Lola and the Boy Next Door(95)

Cricket breaks away, his eyes wild. “We have to stop. If we don’t stop now . . .”

“I know.” Even though all I want to do is keep going.

But he wraps his arms around me, and he holds me as if I were about to fly away with the wind. He holds me until our hearts stop pounding so furiously. He holds me until we can breathe again.





The fog is still heavy, and the sidewalks are packed, but everyone sees us coming. They part aside with claps and cheers. Our smiles as are full as our hearts. As we promenade down the glittery sidewalks of the Castro, I feel as if we’re in a music video. A woman with a pompadour gives Cricket a fist pump, and the man with the Care Bears tattoo who owns the environmentally friendly dry cleaners gives us both wolf whistles.

Or maybe just Cricket. He does look hot.

We turn the last corner toward my school, and he pulls me into the privacy of another gap between houses. I look up at him teasingly through my eyelashes. “You know, I just reapplied my lip gloss.”

But Cricket is suddenly nervous. Very nervous.

His expression fills me with apprehension. “Is . . . everything okay?” I ask.

He places a hand inside the inner pocket of his suit jacket. “I wanted to give you this for Christmas, and then for New Year’s. But I couldn’t get it ready in time. And then I thought it’d make a better gift for tonight anyway, assuming, of course, that you’d come with me to the dance. But then I couldn’t give it to you in your bedroom, because it was too bright inside, so I had to wait until we were outside, because it’s dark outside—”

“Cricket! What is it?”

He swallows. “Sohereitis, Ihopeyoulikeit.”

And he removes his hand from his pocket and thrusts a slender golden object into my palm. The disk is warm from his body heat. It’s round like a makeup compact, and there’s a tiny button to open it, but it’s deeper than a compact.

And the metal has been etched with stars.

The sound of my heart is loud inside my ears. “I’m almost afraid to open it. It’s perfect as it is.”

Cricket takes it and holds it at my eye level. “Press the button.”

I extend a shaky index finger.

Click.

And then . . . the most wondrous thing appears. The lid pops back, and a miniature, luminous universe rises up and unfolds. A small round moon glows in the center, surrounded by tiny twinkling stars. I gasp. It’s intricate and alive. Cricket places the automaton back into my palm. I cradle it, enchanted, and the stars wink at me lazily.

“The moon is what took so long. I had trouble getting the cycle correct.”

I look up, mystified. “The cycle?”

He points to the real moon. She’s a waxing gibbous—a slice of her left side is dark. I look back down. The little moon is almost entirely illuminated. A slice of its left side is dark. I’m stunned into silence.

“So you won’t forget me when I’m gone,” he says.

I raise my eyes in alarm.

Cricket reacts quickly. “Not gone-gone. I meant during the week, when I’m at school. No more moving. I’m here. I’m wherever you are.”

I let out a relieved breath, one hand clutching my tight stays.

“You haven’t said anything.” He plucks at a rubber band. “Do you like it?”

“Cricket . . . this is the most extraordinary thing I’ve ever seen.”

His expression melts. He enfolds me into his arms, and I rise on my platform tiptoes to reach his lips again. I want to kiss him for the rest of the night, for the rest of our lives. The one. He tastes salty like sea fog. But he tastes sweet, too, like . . .

“Cherries,” he says.

Yes. Wait. Was I talking out loud?

“You taste like cherries. Your hair smells like cherries. You’ve always smelled like cherries to me.” Cricket presses his nose against the top of my head and inhales. “I can’t believe I’m allowed to do that now. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

I bury my face against his chest and smile. Someday I’ll tell him about my teacup.

The sound of laughter and music floats through the night air, swirling and ephemeral. It’s beckoning us. I look up and deep into his eyes. “Are you sure you want to do this? A high school dance? You don’t think it’s . . . kind of lame?”

“Sure, but aren’t they supposed to be?” Cricket smiles. “I don’t know. I’ve never been to one. And I’m happy. I’m really hap—”

And I interrupt his words with another ecstatic kiss. “Thank you.”

“Are you ready?” he asks.

“I am.”

“Are you scared?”

“I’m not.”