“What?” Cricket asks me as my dad walks away.
“Maybe carry a few less the next time you take a jog down our stairs?”
“Oh.” He grins.
“You’d be an excellent circus juggler.”
He gestures to his legs. “Wouldn’t even have to rent the stilts.”
I notice the opening for a question I’ve had, but I hesitate. “I hope this isn’t rude—”
“Then it definitely is.”
But he’s teasing, so I continue. “Exactly how tall are you?”
“Ah, the height question.” Cricket rubs his hands together. There’s a mathematical equation written there today. “Six four.” He grins again. “Not including hair.”
I laugh.
“And being thin makes me look even taller.”
“And your tight pants,” I add.
Cricket makes a startled choking noise.
OH DEAR GOD. WHY WOULD I SAY THAT?
Andy reappears, slaps him on the back, and then we throw ourselves into the welcome distraction of loading the remainder of the pies. I climb into the backseat to keep them steady. Cricket follows in behind me, and even though he doesn’t have to be here, it feels natural that he should come along for the delivery. Our neighborhood’s traffic is predictably sluggish, but Andy speeds the rest of the way to Russian Hill, past views of Alcatraz and cable cars, and into the area of some of the city’s most expensive real estate.
We find parking at the bottom of the famous part of Lombard Street, the steep hill with switchback curves nicknamed “The Crookedest Street in America.” The narrow, zigzag road is paved with red bricks and bursting with vibrant flowers. We grab the pies—I’m amazed when Andy stacks most of them on Cricket’s arms, trusting him—and run to make the delivery two blocks away.
“You’re ten minutes late, Pie Guy.” A harsh woman with slicked-back hair opens the door for us. “Put them in there. Wipe your feet,” she adds to Cricket as he crosses the threshold, blinded by his pies.
He backs up, wipes them, and moves forward.
“Dirt,” she says. “Again.”
I look at her rug. Cricket isn’t tracking in dirt. He repeats the process one more time, and then we set down the boxes beside an array of crystal decanters in her dining room. She’s glaring at Cricket and me as if she doesn’t like what she sees. That teenagers had anything to do with her party. We stand in uneasy silence as she writes Andy a check. He folds it once and places it in his back pocket.
“Thank you.” He glances in our direction before continuing. “And never call me again. Your business isn’t welcome.”
And then he walks away.
The woman is stunned with indignation. Cricket’s eyebrows pop to his forehead, and I’m barely keeping my laughter under control as we file past her and out the door.
“Hag,” Andy adds, when we join him. “You busted your asses for her.”
Cricket examines himself. “I should have covered my gang tattoos.”
“I wouldn’t let you in my house,” Andy says.
I hug my stomach from laughing so hard.
“Speaking of appearances.” Cricket turns to me. “I’d almost forgotten what you look like.”
The laughter stops dead in my mouth. There wasn’t time for anything fun when Andy woke me up this morning, so I threw on a pair of jeans and a plain black T-shirt. It’s one of Max’s. I’m not wearing makeup, and my hair is hanging loosely. I didn’t think I’d see anyone but my parents today.
“Oh.” I cross my arms. “Uh, yeah. This is me.”