“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?”