But her room is devoid of any further cylindrical objects.
“And in the closest race of the night, New York senator Joseph Wasserstein is still fighting to hold on to his seat,” the toupeed newsman says. It’s Election Day, and since the Lims don’t get cable, every channel is filled with boring coverage. The only reason the television is on is to drown out the sound of Mrs. Lim blasting Neil Diamond. He’s this superold pop singer who wears sequined shirts. Even the sparkles aren’t enough to sway me, though I’d never tell her that. When she’s not cooking killer Korean barbecue at the restaurant, she blogs for his secondlargest fansite.
I point at the newsman. “I bet that guy could help me. Does he seriously think that rug on his head looks real?” It switches to a clip of Senator Wasserstein and his family waiting for the final tallies. His wife has that perfectly coiffed hair and that toothy political smile, but his teenage son looks uncomfortable and out of place. He’s actually kinda cute. I say so, and Lindsey looks up at the screen. “God. You are so predictable.”
“What?”
“He looks miserable. You only like guys who look pissed off.”
“That’s not true.” I turn off the television, and Neil’s vibrato shakes the floor.
Lindsey laughs. “Yeah, Max is known for his charming smile.”
I frown.Two Sundays have passed, and we didn’t have brunch on either one. Max called the morning after Halloween and told me he wouldn’t be coming—that day or any Sunday after. I can’t blame him for being tired of the scrutiny. I told my parents that he had more shows scheduled, and they’re still too frazzled by Norah to inquire further. Truthfully, I hope my parents will just sort of forget that brunch was ever a requirement.
I’ve been seeing Max at odd times—before a weekend shift at the theater, during a dinner break, and once at his apartment after school. My parents thought I was at Lindsey’s. But I’ve seen a lot of Cricket. It only took him one more night to finish the panniers, plus an afternoon at my house with final fittings. They’re gigantic and amazing. It’s like wearing the framework of a horizontal skyscraper.
And I’ve finished the stays, so I’m working on the best part now: the gown itself. Cricket helped measure and cut the fabric. It turns out that not only is he handy because of his math and science skills, but he also knows a little about sewing because of Calliope’s costumes, which are in constant need of repair.
I’ve only had one more run-in with Calliope, another beforeschool incident, although this was accidental. She actually ran into me when she was leaving her house and didn’t see me coming. At least, I think it was accidental. “You just can’t stay away, can you?” she grumbled, before jogging away.
“I LIVE HERE!” I said, rubbing my bruised arm.
She ignored me.
But since Cricket and I have been busy with my project, it’s been easier to be friends. There was only one awkward moment, when he came over the first time. I hadn’t thought to clean up my room, and there was a hot pink bra thrown on the center of my floor. He turned the same shade of magenta when he saw it.
To be fair, I did, too.
Cricket. Wait a second.
I know EXACTLY what I need to curl my wig. “I’ll be right back,” I tell Lindsey, and I pop downstairs, where Mrs. Lim is at the family computer. I raise my voice above Neil’s. “Where do you keep the broom?” Then I add, “I didn’t break anything.”
“In there.” She gives a distracted gesture to the hall closet. “Troll on the message board. He’s saying Wayne Newton is better than Neil Diamond. Do you believe?”
“Totally ridiculous.” I grab the broom. It actually looks just like the one Cricket used to collect my binder. I race upstairs and thrust the handle at Lindsey. “Aha! The perfect circumference.”
She smiles. “And plenty of room for us to steam multiple strands at once. Nice.”
“You’re gonna help?”
“Of course.” And thank goodness she does, because it turns out to be a horrible, time-consuming job. “You’re lucky I love you, Lola.”
Another strand slips to the carpet before curling, and I stifle a scream. She laughs in an exhausted, slaphappy way, and it makes me laugh, too. “This really is one of the worst ideas I’ve ever had,” I say.
“Not one of the worst. The worst.” Her strand slips to the floor. “AHH!” she says, and we topple over with laughter. “Let’s hope Cricket is right, and ‘the beauty will be worth the effort.’”
It’s like being hit by a train. “When did he say that?”
Lindsey’s laughter fades. “Oh. Um. Sunday afternoon.”
“Sunday? This last Sunday?You talked to Cricket on Sunday?”
She keeps her eyes on a new strand of white hair. “Yeah, um, we went out.”
I drop the broom. “WHAT?”
“Not like that,” she says quickly. “I mean, we hung out in a group. As friends.”