And I’m too astonished by this admission to reply.
She rests her hand on the ruffled costume beside her. “Just answer this one question. My brother never got over you. Did you ever get over him?”
I swallow. “There are some people in life that you can’t get over.”
“Good.” Calliope stands and gives me a grim smile. “But break Cricket’s heart? I’ll break your face.”
We work together for a half hour, picking out pieces, throwing ideas back and forth. She knows what she wants, but I’m pleased to discover that she respects my opinion. We settle on a design using only her black costumes, and she collects the others to take home.
“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.”