“No. I go to Harvey Milk Memorial.”
“What’s that?”
“A high school,” I say.
Dustin’s eyebrows shoot up. He turns to Cricket. “Is she legal?” His voice is tinged with appreciation and respect.
“Bye, Dustin.” Cricket holds the door open for me.
“IS SHE LEGAL?” he says as Cricket slams the door shut behind us.
Cricket closes his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“Hey. No apologizing. Especially not for him.” We head outside, and I shudder. No wonder Cricket comes home most weekends. “Besides,” I continue, “I’m used to it. I get stuff like that alllll the—”
Cricket has stopped moving.
“—time.” Crud.
“Right. Of course you do.” With excruciating effort, he pushes through Max’s ghost. Always present. Always haunting us. “So what’s the boyfriend doing tonight?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t talked to him today.”
“Do you usually talk to him? Every day?”
“Yeah,” I say uncomfortably. I’m losing Cricket. His body is moving physically farther from mine as his mind rebuilds the barrier he built to protect us. “Do you want to get dinner or something?” I blurt. He doesn’t answer. “Forget it, I’m sure you have things to do. Or whatever.”
“No!” And then, with control, “Dinner would be good. Any particular craving?”
“Well . . . Andy gave me money for pizza.”
Cricket tours me through his campus, pointing out the various buildings—all grand and immense and named Something-or-Other Hall—where he takes classes. He tells me about his teachers and the other students, and once again, I’m struck by how strange it is that he has this other life. This life I’m not a part of.
We wind up Telegraph Avenue, the busiest street in downtown Berkeley. It’s the most San Francisco–like place here, with its bead stores, tattoo shops, bookstores, record stores, head shops, and Nepalese imports. But it’s also overrun with street vendors selling cheaply made junk—ugly jewelry, tie-dyed shoelaces, bad art, and Bob Marley’s face on everything. We have to walk through a group of dancing Hare Krishnas in sherbetcolored robes and finger cymbals, and I nearly run smack into a man wearing a fur hat and a cape. He’s draping a supertiny table with velvet for tarot readings, right there on the street. I feel relieved that Norah’s distaste for costumes means at least she doesn’t look like this guy.
There are homeless everywhere. An older man with a weatherhardened face comes out of nowhere, limping and staggering in front of us like a zombie. I instinctively jolt backward and away.
“Hey,” Cricket says gently, and I realize that he caught my reaction. It’s comforting to know he understands why. To know I won’t have to explain, and to know he’s not judging me for it. He smiles. “We’re here.”
Inside Blondie’s, I insist on paying with Andy’s twenty. We sit at a countertop overlooking the street and eat one slice of pesto vegetarian (me) and three slices of beef pepperoni (him). Cricket sips a Cherry Coke. “Nice of Andy to give us dinner money,” he says. “But why pizza?”
“Oh, the pizza place was on the way,” I say. He looks confused. “On the way to Lindsey’s house. They think I’m with Lindsey.”
Cricket sets down his drink. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
“No. It was easier than explaining to Andy . . .” I trail off, unsure of what the rest of that sentence is.
“Explaining that you wanted to hang out with me?”
“No. Well, yeah. But I don’t think my parents would mind,” I add quickly.
He’s exasperated. “So why didn’t you tell them? Jeez, Lola. What if something happened to you? No one would know where you were!”
“I told Lindsey I was here.” Well, I told her later. I push the Parmesan shaker away. “You know, you’re starting to sound like my parents.”
Cricket hangs his head and runs his hands through his dark hair. When he looks up again, it’s sticking up even taller and crazier than usual. He stands. “Come on.”
“What?”
“You have to go home.”
“I’m eating. You’re eating.”
“You can’t be here, Lola. I have to take you home.”
“I don’t believe it.You’re serious?”
“YES. I’m not having this on my . . . permanent record.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means if your parents find out you’ve been here without their permission, they won’t like me very much.”
Now I stand. He’s nearly a foot taller, but I try to make him feel as small as possible. “And why are you so concerned about my parents liking you? Is it necessary to remind you—AGAIN—that I have a boyfriend?”
The words are cruel, and I’m horrified as soon as they leave my mouth. Cricket’s blue eyes become startlingly angry. “Then why are you here?”
I’m panicking. “Because you offered to help me.”
“I was helping you, and then you just showed up. In my bedroom! You knew I was coming back next weekend—”
“You didn’t come back last weekend!”
“And now I require your permission to go somewhere? Do you take pleasure in knowing I’m over there . . . pining for you?”
I throw my half-finished slice in the trash and flee. As always, he’s on my heels. He grabs me. “Lola, wait. I don’t know what I’m saying, this conversation is moving too fast. Let’s try again.”
I yank my arm from his grasp and resume my race toward the train station. He’s beside every stride. “I’m going home, Cricket. Like you told me to.”
“Please don’t go.” He’s desperate. “Not like this.”
“You can’t have it both ways, don’t you get it?” I jerk to a halt and sway. I’m talking to myself, not to Cricket.
“I’m trying,” he says. “I’m trying so hard.”
The words shatter my heart. “Yeah,” I say. “Well. Me, too.”
Confusion.
And then . . . “You’re trying? Are you trying in the same way as me?” His words rush out, toppling over each other.