Andy gasps.

I look up to find Cricket holding six boxes . . . in each hand.

And flying down the stairs. “Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod,” Andy whispers. I grip his arm in horror, but Cricket bounds easily onto our driveway.

“Ready for these?” he asks.

The pies are still perfectly stacked.

Andy pauses for a moment. And then he bursts into laughter.

“Into the car.”

“What?” Cricket asks me as my dad walks away.

“Maybe carry a few less the next time you take a jog down our stairs?”

“Oh.” He grins.

“You’d be an excellent circus juggler.”

He gestures to his legs. “Wouldn’t even have to rent the stilts.” I notice the opening for a question I’ve had, but I hesitate. “I hope this isn’t rude—”

“Then it definitely is.”

But he’s teasing, so I continue. “Exactly how tall are you?”

“Ah, the height question.” Cricket rubs his hands together.

There’s a mathematical equation written there today. “Six four.” He grins again. “Not including hair.”

I laugh.

“And being thin makes me look even taller.”

“And your tight pants,” I add.

Cricket makes a startled choking noise.

OH DEAR GOD. WHY WOULD I SAY THAT?

Andy reappears, slaps him on the back, and then we throw ourselves into the welcome distraction of loading the remainder of the pies. I climb into the backseat to keep them steady.

Cricket follows in behind me, and even though he doesn’t have to be here, it feels natural that he should come along for the delivery. Our neighborhood’s traffic is predictably sluggish, but Andy speeds the rest of the way to Russian Hill, past views of Alcatraz and cable cars, and into the area of some of the city’s most expensive real estate.

We find parking at the bottom of the famous part of Lombard Street, the steep hill with switchback curves nicknamed “The Crookedest Street in America.” The narrow, zigzag road is paved with red bricks and bursting with vibrant flowers. We grab the pies—I’m amazed when Andy stacks most of them on Cricket’s arms, trusting him—and run to make the delivery two blocks away.

“You’re ten minutes late, Pie Guy.” A harsh woman with slicked-back hair opens the door for us. “Put them in there.

Wipe your feet,” she adds to Cricket as he crosses the threshold, blinded by his pies.

He backs up, wipes them, and moves forward.

“Dirt,” she says. “Again.”

I look at her rug. Cricket isn’t tracking in dirt. He repeats the process one more time, and then we set down the boxes beside an array of crystal decanters in her dining room. She’s glaring at Cricket and me as if she doesn’t like what she sees. That teenagers had anything to do with her party. We stand in uneasy silence as she writes Andy a check. He folds it once and places it in his back pocket.

“Thank you.” He glances in our direction before continuing.

“And never call me again. Your business isn’t welcome.” And then he walks away.

The woman is stunned with indignation. Cricket’s eyebrows pop to his forehead, and I’m barely keeping my laughter under control as we file past her and out the door.

“Hag,” Andy adds, when we join him. “You busted your asses for her.”

Cricket examines himself. “I should have covered my gang tattoos.”

“I wouldn’t let you in my house,” Andy says.

I hug my stomach from laughing so hard.

“Speaking of appearances.” Cricket turns to me. “I’d almost forgotten what you look like.”

The laughter stops dead in my mouth. There wasn’t time for anything fun when Andy woke me up this morning, so I threw on a pair of jeans and a plain black T-shirt. It’s one of Max’s.

I’m not wearing makeup, and my hair is hanging loosely. I didn’t think I’d see anyone but my parents today.

“Oh.” I cross my arms. “Uh, yeah. This is me.”

“It’s a rare occurrence to see Lola in the wild,” Andy says.

“I know,” Cricket says. “I haven’t seen the real Lola since my first night back.”

“I like being different.”

“And I like that about you,” Cricket says. “But I like the real you best.”

I’m too self-conscious to reply. The car ride home is unbearable.

Andy and Cricket do the talking, while I stare out my window and try not to think about the boy beside me. His body takes up so much room. His long arms, his spindly legs. He has to hunch so that his head won’t hit the ceiling, though his hair still does.

I scoot closer to my window.

When we get home, we’re greeted by a wagging Heavens to Betsy and the sugary warmth of baked goods. I throw my arms around her and breathe in her doggie scent. It’s safer to focus on Betsy. Cricket offers to help with the dishes, but Andy refuses as he reaches for his wallet. “You’ve already done too much today.”

Cricket is surprised. “That’s not why I helped.” Andy holds out a few twenties. “Please, take something.” But Cricket puts his hands in his pockets. “I should get home. I just came over to deliver your package.” He nods to the box addressed to me, which is still on the floor outside the kitchen.

Alarm dawns across Andy’s features. “Did you call your parents? Do they know where you are?”

“Oh, it’s fine. They had a big day with Call planned. I doubt they noticed I was gone.”

But Andy doesn’t look reassured. Something is bothering him.

“See you around.” Cricket reaches for the doorknob.

Andy steps forward. “Would you like to go with us to Muir Woods next Sunday? We’re having a family outing. I’d be honored if you joined us, it’s the least I can do.” Muir Woods? A family outing? What is he talking about?

“Uh.” Cricket glances at me nervously. “Okay.”

“Great!” Andy says. He’s already talking about picnic baskets and avocado sandwiches, and my mind is going haywire. Not only is this the first mention of a day trip, but . . . Max.

“What about Sunday brunch?” I interrupt. Betsy squirms as I hold her tighter.

Andy turns back to me. “It’s still on for tomorrow.”

“No. Next Sunday.”

“Oh,” Andy says, as if the thought has just occurred to him.

Even though it hasn’t. “We’ll have to skip it next week.” I’m dumbfounded as they say goodbye and Cricket leaves. My parents would NEVER ask Max to join us. And Max is my BOYFRIEND. And Cricket is . . . I don’t know what Cricket is!

How am I supposed to explain the cancellation to Max? I can’t tell him that I’m going on an outing with Cricket Bell. I open my mouth in outrage, but I’m too furious for words.

Andy locks the door and sighs. “Now, why couldn’t you date a boy like that?”

Chapter twelve

Andy said that?” Lindsey asks. “Kiss of death.”

“I know. As if I’d ever go for him now that my dad wants me to date him.”

“As if you’d ever go for him again, period.”

“Right . . . right.”

There’s a weighty pause on the other end of the line. “Lola Nolan, please tell me you are not thinking about Cricket Bell in that way.”

“Of course I’m not!” And I’m not. I’m definitely not.

“Because he broke your heart. We’ve spent two good years hating him. Remember that sixteen-page letter you buried in my backyard? And the ceremonial tossing of the pink bottle cap into the surf at Ocean Beach?”

Yeah. I remember.

“And your boyfriend? You do remember your boyfriend?

Max?”

I frown at his picture beside my bed. His picture frowns back.

“Who’s leaving me to go on tour.”

“He’s not leaving you. Stop being such a drama queen, Ned.” Except he is. Max announced at brunch this morning that Johnny had already secured a show in Southern California. The miracle is that it’s for next Saturday night, so he couldn’t have made it to our next brunch anyway. So there was no need to invent an excuse for canceling it.

“I don’t wanna talk about guys anymore,” I say. “Can’t we just rehash Alias instead?”

There’s only one type of television show that Lindsey and I agree on: shows that involve solving crimes while wearing cool disguises. Alias, Pushing Daisies, Dollhouse, Charlie’s Angels, and The Avengers are our favorites. My best friend is happy to comply, so we don’t talk about ANY guy for the rest of the week. But they’re on my mind.

My boyfriend. Cricket. My boyfriend. Cricket.

How could Andy put me in this position? How could he make up a dumb family outing on the spot like that? And I’m frustrated because since the Bells moved back, every important event seems to happen on weekends. School has always dragged, but it’s nothing compared to now. Endless.

And work? Forget it. I lose count of how many wrong tickets I print, wrong soft drinks I pour, wrong theaters I sweep. Even Anna—my most good- natured supervisor, someone I’ve begun to consider one of my few friends—finally loses it on Saturday when I come back from my dinner break twenty minutes late.

“Where have you been? I’m dying out here.” She gestures with her head toward the packed box-office lobby as she hands someone their change and takes the ticket order of the person behind them.

“I’m sorry, I lost track of time.There’s this thing tomorrow—”

“You did it yesterday, too. You left me hanging. There were, like, sixty people in the lobby with these screaming children and bad hair, and this one lady projectile sneezed all over my window, and it was totally on purpose, and—”

“I’m so sorry, Anna.”

She holds up a hand in panicked frustration, like she doesn’t want to hear any more, and I feel terrible. I went to a Turkish coffee shop down the block for a pick-me-up and ended up lost in my thoughts. I don’t feel picked up at all.

By the time my shift ends and Andy brings me home, the Bell house is dark. Did Cricket come home? His curtains haven’t moved. If he doesn’t show up tomorrow, will I be relieved? Or disappointed?

I plan my outfit. If this is going to happen, I need to look better than the last time I saw him, but I can’t look too interesting. I don’t want to encourage him. I choose a red-and-white checked top (cute) with jeans (boring). But by morning I’ve decided it’s hopelessly lame, and I change my shirt twice and my pants three times.

I settle on a similarly checked red-and-white halter dress, which I made from an actual picnic blanket for the last Fourth of July.

I add bright red lipstick and tiny ant-shaped earrings for theme, and my big black platform boots because walking will be involved. They’re the sportiest shoes I own. I smooth my dress, erect my posture, and parade downstairs.

No one is there.

“Hello?”

No reply.

My shoulders sag. “What’s the point of a staircase if no one is here to watch my entrance?”