“Don’t worry about it.”
“Will you get to make it up?”
“Maybe.”
“Do . . . do you want those illustrations?”
A small smile. “Sure.”
“Okay. Hold on.” I dig through the piles on my floor until I find the binder of pictures printed from the internet and photocopies xeroxed from books—all of the inspiration for my dress that I’ve collected since I met Max at the beginning of summer. I return to my window, and Cricket is sitting in his, just like the first time I saw him again. At the end of summer. “Should I toss it to you?” I glance at Andy’s compost pile below.
A split second of thought and he says, “I’ll be right back.”
He disappears, leaving me to observe his room. It’s still bare, but traces of him have begun to appear—a science magazine by his bed, a pile of tangled rubber bands on his dresser, a half-filled juice glass on his desk, an unusual coat hanging on the back of his desk chair. Cricket returns a minute later with a broom and a metal basket of fruit. He removes the fruit, one by one, and sets them on his dresser.
I’m terrified he’ll pull out a cherry.
He doesn’t.
He places the empty basket on the wooden broom handle, raises the end, and the basket slides down to his hand. Cricket leans out his window and stretches out the broom handle. His arms are long enough that it reaches me with room to spare.
“Ready?”
I prepare for the catch. “Aye, Captain.”
He tilts the broom, and the basket flies down the stick and into my arms. I laugh in delight. “You know, I really could have thrown it.”
“Wouldn’t want to take the chance. I might have missed it.”
“You never miss a catch.” I tuck the binder inside the basket. “It’s kinda heavy.”
“I’ve got it.” Cricket holds the broom steady and up at an angle. I stretch on my toes to slide the basket’s handle onto the broom. I drop it. The weight lowers the broom, but he raises it in just enough time to send the basket flying back to him. “HA!” His belt buckle clicks against the window frame as he moves his body back inside, and I’m startled to recognize it. It’s the same belt he’s had for years—black, cracked leather. He pulls down his shirt, which has come up a bit. His torso is so long that shirts are always a little short on him. Another detail I’d forgotten.
I shake my head, trying to push away thoughts of his abdomen. But I’m smiling. “That was both ridiculously easy and way more complicated than it should have been.”
He smiles back. “That’s my specialty.”
Chapter nineteen
I’m ambushed as I pass the Bell house the next morning, but not by the preferred twin.
“We need to talk.” Calliope’s arms are crossed, and she’s dressed in pale blue running clothes, the same shade of blue as her eyes. Cricket’s eyes. The twins also share the same almostblack hair, although hers lies down neat and tidy. But their smiles are night and day. Cricket’s looks as if it can’t be helped, as if it can’t possibly be contained, while Calliope’s looks practiced. No doubt it is. I know how dedicated she is to practice.
She’s clearly been waiting for me to come outside before beginning her daily run. To say that I’m unnerved would be a monumental understatement. “Talk about what?” I move today’s schoolbag—a vintage glittery vinyl bowling bag—in front of my chest.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
I glance around our street. “Um. Going to school?”
“With my brother.” Her voice grows even harder. “This stops now. I’m sick of watching you take advantage of him.”
“Ex—excuse me?”
“Don’t play dumb.You know exactly what I’m talking about. He’s always been this total sucker for you; he’ll do anything you say. So, tell me. Did you break up with your boyfriend last night before arriving home on Cricket’s arm?”
My face reddens. “He offered to help me because my glasses broke. I couldn’t see.”
“And all of that flirting and pressing your chest into his arm? Did that also help?”