Lola and the Boy Next Door(79)

The managers bought Santa hats for everyone to wear. Mine is the only one that’s hot pink. I appreciate the thought, but I feel ridiculous.

I get yelled at the most. I win the lychee candy.





New Year’s Day. It’s cold, but the sun is out, so I take Betsy to Dolores Park. She’s sniffing out places on the hillside to leave her mark when I hear a tiny, “O-la!”

It’s Abby. I’m flattered she spoke my name. At one and a half years old, her vocabulary isn’t immense. She tears toward me from the playground. She’s dressed in a tiny purple tutu. Cricket walks in long strides behind her, hands in his pockets, smiling.

I get on my knees to hug Abby, and she collapses into my arms, the way really little kids do. “Hi, you,” I say. She lunges for the turquoise rhinestone barrette in my hair. I’d forgotten to take it out. Norah—NORAH, of all people—snapped it in at breakfast. “It’s the New Year,” she said. “Sparkles won’t kill you today.”

Cricket pulls off Abby before she can rip out the barrette. “All right, all right. Abigail Bell, that’s enough.” But he’s grinning at her. She grins back.

“You’ve made quite the new best friend,” I say.

His expression turns to regret. “Children do have questionable taste.”

I laugh. It’s the first time I can remember laughing this week.

“Though she has great taste in hair accessories,” he continues. Betsy rolls onto her stomach for him, and he scratches her belly. His rainbow bracelets and rubber bands shake against her black fur. The back of his entire left hand, including fingers, is crammed with mathematical symbols and calculations. Abby leans over hesitantly to pet my dog. “It’s nice to see you in something sparkly again,” he adds.

My laughter stops, and my cheeks redden. “Oh. It’s stupid, I know. It’s New Year’s, so Norah thought . . .”

Cricket frowns and stands back up. His shadow stretches, tall and slender, out for infinity behind him. “I was being serious. It’s nice to see a little bit of Lola shining through.” The frown turns into a gentle smile. “It gives me hope.”

And I can’t explain it, but I’m on verge of tears. “But I have been me. I’ve been trying hard to be me. A better me.”

He raises his eyebrows. “On what planet does Lola Nolan not wear . . . color?”

I gesture at my outfit. “I have this in white, too, you know.”

The joke falls flat. He’s struggling not to say something. Abby bumps into his left leg and grips it with all of her might. He picks her up and sets her on his hip.

“Just say it,” I tell him. “Whatever it is.”

Cricket nods slowly. “Okay.” He collects his thoughts before continuing. He speaks carefully. “Being a good person, or a better person, or whatever it is you’re worried about and trying to fix? It shouldn’t change who you are. It means you become more like yourself. But . . . I don’t know this Lola.”

My heart stops. I feel faint. It’s just like what Max used to say.

“What?” Cricket is alarmed. “When did he say that?”

I flush again and look down at the grass. I wish I didn’t talk out loud when I’m distressed. “I haven’t seen him again, if that’s what you mean. But he said . . . before . . . that because I dressed in costume, he didn’t know who I really was.”

Cricket closes his eyes. He’s shaking. It takes me a moment to realize that he’s shaking with anger. Abby squirms in his arms. It’s upsetting her. “Lola, do you remember when you told me that I had a gift?”

I gulp. “Yes.”

His eyes open and lock on mine. “You have one, too. And maybe some people think that wearing a costume means you’re trying to hide your real identity, but I think a costume is more truthful than regular clothing could ever be. It actually says something about the person wearing it. I knew that Lola, because she expressed her desires and wishes and dreams for the entire city to see. For me to see.”

My heart is beating in my ears, my lungs, my throat.

“I miss that Lola,” he says.

I take a step toward him. His breath catches.

And then he takes a step toward me.

“Ohhhh,” Abby says.

We look down, startled to discover that she’s still on his hip, but she’s pointing into the winter-white sky. San Francisco’s famous flock of wild parrots bursts across Dolores Park in a flurry of green feathers. The air is filled with beating wings and boisterous screeching, and everyone in the park stops to watch the spectacle. The surprising whirl disappears over the buildings as swiftly as it arrived.