I can tell that inside he’s gloaty beyond belief. How quickly one’s allegiance changes under the influence of a compliment. I smile as if none of this is a big deal. But I’m
freaking out.
Cricket Bell. In my kitchen. Eating kiwi pie. And then I take the empty space beside him, and I’m stunned
again
by his extraordinary height. He towers over me.
Andy points his fork at the other half of the green pie. “Have the rest, Cricket.”
“Oh, no. I couldn’t.” But his brightened eyes suggest otherwise.
“I insist.” My dad nudges the dish toward him. “Nathan’s always complaining that I’m trying to make him fat, so it’ll be better if it’s gone before he comes home.”
Cricket turns to me with his entire body—head, shoulders, chest, arms, legs. There are no half gestures with Cricket Bell. “Another slice?”
I motion toward the piece in front of me, which I haven’t even started.
“Lindsey?” he asks.
She shakes her head. “I’m not exactly pie-deprived, visiting here so often.”
Why is he here? Isn’t there some campus party he should be at? The more I think about it, the more incensed I become. How dare he show up and expect me to be friendly? People can’t just
do
that.
“How’s your family?” Andy asks.
Cricket swallows. “They’re good. My parents are the same. Dad’s a little too exhausted, Mom’s a little too enthusiastic. But they’re good. And Cal is busy training, of course. It’s a big year with the Olympics coming up. And Aleck is married now.”
“Is he still composing?” Andy asks. Alexander, or Aleck as dictated by the family nickname, is the twins’ older brother. He was already in high school when Calliope started training, so he escaped most of the family drama. I never knew him well, but I do vividly recall the complicated piano concertos that used to glide through our walls. All three Bells could be considered prodigies in their fields.
“And teaching,” Cricket confirms. “And he had his first child last year.”
“Boy or girl?” Lindsey asks.
“A girl. Abigail.”
“Uncle . . . Cricket,” I say.
Lindsey and Andy both let out an uncontrolled snort, but Andy instantly looks horrified for doing it. He glares at me.