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“Oh. I got something beef-y for you,” I say, because he’s heating the vegetarian dish first.
He shrugs and smiles. “I know. I saw.”
I smile, too, and sit on the edge of his bed. “So all three of you are going to France, and I’m staying here? Talk about unfair.” I’m only half kidding.
“You should come.”
I snort. “Yeah, my parents would definitely be cool with that.”
But Cricket looks thoughtful. “You know, Andy loves figure skating. If you had a free ticket, he might bite.”
“And where, exactly, would I find a free ticket?”
He sits beside me. “Courtesy of my great-great-great-grandfather Alexander Graham Bell, the world’s richest liar?”
I stop smiling. “Cricket. I could never accept that.”
He nudges one of my cowboy boots with one of his pointy wingtips. “Think about it.”
My foot tingles from the shoe-on-shoe contact. I nudge his shoe back. He nudges mine. The microwave beeps, and he hesitates, unsure if he should get up. I reach out and take his wrist, over his rubber bands and bracelets. “I’m not that hungry,” I say.
Cricket looks down at my hand.
I slide my index finger underneath a red bracelet. My finger brushes the skin of his inner wrist, and he releases a small sound. His eyes close. I twine my finger in and out of his bracelets, tying myself against him. I close my eyes, too. My finger guides us onto our backs, and we lie beside each other, quietly attached, for several minutes.
“Where’s Dustin?” I finally ask.
“He’ll be back soon. Unfortunately.”
I open my eyes, and he’s staring me. I wonder how long his eyes have been open. “That’s okay,” I say. “I came here to give you a late Christmas present.”
His eyebrows raise.
I smile. “Not that kind of present.” I untangle my finger from his wrist and roll over to grab my purse from his floor. I rummage through it until I find the tiny something taken from my sock drawer. “Actually, it’s more like a late birthday present.”
“How . . . belated of you?”
I roll back toward him. “Hold out your hand.”
He’s smiling. He does.
“I’m sure you don’t remember anymore, but several birthdays ago, you needed this.” And I place a tiny wrench into his palm. “Lindsey and I went everywhere to find it, but then . . . I couldn’t give it to you.”
His expression falls. “Lola.”
I close his fingers around the gift. “I threw away your bottle cap, because it killed me to look at. But I never could throw away this. I’ve been waiting to give it to you for two and a half years.”
“I don’t know what to say,” he whispers.
“I’m almost full,” I say. “Thank you for waiting for me, too.”
chapter thirty-one
The doorbell rings early the next Saturday. It wakes me from a deep slumber, but I immediately fall back asleep. I’m surprised when I’m being shaken awake moments later. “You’re needed downstairs,” Andy says. “Now.”
I sit up. “Norah? She was kicked out already?”
“Calliope. It’s an emergency.”
I tear out of bed. An emergency with Calliope can only mean one thing: an emergency with Cricket. We’ve been texting, so I know he planned to come home before leaving for Nationals. But his light was off when I got back from work last night. I couldn’t tell if he was there. What if he tried to come home, and something happened along the way? “Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God.” I throw on a kimono and race downstairs, where Calliope is pacing our living room. Her normally smooth hair is unwashed and disheveled, and her complexion is puffy and red.
“Is he okay? What happened? Where is he?”
Calliope stops. She cocks her head, muddled and confused. “Who?”
“CRICKET!”
“No.” She’s momentarily thrown. “It’s not Cricket, it’s me. It’s . . . this.” Her hands tremble as she holds out a large brown paper bag.
I’m so relieved that nothing is wrong with Cricket—and I’m so upset for thinking that something was wrong—that I snatch the bag a bit too harshly. I peer inside. It’s filled with shredded red gauze.
And then I gasp with understanding. “Your costume!”
Calliope bursts into tears. “It’s for my long program.”
I carefully remove one of the shimmering strips of torn fabric. “What happened?”
“Abby. You’d think she was a dog, not a child. When Mom came down for breakfast, she discovered her playing in . . . this. I’d left my costume downstairs for cleaning. Who would’ve thought she could rip it?” Calliope’s panic grows. “I didn’t even know she was strong enough. And we’re leaving tomorrow! And my seamstress is out of town, and I know you can’t stand the sight of me, but you’re my only hope. Can you fix it in time?”
As intriguing as it is to be her only hope, there’s no hope to be had. “I’m sorry,” I say. “But I can’t fix this period. It’s ruined.”
“But you HAVE to do something. There has to be something you can do!”
I hold up a handful of shreds. “These are barely big enough to blow your nose on. If I sewed them back together—even if I could, which I can’t—it’d look terrible.You wouldn’t be able to compete in it.”
“Why can’t you wear one of your old costumes?” Nathan interrupts.
Andy looks horrified. “She can’t do that.”
“Why not?” Nathan asks. “It’s not the outfit that wins competitions.”
Calliope shudders, and that’s when I remember her second-place curse. She must have already been racked by nerves, and then to add this on top of it? I do feel sorry for her. “No,” she says. The word barely comes out. “I can’t do that.” She turns to me with her entire body, an eerily familiar gesture. “Please.”
I feel helpless. “I’d have to make a new one. There’s no—”
“You could make a new one?” she asks desperately.
“No!” I say. “There’s not enough time.”
“Please,” she says. “Please, Lola.”
I’m feeling frantic. I want her to know that I’m a good person, that I’m not worthless, that I deserve her brother. “Okay. Okay,” I repeat. Everyone stares at me as I stare at the tatters. If only I had bigger pieces to work with. These are so small that they wouldn’t even make a full costume anymore.
It hits me. “About those old costumes—”
Calliope moans.
“No, listen,” I say. “How many do you have?”
She gives me another familiar gesture, the parted mouth and furrowed brow. The difficult equation face. “I don’t know. A lot. A dozen, at least.”
“Bring them over.”
“They don’t all fit anymore! I can’t wear them, I won’t—”
“You won’t have to,” I reassure her. “We’ll use the parts to make something new.”
She’s on the verge of hysterics again. “You’re Frankensteining me?”
r /> But I feel calm now that I have a plan. “I won’t Frankenstein you. I’ll revamp you.”
She’s back in five minutes, and she returns with . . . Cricket. Their arms are piled high with stretchy fabric and sparkly beads. His hair is still sleep-tousled, and he’s not wearing his bracelets. His wrists look naked. Our eyes meet, and his thoughts are just as exposed: gratitude for helping his sister and the unmistakable ache of longing.
The ache is reciprocated.
I lead them upstairs to my bedroom. Cricket hesitates at the bottom, unsure if he’s allowed to go up. Andy gives him a prod on the back, and I’m relieved. “We’ll definitely find something in all of this,” I tell Calliope.
She’s still on edge. “I can’t believe my stupid niece did this to me.”
My facial muscles twinge, but I’d say the same thing if I were in her situation. “Let’s spread out the costumes and see what we have.”
“Spread them out where?”
I almost lose my cool, when I look at my floor and realize she has a point. “Oh. Right.” I shove the piles of discarded shoes and clothing into corners, and Andy and Cricket join in. Nathan waits in the doorway, eyeing the situation—and Cricket—warily. When my floor is clear enough, we lay out her costumes.
Everyone stares at the spread. It’s a little overwhelming.
“What’s your music?” Andy asks.
Our heads snap to look at him.
“What?” He shrugs. “We need to know what she’s skating to before Lo can design the right costume. What’s her inspiration?”
Nathan blinks.
I smile. “He’s right. What are you skating to, Calliope?”
“It’s a selection from 1968’s Romeo and Juliet.”
“No idea what that sounds like.” I point her to my laptop. “Download it.”
“I can do better than that.” She sits in my chair and types her own name into a search engine. One of the first entries is a video from her last competition. “Watch this.”
