It’s odd. Me, the real me, and I’m unknown.
The few people who do recognize me always ask if I’m feeling okay. And it’s not that I feel great, but why does everyone assume something is wrong because I’m not costumed? Our usual bank teller went so far as to mention his concern to Nathan. Dad came home worried, and I had to assure him, again and again, that I’m fine.
I am fine.
I’m not fine.
What am I?
The blinking Christmas lights and flickering menorahs in the windows of the houses, hardware store, bars and clubs and restaurants . . . they seem false. Forced. And I’m unnaturally aggravated by the man dressed as sexy Mrs. Claus handing out candy canes in front of the Walgreens and collecting money for charity.
I spend my break working at the theater—I take extra shifts to fill my spare time—and watching Cricket. Throughout the day, I can usually spot him through one of the Bells’ windows, playing with Abigail. Abby has sandy-colored hair like her father and grandfather, but there’s something sweet and pure about her smile that reminds me of her uncle. He bundles her up and takes her on walks every day.
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 Anna and St. Clair are both there. They try to cheer me up by playing this game where we get a point every time someone complains about the ticket price or yells at us because a show is sold out. Whoever has the most points at the end of the day gets the unopened bag of gummy lychee candy St. Clair found in theater twelve. It’s not a great prize. But it helps.
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 grinning at her. She grins back.
“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?”