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“I’m sorry.” His voice turns to anguish. “Is there anything I can do to help?” There’s a certain restraint in his muscles as he struggles to keep from reaching out to me.
“What’s box?” I blurt.
He’s thrown. “What?”
I point at his hand. “Read chapter twelve and buy shampoo, right? What’s box?”
His right hand absentmindedly covers his left. “Oh. Uh, I need to find one.”
I wait for more.
He looks away, and his body follows him. “And I did. Find one. I’m moving some stuff back into my parents’ house. My room at school is crowded. And my other bedroom is empty. It has lots of space. For things.”
“You . . . you
do
spend a lot of weekends there.”
“Andschoolbreaks andsummers.” The words tumble out, and his face darkens as if shamed by his eagerness. No conversation is safe anymore. St. Clair interrupts with timing so perfect that he must have been listening. “Hey, did you know that
Cricket Bell
is related to
Alexander Graham Bell
?”
“Everyone who knows Cricket knows that,” I say.
“Really?” A
Cricket rubs his neck. “No, it’s dumb trivia, that’s all.”
“Are you joking?” St. Clair says. “He’s one of the most important inventors in the entire history of the world. Ever! And—”
“It’s nothing,” Cricket interrupts.
I’m taken aback, but then I remember that first night he was home, when I mentioned his middle name and our conversation grew awkward. Something has changed. But what?
“Forgive his enthusiasm.” A
I can’t resist bragging. “Cricket happens to be a brilliant inventor himself.”
“I’m not.” Cricket squirms. “I mess around. It’s not a big deal.”
St. Clair looks enraptured. “Just think. You’re the direct descendant of the man who invented”—he pulls out his cell—“this !”
“He didn’t invent that,” Cricket says drily.
“Well, not
this,
” St. Clair says. “But the idea. The first one.”
“No.” This is the most frustrated I’ve ever seen Cricket. “I mean he didn’t invent the telephone. Period.”
The three of us blink at him.
“A
“Alexander Graham Bell didn’t invent the telephone, a man named Elisha Gray did. My great-great-great-grandfather stole the idea from him. And Gray wasn’t even the first. There were others, one before Alexander was even born. They just didn’t realize the full implications of what they’d created.”
St. Clair is fascinated. “What do you mean, he stole the idea?”
“I mean, Alexander stole the idea, took credit for it, and made an unbelievable sum of money that shouldn’t have been his.” Cricket is furious now. “My family’s entire legacy is based on a lie.”
Well. That would explain the change.
St. Clair looks guilty for unintentionally goading Cricket into telling us. He opens his mouth to speak, but Cricket shakes his head. “Sorry, I shouldn’t let it get to me.”
“When did you learn this?” I ask quietly.
“A couple of years ago. There was a book.”
I don’t like the expression on his face. Further memories of his reluctance to talk about his inventions creep into my mind. “Cricket . . . just because he stole the idea doesn’t mean what
you
do is—”
But he launches toward St. Clair. “Movie?”
A
He halts. It’s as if he’s physically stopped by something we can’t see. “Will you be here later?” he asks me. “When the movie gets out?”
My throat dries. “I should be here.”
He bites his bottom lip. And then they’re gone.
“He’s so into you,” A
I rearrange a stack of quarters and try to calm my thumping chest. What just happened? “Cricket’s a nice guy. He’s always been like that.”
“Then he’s always been into you.”
Yes. He has.
A
“Me? Nothing, I’m fine.”
“No way,” I say. “It’s your turn. Spill it.”
“It’s . . . my family is coming to visit.” She sets down the cleaner, but her hand tightens on the nozzle. “They met Étie
so
uncomfortable.”
I pry the cleaner away from her. “Do you think you’re moving too fast?”
A
“Then you’ll be fine.” I nudge her. “Besides, everyone loves your boyfriend. Maybe your mom has just forgotten how gosh darn
charming
he is.”
She laughs. Another patron comes to my window, and I print his ticket. When he leaves, A
I’m struck by a terrible realization. “Oh, no. You wanted to meet him. We left!”
“You had a bad night.” She shrugs. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Yeah, but—”
“It’s okay, I swear. Everyone makes mistakes.” A
My guilt deepens. “I’m sorry about last week. When I came back from di
She shakes her head. “That’s not what I was thinking about.”
“Then what?”
A
And she goes to rip tickets down the hall, leaving me with thoughts as jumbled as ever. Does she mean Max? Or Cricket? An hour later, Franko wanders in. He’s about thirty, and his hair is unevenly shorn. Like, he has random bald spots.
“Heeeeeey, Lola. Have you seen the thing?”
“What thing?”
“You know . . . the thing with . . . our schedules on it and stuff?”
“You mean our schedule?”
“Yeah. Have you seen it?”
I glance around. “Not in here. Sorry.” But Franko is already sifting through a pile of papers on the counter. He knocks the phone off its hook, and I grab it. “Careful!”
“Did you find it?” Franko spins around as I’m coming up. His elbow jams into my face and knocks my glasses to the floor. “Whoops. I got it, Lola.”
There’s a sickening crunch of plastic.
“FRANKO!” My world has turned into blobs of color and light.
“Whoa. Sorry, Lola. Were those real?”
A
“What is it?” I ask.
“You can’t see?” She holds them closer to my face. Pieces. Many, many pieces.
I moan.
“Sorry,” Franko says again.
“Will you please go back to second-floor concessions?” A
“I was supposed to take Muni.” Of course tonight is the night my parents are busy and leave me to public transportation.
“But you can still take it, right?”
“A
“Okay . . .” She sits down to think but immediately jumps back up. “Étie