I stop steaming curls.

“And I don’t want you to bite my head off for saying this,” she says rapidly, “but it’s pretty clear you like Cricket Bell, too.”

It’s like something is caught in my throat. I swallow. “And why do you think that?”

She takes the steamer from me. “Because anyone with the power of observation can see you’re still crazy about him.”

I’m setting the dinner table when I discover a newspaper clipping tucked under the corner of my place mat. Andy strikes again. It’s an article about an increase in STDs among teenagers. I shove it into the recycle bin. Do my parents know I’m having sex?

I know Max slept with many girls—many women—before me. But he’s been tested. He’s clean. Still, these mystery women haunt me. I picture Max in dark corners of bars, in his apartment, in beds across the city with glamorous succubi, intoxicated and infatuated. Max assures me the truth is far less exciting. I almost believe him.

It doesn’t help that tonight, a night I have off from work, Amphetamine has a gig at the Honey Pot, a burlesque club that I’m not old enough to get into. I’m trying not to let it bother me. I know burlesque is an art, but it makes me uncomfortable. It makes me feel young. I hate feeling young.

But there are many things troubling me tonight.

It’s Friday. Will Cricket come home this weekend?

Lindsey’s words have been looping inside my head all week. How is it possible for me to feel this way? To be interested in Cricket and still be concerned about my relationship with Max? I want things to be okay with my boyfriend, I do. It’s supposed to be simple. I don’t want another complication. I don’t want to be interested in Cricket.

During dinner, Andy and Nathan exchange worried looks over the veggie potpie. “Anything wrong, Lo?” Andy finally asks. “You seem distracted.”

I tear my eyes from the window in our kitchen, from which I can barely see the Bell family’s front porch. “Huh? Yeah. Everything’s fine.”

My parents look at me doubtfully as Norah comes in and sits at the table. “That was Chrysanthemum Bean, the one with the duck voice. She’s coming over early tomorrow for a reading before buying her weekly scratch-offs.”

Nathan winces and grinds more pepper on top of his potpie. And grinds. And grinds.

Andy shifts in his seat. He’s always complaining that Nathan ruins his meals by adding too much pepper.

“Christ. Stop it, would you?” Norah says to her brother. “You’re raising his blood pressure. You’re raising MY blood pressure.”

“It’s fine,” Andy says sharply. Even though I can see it’s killing him.

We haven’t had a relaxed meal since she—and her clients, none of whom should be spending their limited finances on tea-leaf readings or lottery scratch-offs—arrived. I turn away in time to catch a lanky figure running up the steps next door. And I sit up so fast that everyone stops bickering to see what’s caused the disturbance. Cricket pats his pockets for his house key. His pants are tighter than usual. And the moment I notice this is the same moment that I’m knocked over by the truth of my feelings.

Lust.

He locates his key just as the front door opens. Calliope lets him inside. I sink back down in my chair. I didn’t even realize that I’d partially risen out of it. Andy clears his throat. “Cricket looks good.”

My face flames.

“I wonder if he has a girlfriend?” he asks. “Do you know?”

“No,” I mumble.

Nathan laughs. “I remember when you two used to accidentally run into each other on walks—”

Andy cuts Nathan a quick look, and Nathan shuts his mouth. Norah smirks. So it’s true, our embarrassing crush was obvious to everyone. Fantastic.

I stand. “I’m going upstairs. I have homework.”

“On a Friday night?” Andy asks as Nathan says, “Dishes first.”

I take my plates to the sink. Will Cricket eat dinner with his family or go straight to his bedroom? I’m scrubbing the dishes so hard that I slice myself with a paring knife. I hiss under my breath.

“Are you okay?” All three ask at the same time.

“I cut myself. Not bad, though.”

“Be careful,” Nathan says.

Parents are excellent at stating the obvious. But I slow down and finish without further incident. The dishwasher is chugging as I race upstairs and burst into my room. My shoulders sag. His light is off.

Calm down, it’s only Cricket.

I busy myself by sewing pleats into my Marie Antoinette dress. Twenty minutes pass. Thirty, forty, fifty, sixty.

What is he doing?

The Bells’ downstairs lights are on, so for all I know, the entire family could be parked in front of the television watching eight hours of . . . something. Whatever. I can’t concentrate, and now I’m angry. Angry at Cricket for not being here and angry at myself for caring. I wash off my makeup, remove my contacts, change into my pajamas—careful to close my curtains first—and flop into bed.

The clock reads 9:37. Max’s band hasn’t even started playing yet.

Just when I thought I couldn’t feel like a bigger loser.

I toss and turn as images flash through my mind: Cricket, Max, burlesque dancers sitting in oyster shells. I’m finally drifting into a restless sleep when there’s a faint plink against my window. My eyes shoot open. Did I dream it?

Plink, my window says again.

I leap out of bed and pull aside my curtains. Cricket Bell sits on his windowsill, feet swinging against his house. Something tiny is in one hand and the other is poised to throw something else. I open my window and a thousand bottled emotions explode inside of me at the full sight of him.

I like Cricket. Like that.

Again.

He lowers his hand. “I didn’t have any pebbles.”

My heart is stuck in my throat. I swallow. “What were you throwing?” I squint, but I can’t make it out.

“Put on your glasses and see.”

When I come back, he holds it up. He’s smiling.

I smile back, self-conscious. “What are you doing with a box of toothpicks?”

“Making party trays of cubed cheese,” he says with a straight face. “Why was your light off?”

“I was sleeping.”

“It’s not even ten-thirty.” His legs stop swinging. “No hot date?”