“The law,” she says.
It’s the last Friday of our summer break, and we’re squished together on my tiny front porch. I’m spray-painting a pair of thrift-store boots, and she’s scoping out the lavender Victorian. Lindsey supports my relationship for the most part, but she’s relentless when it comes to this one sticking point.
“He’s a good guy,” I say. “And our relationship is what it is.”
“I’m not saying he isn’t a good guy, I’m merely reminding you that there could be consequences to dating him.” Her voice is calm and rational as her eyes perform a quick scan of the neighborhood before returning to the Bell house.
Lindsey never stops examining her surroundings. It’s what she does.
My best friend is pretty, bordering on plain. She wears practical clothing and keeps her appearance clean. She’s short, has braces, and has had the same haircut since the day we met. Black, shoulder length, tidy bangs. The only thing that might seem out of place is her well-worn, well-loved pair of red Chuck Taylors. Lindsey was wearing them the day she tripped a suspect being chased by the police on Market Street, and they’ve since become a permanent wardrobe fixture.
I laugh. Sometimes it’s the only option with her. “Consequences. Like happiness? Or love? You’re right, who’d want a thing like tha—”
“There he is,” she says.
“Max?” I swivel mid-spray, barely missing her sneakers in my excitement.
“Watch it, Ned.” She slides aside. “Not everyone wants shoes the color of a school bus.”
But she’s not talking about my boyfriend. My heart plummets to discover Cricket Bell waiting to cross the street.
“Oh, man.You got it on the porch.”
“What?” My attention jerks back. Sure enough, there’s an unsightly splotch of yellow beside the newspaper I’d spread out to protect the wood. I grab the wet rag I brought outside, for this very purpose, and scrub. I groan. “Nathan’s gonna kill me.”
“Still hasn’t forgiven you for dyeing the grout in his bathroom black?”
The splotch smears and grows larger. “What do you think?”
She’s staring at Cricket again. “Why didn’t you tell me he was so . . .”
“Tall?” I scour harder. “Unwanted?”
“. . . colorful.”
I look up. Cricket is striding across the street, his long arms swinging with each step. He’s wearing skinny mailmanesque pants with a red stripe down the side seam. They’re a tad short—purposely, I can tell—exposing matching red socks and pointy shoes. His movements suddenly become exaggerated, and he hums an unrecognizable tune. Cricket Bell knows he has an audience.
There’s a familiar clenching in my stomach.
“He’s coming over,” Lindsey says. “What do you want me to do? Kick him in the balls? I’ve been dying to kick him in the balls.”
“Nothing,” I hiss back. “I’ll handle it.”
“How?”
I cough at her as he leaps up the stairs with the ease of a gazelle. “Lola!” His smile is ear to ear. “Funny meeting you here.”
“Funny that. You being on her porch and all,” Lindsey says.
“Your house?” Cricket stumbles back down the top steps and widens his eyes dramatically. “They all look so similar.”
We stare at him.
“It’s good to see you again, Lindsey,” he adds after a moment. Now there’s a touch of genuine embarrassment. “I just passed your parents’ restaurant, and it was packed. That’s great.”
“Huh,” she says.
“What are you doing here?” I blurt.
“I live here. Not here-here, but there-here.” He points next door. “Occasionally. On the weekends. Well, my parents told me they set up my bed, so I assume it’s a go.”
“They did. I saw them move it in yesterday,” I say, despite myself. “There still aren’t any curtains on your window,” I add, not wanting him to think that I’ve been purposefully watching his room.
One hand fiddles with the bracelets on his other. “Now, that’s a shame. Promise you won’t laugh when you see me in my underwear.”
Lindsey’s eyebrows raise.
“I cut a pathetic figure undressed,” he continues. “Dressed, too, for that matter. Or half dressed. One sock on, one sock off. Just a hat. No hat. You can stop me at any time, you know. Feel free to tell me to shut up.”
“Shut up, Cricket,” I say.
“Thanks. Did you dye your hair? Because you weren’t blond last weekend. Oh, it’s a wig, isn’t it?”
“Ye—”
“Hey, cool shoes. I’ve never seen boots that color before. Except rain boots, of course, but those aren’t rain boots.”
“No—”
The front door opens, and Andy appears in a white apron. He’s holding a flour-dusted wooden spoon as if it were an extension of his arm. “Could I persuade you ladies to sample—”
Cricket pops back onto the porch and stretches his lengthy torso between Lindsey and me to shake my dad’s hand. “It’s nice to see you again, Mr. Nolan. How are you?”