Cricket throws on a coat. “We should go, Lola.You probably need to catch the train.”
“You don’t go here?” Dustin asks me.
“I attend school in the city.” I slide my binder into my bag.
He looks me up and down. “One of those art students, huh?”
“No. I go to Harvey Milk Memorial.”
“What’s that?”
“A high school,” I say.
Dustin’s eyebrows shoot up. He turns to Cricket. “Is she legal?” His voice is tinged with appreciation and respect.
“Bye, Dustin.” Cricket holds the door open for me.
“IS SHE LEGAL?” he says as Cricket slams the door shut behind us.
Cricket closes his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“Hey. No apologizing. Especially not for him.” We head outside, and I shudder. No wonder Cricket comes home most weekends. “Besides,” I continue, “I’m used to it. I get stuff like that alllll the—”
Cricket has stopped moving.
“—time.” Crud.
“Right. Of course you do.” With excruciating effort, he pushes through Max’s ghost. Always present. Always haunting us. “So what’s the boyfriend doing tonight?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t talked to him today.”
“Do you usually talk to him? Every day?”
“Yeah,” I say uncomfortably. I’m losing Cricket. His body is moving physically farther from mine as his mind rebuilds the barrier he built to protect us. “Do you want to get dinner or something?” I blurt. He doesn’t answer. “Forget it, I’m sure you have things to do. Or whatever.”
“No!” And then, with control, “Dinner would be good. Any particular craving?”
“Well . . . Andy gave me money for pizza.”
Cricket tours me through his campus, pointing out the various buildings—all grand and immense and named Something-or-Other Hall—where he takes classes. He tells me about his teachers and the other students, and once again, I’m struck by how strange it is that he has this other life. This life I’m not a part of.
We wind up Telegraph Avenue, the busiest street in downtown Berkeley. It’s the most San Francisco–like place here, with its bead stores, tattoo shops, bookstores, record stores, head shops, and Nepalese imports. But it’s also overrun with street vendors selling cheaply made junk—ugly jewelry, tie-dyed shoelaces, bad art, and Bob Marley’s face on everything. We have to walk through a group of dancing Hare Krishnas in sherbetcolored robes and finger cymbals, and I nearly run smack into a man wearing a fur hat and a cape. He’s draping a supertiny table with velvet for tarot readings, right there on the street. I feel relieved that Norah’s distaste for costumes means at least she doesn’t look like this guy.
There are homeless everywhere. An older man with a weatherhardened face comes out of nowhere, limping and staggering in front of us like a zombie. I instinctively jolt backward and away.
“Hey,” Cricket says gently, and I realize that he caught my reaction. It’s comforting to know he understands why. To know I won’t have to explain, and to know he’s not judging me for it. He smiles. “We’re here.”
Inside Blondie’s, I insist on paying with Andy’s twenty. We sit at a countertop overlooking the street and eat one slice of pesto vegetarian (me) and three slices of beef pepperoni (him). Cricket sips a Cherry Coke. “Nice of Andy to give us dinner money,” he says. “But why pizza?”
“Oh, the pizza place was on the way,” I say. He looks confused. “On the way to Lindsey’s house. They think I’m with Lindsey.”
Cricket sets down his drink. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
“No. It was easier than explaining to Andy . . .” I trail off, unsure of what the rest of that sentence is.
“Explaining that you wanted to hang out with me?”
“No. Well, yeah. But I don’t think my parents would mind,” I add quickly.