“Let’s go for a walk!”
My exclamation unfreezes him. He edges out of sight, trying to play it cool. “Now?” he calls from the darkness. “It’s . . . two forty-two in the morning.”
“I could use someone to talk to.”
Cricket pops back up. He has located his pants. He is wearing them.
I blush.
He considers me for a moment, pulls a T-shirt over his head, and then nods. I sneak downstairs, past my parents’ bedroom and Norah’s temporary bedroom, and I reach the street undetected. Cricket is already there. I’m wearing sushi-print pajama bottoms and a white camisole. Seeing him fully dressed again makes me feel undressed, a feeling intensified when I notice him take in my bare skin. We walk up the hill to the corner of our street. Somehow, we both know where we’re going.
The city is silent. The raucous spirit of Halloween has gone to sleep.
We reach the even bigger hill that separates us from Dolores Park. Eighty steps lead to the top. I’ve counted. About twenty up, he stops. “Are you gonna say what’s on your mind, or are you gonna make me guess? Because I’m not good at guessing games. People should say what they mean to say and not make other people stumble around.”
“Sorry.”
He smiles for the first time in ages. “Hey. No apologizing.”
I smile back, but it falters.
His disappears, too. “Is it Max?”
“Yes,” I say quietly.
We walk slowly up the stairs again. “He seemed surprised to see me today. He doesn’t know we hang out, does he?”
The sadness in his voice makes me climb slower. I wrap my arms around myself. “No. He didn’t know.”
Cricket stops. “Are you embarrassed by me?”
“Why would I be embarrassed by you?”
He puts his hands in his pockets. “Because I’m not cool.”
I’m thrown. Cricket isn’t cool in the same sense as Max, but he’s the most interesting person I know. He’s kind and intelligent and attractive. And he’s well dressed. Cricket is REALLY well dressed. “How can you think that?”
“Come on. He’s this sexy rock god, and I’m the boy next door. The stupid science geek, who’s spent his life on the sidelines of figure-skating rinks. With his sister.”
“You’re not . . . you’re not a geek, Cricket. And even if you were, what’s wrong with that? And since when is science stupid?”
He looks unusually agitated.
“Oh, no,” I say. “Please tell me this isn’t about your great-great-whatever grandfather. Because that doesn’t mean any—”
“It means everything. The inheritance that paid for our house, that pays for Calliope’s training, that pays for my college education, that bought everything I’ve ever owned . . . it wasn’t ours. Do you know what happened to Alexander Graham Bell after he became famous? He spent the rest of his life hiding in a remote part of Canada. In shame of what he’d done.”
“So why did he do it?”
Cricket rakes a hand through his hair. “For the same reason everyone makes mistakes. He fell in love.”
“Oh.” That hurts. I’m not even sure why it hurts so much, but it does.
“Her father was wealthy and powerful. Alexander wasn’t. He had ideas for the telephone, but he couldn’t get them to work. Her father discovered that someone—Elisha Gray—was about to patent it, so they went to the patent office on the same day as Elisha, copied his idea, turned it in, and claimed they were there first. Alexander became one of the wealthiest men in America and was allowed to marry my great-great-great-grandmother. By the time Elisha realized he’d been had, it was too late.”
I’m astounded. “That’s terrible.”
“History books are filled with lies. Whoever wins the war tells the story.”