Stephanie Perkins - Lola and the Boy Next Door

“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?”

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.”

We gather around my computer. Her music is haunting and romantic. Fraught with drama and strung with tension, it collapses into sorrow, and ends with a powerful crescendo into redemption. It’s beautiful. Calliope is beautiful. It’s been a while since I’ve seen her perform, and I had no idea what she’d become. Or I’d forgotten.

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.