Max. Yes, I want to be with Max.
“Thanks for coming. Tell Anna bye for me, okay?”
St. Clair looks royally pissed. “Yeah. Sure.”
Max leads me down the block to his van. He opens the door, and I’m surprised to discover it’s still empty. We climb in. “The next band is using Johnny’s drums. I asked the guys to wait a few minutes before loading the rest.”
I slam the door, and we’re on top of each other. I want to forget everything. I kiss him hard. He pushes back harder. It doesn’t take long.
We collapse.
I close my eyes. My temples are still throbbing with the sound of his music. I hear the flick of Max’s lighter, but the smell that greets me isn’t cigarette smoke. It’s sweet and sticky. He nudges me in a silent offer. I refuse. The contact high is enough.
Max drops me off around two in the morning. I forget my wig in his van. I feel like a disaster. Once again, I’m racked with guilt and anger and confusion. I drag myself inside, and my parents are there, as if they’ve been waiting by the door since I left. They probably have. I brace myself for their wrath.
It doesn’t come.
“Thank God.” Andy crumples onto our chaise longue.
My parents are both on the verge of tears, and the sight makes me cry for the hundredth time today, huge embarrassing hiccuping sobs. “I’m sorry.”
Nathan embraces me in an iron-tight hug. “Don’t you ever do that again.”
I’m shaking. “I won’t. I’m sorry.”
“We’ll talk about this tomorrow, Dolores.” Nathan leads me upstairs, and Andy trails behind. I’m closing my bedroom door when Nathan says, “You smell like pot. We’ll talk about that tomorrow, too.”
I open my window and look into the night sky. “I need your help.”
The moon is thin, a sliver of a waning crescent. But she’s listening.
It’s four in the morning. I can’t sleep, so I tell her about my last twenty-four hours. “And I don’t know what to do,” I say. “It’s all happening at once, but everything I do seems to be wrong. What am I supposed to do?”
Cricket’s window slides open. I dive for my closest pair of glasses so that I can see him. His hair is puffy from sleep, even taller than usual, and his eyes are half shut. “You still talk to the moon?” His question isn’t condescending, it’s curious.
“Pretty dumb, huh?”
“Not at all.”
“Did I wake you up? Did you hear me?”
“I heard you talking, but I didn’t hear what you said.”
I let out a slow exhale of relief. I need to be more careful. It doesn’t escape my attention that it’s nice to know when someone is telling the truth. “What are you doing here?” I ask. “It’s Sunday night, you should be in your dorm.”
Cricket is quiet. He’s deciding how to answer. A car with thumping club music cruises down our street, looking for parking. When the bass fades away, he says, “I wanted to make sure you were okay. I was waiting for your light to come on. I fell asleep.” He sounds guilty.
“Oh.”
“I’ll leave early in the morning.” Cricket glances across his room at a clock. He sighs. “In two hours, actually.”
“Well, I’m here. I made it. Barely.”
He stares at me. It’s so intense that it’s almost invasive. I look down at the alley between our houses, and a stray cat is wandering through Andy’s compost pile. “You didn’t have to do that,” I say.
“I probably shouldn’t have. I’m not the right person for you to talk to.”
“Is that why you called Lindsey?”