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Sometimes, I grab a coat and run after them. I’ve gone with them to the park for the swings, to the library for picture books, and to Spike’s for espresso (Cricket and me) and an organic gingerbread man (Abby). I try to be helpful. I want to earn him, deserve him. He always bursts into a smile when he sees me, but it’s impossible to mistake the silent examination that follows. As if he’s wondering if
now
I’m okay. If today is the day. And I can tell by his expression, always a little confused and sad, that he knows it’s not.
I wish he wouldn’t look at me like that. I’ve become his difficult equation face again.
In the evenings, after Abby has gone to bed, I’ll see him tinkering in his bedroom. I can’t tell what he’s making, it must be something small, but the telltale signs of mechanical bits and pieces—including objects opened and stripped for parts—remain scattered about his desk.
That’s
making me happy.
Christmas passes like Thanksgiving, without a bang. I go to work—movie theaters are always packed on Christmas Day—and A
The managers bought Santa hats for everyone to wear. Mine is the only one that’s hot pink. I appreciate the thought, but I feel ridiculous.
I get yelled at the most. I win the lychee candy.
New Year’s Day. It’s cold, but the sun is out, so I take Betsy to Dolores Park. She’s sniffing out places on the hillside to leave her mark when I hear a tiny, “O-la!”
It’s Abby. I’m flattered she spoke my name. At one and a half years old, her vocabulary isn’t immense. She tears toward me from the playground. She’s dressed in a tiny purple tutu. Cricket walks in long strides behind her, hands in his pockets, smiling.
I get on my knees to hug Abby, and she collapses into my arms, the way really little kids do. “Hi, you,” I say. She lunges for the turquoise rhinestone barrette in my hair. I’d forgotten to take it out. Norah—NORAH, of all people—snapped it in at breakfast. “It’s the New Year,” she said. “Sparkles won’t kill you today.”
Cricket pulls off Abby before she can rip out the barrette. “All right, all right. Abigail Bell, that’s
enough.
” But he’s gri
“You’ve made quite the new best friend,” I say.
His expression turns to regret. “Children do have questionable taste.”
I laugh. It’s the first time I can remember laughing this week.
“Though she has great taste in hair accessories,” he continues. Betsy rolls onto her stomach for him, and he scratches her belly. His rainbow bracelets and rubber bands shake against her black fur. The back of his entire left hand, including fingers, is crammed with mathematical symbols and calculations. Abby leans over hesitantly to pet my dog. “It’s nice to see you in something sparkly again,” he adds.
My laughter stops, and my cheeks redden. “Oh. It’s stupid, I know. It’s New Year’s, so Norah thought . . .”
Cricket frowns and stands back up. His shadow stretches, tall and slender, out for infinity behind him. “I was being serious. It’s nice to see a little bit of Lola shining through.” The frown turns into a gentle smile. “It gives me hope.”
And I can’t explain it, but I’m on verge of tears. “But I
have
been me. I’ve been trying hard to be me. A better me.”
He raises his eyebrows. “On what planet does Lola Nolan not wear . . . color?”
I gesture at my outfit. “I have this in white, too, you know.”
The joke falls flat. He’s struggling not to say something. Abby bumps into his left leg and grips it with all of her might. He picks her up and sets her on his hip.
“Just say it,” I tell him. “Whatever it is.”
Cricket nods slowly. “Okay.” He collects his thoughts before continuing. He speaks carefully. “Being a good person, or a better person, or whatever it is you’re worried about and trying to fix? It shouldn’t change who you are. It means you become
more
like yourself. But . . . I don’t know this Lola.”
My heart stops. I feel faint. It’s just like what Max used to say.
“What?” Cricket is alarmed. “When did he say that?”
I flush again and look down at the grass. I wish I didn’t talk out loud when I’m distressed. “I haven’t seen him again, if that’s what you mean. But he said . . . before . . . that because I dressed in costume, he didn’t know who I really was.”
Cricket closes his eyes. He’s shaking. It takes me a moment to realize that he’s shaking with
anger.
Abby squirms in his arms. It’s upsetting her. “Lola, do you remember when you told me that I had a gift?”
I gulp. “Yes.”
His eyes open and lock on mine. “You have one, too. And maybe some people think that wearing a costume means you’re trying to hide your real identity, but I think a costume is more truthful than regular clothing could ever be. It actually says something about the person wearing it. I knew that Lola, because she expressed her desires and wishes and dreams for the entire city to see. For
me
to see.”
My heart is beating in my ears, my lungs, my throat.
“I miss that Lola,” he says.
I take a step toward him. His breath catches.
And then he takes a step toward me.
“Ohhhh,” Abby says.
We look down, startled to discover that she’s still on his hip, but she’s pointing into the winter-white sky. San Francisco’s famous flock of wild parrots bursts across Dolores Park in a flurry of green feathers. The air is filled with beating wings and boisterous screeching, and everyone in the park stops to watch the spectacle. The surprising whirl disappears over the buildings as swiftly as it arrived.
I turn back to Abby. The unexpected explosion of color and noise and beauty in her world has left her awed.
chapter twenty-nine
It’s the Sunday night before school resumes, and my parents are on a date. I’m hanging out with Norah. We’re watching a marathon of home decorating shows, rolling our eyes for different reasons. Norah thinks the redesigned houses look bourgeois and, therefore, boring. I think they look boring, too, but only because each designer seems to be working from the same tired manual of modern decorating.
“It’s nice to see you looking like yourself again,” she says during a commercial break.
I’m wearing a blue wig, a ruffled Swiss Heidi dress, and the arms from a glittery golden thrift-store sweater. I’ve cut them off, and I’m using them as glittery golden leg warmers. I snort. “Yeah, I know how much you like the way I dress.”
She keeps her eyes on the television, but that familiar Norah edge returns to her voice. “It’s not how
I
would dress, but that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate it. It doesn’t mean I don’t like you for who you are.”
I keep my eyes on the television, too, but my chest tightens.
“So,” I say a few minutes later as the show recaps what we’ve already seen. “What’s happening with the apartment? Has Ro