Nathan’s expression softens into astonishment. “Wow.”
I hesitate. “Good wow?”
“Standing ovation wow,” Cricket says.
The way everyone is staring makes me nervous again. I turn toward the mirror, and I see . . . a magnificent gown and beautiful hair and a glowing face. And the reflection smiling back at me is Lola.
“One more,” Andy says. “From the side, so we can see the bird in your hair.”
I turn my head to pose for another picture. “This is the last one.”
“Did you get a shot with the boots?” Nathan asks. “Show us the boots.”
I lift my hem and smile. “Tick tock.”
“I am trying really hard not to use the word ‘fabulous’ right now,” Andy says.
But I feel fabulous. My parents take two more rounds of pictures—one with both of us and one with just Cricket—before we make our escape into the foggy night. Getting to the sidewalk requires folding the panniers, lifting my skirts, and stepping sideways down the stairs. We’re walking to my school, because it’s close.
Also, because I can’t fit into a car.
“Hey! There they are!”
Aleck appears on the porch next door. Abby is on his hip. I wave, and her eyes grow HUGE like when she saw the wild green parrots in the park. “Ohhhh,” she says.
“You guys look great,” Aleck calls down. “Crazy. But great.”
We grin our thanks and say goodbye. Unsurprisingly, the dress makes it difficult to maneuver down the sidewalk—I frequently have to turn to the side, and hand-holding is tricky—but we make our way down the first block.
“Are they still watching?” I ask.
Cricket looks back. “All four of them.”
My stomach is fluttering, but the butterflies are happy and anticipatory. We’re both waiting for the same moment. We finally turn a corner, and Cricket pulls me into the purple-black shadows of the first house. Our mouths crush against each other. My hands rake through his hair, tugging him closer. He tries to back me against the wall, but I bounce off it. Our lips are still touching as we laugh.
“Hold on.” I hoist up the structure of my dress, but I fold it the other way this time, so that the lifted, flat surface is in the back. “Okay. Try again.”
He does it slowly this time, pushing his entire figure against mine, using his hips to press me against the house. It doesn’t matter how much fabric is between us, the solid strength of his body against mine is electric. Charged. And then our arms are enveloping and our fingers are digging and our mouths are searching and our bodies find this lock.
And if I’m the stars, Cricket Bell is entire galaxies.
The winter wind spirals around us, cold and bitter, but the space between us is hot and sweet. His scent makes me ravenous. I kiss his neck in a downward trail, and I can’t hear it over the wind, but I feel him moan. His fingers easily, gracefully slide through the laces of my stays and work their way around the chemise underneath. They stroke only the smallest square of my back, but the tremor runs the full length of my spine.
Our mouths clasp again. We press against each other harder. His fingers slip out of my stays. They move from my back to my front, and for the first time ever, I wish this dress were less complicated. My next one will be much smaller, a single layer, with a thin silk that will allow me to feel everything.
Cricket breaks away, his eyes wild. “We have to stop. If we don’t stop now . . .”
“I know.” Even though all I want to do is keep going.
But he wraps his arms around me, and he holds me as if I were about to fly away with the wind. He holds me until our hearts stop pounding so furiously. He holds me until we can breathe again.
The fog is still heavy, and the sidewalks are packed, but everyone sees us coming. They part aside with claps and cheers. Our smiles as are full as our hearts. As we promenade down the glittery sidewalks of the Castro, I feel as if we’re in a music video. A woman with a pompadour gives Cricket a fist pump, and the man with the Care Bears tattoo who owns the environmentally friendly dry cleaners gives us both wolf whistles.
Or maybe just Cricket. He does look hot.
We turn the last corner toward my school, and he pulls me into the privacy of another gap between houses. I look up at him teasingly through my eyelashes. “You know, I just reapplied my lip gloss.”
But Cricket is suddenly nervous. Very nervous.
His expression fills me with apprehension. “Is . . . everything okay?” I ask.
He places a hand inside the inner pocket of his suit jacket. “I wanted to give you this for Christmas, and then for New Year’s. But I couldn’t get it ready in time. And then I thought it’d make a better gift for tonight anyway, assuming, of course, that you’d come with me to the dance. But then I couldn’t give it to you in your bedroom, because it was too bright inside, so I had to wait until we were outside, because it’s dark outside—”
“Cricket! What is it?”