Andy cuts Nathan a quick look, and Nathan shuts his mouth. Norah smirks. So it’s true, our embarrassing crush was obvious to everyone. Fantastic.
I stand. “I’m going upstairs. I have homework.”
“On a Friday night?” Andy asks as Nathan says, “Dishes first.”
I take my plates to the sink. Will Cricket eat dinner with his family or go straight to his bedroom? I’m scrubbing the dishes so hard that I slice myself with a paring knife. I hiss under my breath.
“Are you okay?” All three ask at the same time.
“I cut myself. Not bad, though.”
“Be careful,” Nathan says.
Parents are excellent at stating the obvious. But I slow down and finish without further incident. The dishwasher is chugging as I race upstairs and burst into my room. My shoulders sag. His light is off.
Calm down, it’s only Cricket.
I busy myself by sewing pleats into my Marie Antoinette dress. Twenty minutes pass. Thirty, forty, fifty, sixty.
What is he doing?
The Bells’ downstairs lights are on, so for all I know, the entire family could be parked in front of the television watching eight hours of . . . something. Whatever. I can’t concentrate, and now I’m angry. Angry at Cricket for not being here and angry at myself for caring. I wash off my makeup, remove my contacts, change into my pajamas—careful to close my curtains first—and flop into bed.
The clock reads 9:37. Max’s band hasn’t even started playing yet.
Just when I thought I couldn’t feel like a bigger loser.
I toss and turn as images flash through my mind: Cricket, Max, burlesque dancers sitting in oyster shells. I’m finally drifting into a restless sleep when there’s a faint plink against my window. My eyes shoot open. Did I dream it?
Plink, my window says again.
I leap out of bed and pull aside my curtains. Cricket Bell sits on his windowsill, feet swinging against his house. Something tiny is in one hand and the other is poised to throw something else. I open my window and a thousand bottled emotions explode inside of me at the full sight of him.
I like Cricket. Like that.
Again.
He lowers his hand. “I didn’t have any pebbles.”
My heart is stuck in my throat. I swallow. “What were you throwing?” I squint, but I can’t make it out.
“Put on your glasses and see.”
When I come back, he holds it up. He’s smiling.
I smile back, self-conscious. “What are you doing with a box of toothpicks?”
“Making party trays of cubed cheese,” he says with a straight face. “Why was your light off?”
“I was sleeping.”
“It’s not even ten-thirty.” His legs stop swinging. “No hot date?”
I don’t want to go there. “You know”—I point at his legs—“if you stretch those out, I bet they could touch my house.”
He tries. They fall a few feet short, and I smile again. “They looked long enough.”
“Ah, yes. Cricket and his monstrously long legs. His monstrously long body.”