Lola and the Boy Next Door(87)

“So where’s your dress?” she asks.

I have no idea what she’s talking about. “What dress?”

“The Marie Antoinette dress. I saw your binder.”

“You what?”

“Cricket was carrying it around at one of my competitions, practically fondling the damn thing. I teased him mercilessly, of course, but . . . it was interesting. You put a lot of work into those pages. He said you’d put a lot of work into the real thing, too.” She looks around my room. “I didn’t think it was possible to hide a giant-ass ball gown, but apparently I was wrong.”

“Oh. Uh, it’s not in here. I stopped working on it. I’m not going to the dance.”

“What? WHY?You’ve been working on it for a half a year.”

“Yeah, but . . . it’s lame, right? To show up alone?”

She looks at me like I’m an idiot. “So show up with my brother.”

I’m thrilled by her suggestion—permission!—but I’ve already considered it. “The dance is next weekend. He’ll still be on the other side of the country for Nationals.”

Nationals are a full week. Practice sessions, acclimation to the ice and rink, interviews with the media, two programs, plus an additional exhibition if she medals. Cricket will be staying with her the entire time for support.

“Oh,” she says.

“Besides, it’s stupid anyway.” I stare at the notes for her costume, and I tug on a strand of hair. “You know, big dance. Big dress. What’s the point?”

“Lola.” Her tone is flat. “It’s not stupid to want to go to a dance. It’s not stupid to want to put on a pretty dress and feel beautiful for a night. And you don’t need a date for that.”

I’m quiet.

She shakes her head. “If you don’t go, then you are stupid. And you don’t deserve my brother.”





chapter thirty-two



I work all day and night on Calliope’s costume—seamripping the old ones, stitching new pieces together, adding flourishes from my own stashes—only stopping for a quick break at my window around midnight. Cricket joins me. He leans forward, elbows resting against his windowsill. The position looks remarkably insectlike with his long arms and long fingers. It’s cute. Very cute.

“Thank you for helping my sister,” he says.

I lean forward, mimicking his position. “I’m happy to.”

Calliope leans out her window. “STOP FLIRTING AND GET BACK TO WORK.”

So much for my break.

“Hey, Cal,” he calls. She looks over as he removes a green rubber band from his wrist and shoots it at her head. It hits her nose with a tight snap and falls between our houses.

“Really mature.” She slams her window shut.

He grins at me. “That never gets old.”

“I knew you wore those for a reason.”

“What color would you like?”

I grin back. “Blue. But try not to aim for my face.”

“I would never.” And he swiftly flicks one into the space beside me.

It lands on my rug, and I slide it onto my wrist. “You’re good with your fingers.” And I give him a pointed look that means, I am not talking about rubber bands.

His elbows slide out from underneath him.

“Good night, Cricket Bell.” I close my curtains, smiling.

“Good night, Lola Nolan,” he calls out.

The rubber band is still warm from his skin. I work for the rest of the night, finishing the costume as the moon is setting. I collapse into bed and fall asleep with my other hand clasped around the blue rubber band. And I dream about blue eyes and blue nails and first-kiss lips dusted with blue sugar crystals.





“Where is it?”

“Mmph?!” I wake up to the frightening vision of Calliope and her mother hovering above my bed. People have GOT to stop doing this to me.

“Did you finish? Where is it?” Calliope asks again.

I glance at my clock. I’ve only been asleep for two hours. I roll out of bed and onto my floor. “Iss in my closet,” I mumble, crawling for the closet door. “Needed to hang it up pretty.”

Mrs. Bell reaches the closet first. She throws open the door and gasps.

“What? What is it?” Calliope asks.

Mrs. Bell takes it out and holds it up for her to see. “Oh, Lola. It’s gorgeous.”

Calliope grabs it from the hanger and strips down in that way only beautiful, athletic girls can do—without shame and with a crowd. I look away, embarrassed.

“Ohhh,” she says.

I look back over. She’s standing before my full-length mirror. The black costume has long, slender, gossamer sleeves—delicate and shimmering and seductive—but they’re almost more like fingerless evening gloves, because they stop at the top of her arms, allowing for an elegant showing of shoulder skin. The body has a skirt to echo this feeling, but the top ends in a halter, and I added a thin layer to peek out from underneath, so it’s multistrapped and sequined and sexy.