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.
I turn back to Abby. The unexpected explosion of color and noise and beauty in her world has left her awed.
Chapter twenty-nine
It’s the Sunday night before school resumes, and my parents are on a date. I’m hanging out with Norah. We’re watching a marathon of home decorating shows, rolling our eyes for different reasons. Norah thinks the redesigned houses look bourgeois and, therefore, boring. I think they look boring, too, but only because each designer seems to be working from the same tired manual of modern decorating.
“It’s nice to see you looking like yourself again,” she says during a commercial break.
I’m wearing a blue wig, a ruffled Swiss Heidi dress, and the arms from a glittery golden thrift-store sweater. I’ve cut them off, and I’m using them as glittery golden leg warmers. I snort. “Yeah, I know how much you like the way I dress.”
She keeps her eyes on the television, but that familiar Norah edge returns to her voice. “It’s not how I would dress, but that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate it. It doesn’t mean I don’t like you for who you are.”
I keep my eyes on the television, too, but my chest tightens.
“So,” I say a few minutes later as the show recaps what we’ve already seen. “What’s happening with the apartment? Has Ronnie set a move-in date yet?”
“Yep. I’ll be gone by the end of the week.”
“Oh. That’s really . . . soon.”
She snorts. Her snort sounds like mine. “Soon can’t come soon enough. Nathan’s been suffocating me from the moment I arrived.”
And there’s the ungrateful Norah I know. Suddenly her impending departure is welcome. But I only shake my head, and we watch the rest of the episode in discontented silence. Another commercial break begins.
“Do you know the secret to fortune-telling?” she asks, out of the blue.
I sink into the couch cushions. Here we go.
Norah turns to look at me. “The secret is that I don’t read leaves. And palm readers don’t read palms, and tarot readers don’t read cards. We read people. A good fortune-teller reads the person sitting across from them. I study the signs in their leaves, and I use them to give an interpretation of what I know that person wants to hear.” She leans in closer. “People prefer paying when they hear what they want to hear.”
I cringe, sure that I don’t want to hear whatever’s coming next.
“Say a woman comes in,” she continues. “No wedding ring, tight shirt, cle**age up to her chin. Asks about her future. This is a woman who wants me to say that she’s about to meet someone. And, usually, if the shirt is tight enough and with confidence gained from a good fortune, guess what? She’ll probably meet someone. Now, it may not be the right someone, but it still means her fortune came true.”
My frown deepens. I stare at the television screen, but the flashing commercials are making it hard to focus. “So . . . when you looked at me, you saw someone who wanted arguments and confusion and partings? And you wanted it to come true?”
“No.” Norah scoots even closer. “You were different. I don’t have many chances to talk to you when you might actually listen to what I have to say. Reading your leaves was an opportunity. I didn’t tell you what you wanted to hear. I told you what you needed to hear.”
I’m confused and hurt. “I needed to hear bad things?”
She places a hand on mine. It’s bony, but somehow it’s also warm. I turn to her, and her gaze is sympathetic. “Your relationship with Max was waning,” she says, using her fortune-teller voice. “And I saw that you had a much more special one waiting right behind it.”