“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.
The overall effect is romantic but . . . daring.
Calliope is in awe. “I was afraid you’d give me something crazy, something Lola. But this is me. This is my song, this is my program.”
And even with the insult thrown in, I glow with happiness.
“It’s better than your original,” Mrs. Bell says to Calliope.
“You really think?” I ask.
“Yes,” they both say.
I pick myself up from the floor and inspect the costume. “It could use some altering, here and here”—I point to two loose places—“but . . . yeah. This should work.”
Mrs. Bell smiles, warm and relieved. “You have a special talent, Lola. Thank you.”
She likes me! Or at least my sewing skills, but I’ll take it.
For now.
There’s a knock on my door, and I let in my parents. They ooh and aah, and Calliope and I are both beaming. I mark the costume for quick alterations, which I can do in an hour. Which I have to do in an hour, because that’s when they leave for the airport. I shoo everyone away, and as I’m stitching, I glance again and again at Cricket’s window. He’s not there. I pray to an invisible moon that I’ll see him before he leaves.