{"product_id":"lola-and-the-boy-next-door-isbn-9780142422014","title":"Lola and the Boy Next Door","description":"\u003cb\u003e“Stephanie Perkin’s characters fall in love the way we all want to, in real time and for good.” —Rainbow Rowell, #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“Stephanie Perkins is the Jane Austen of our generation. Her stories ache, soothe, and leave you breathless with joy; there's true magic in these pages.” —Tahereh Mafi, #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLola Nolan is a budding costume designer, and for her, the more outrageous, sparkly, and fun the outfit, the better. And everything is pretty perfect in her life (right down to her hot rocker boyfriend) until the Bell twins, Calliope and Cricket, return to the neighborhood. When Cricket, a gifted inventor, steps out from his twin sister's shadow and back into Lola's life, she must finally reconcile a lifetime of feelings for the boy next door.“You're going to fall in love \u003ci\u003ewith Lola and the Boy Next Door\u003c\/i\u003e. Madly in love! Every page sparkles.” —Sarah Mylnowski, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Step back—it's going to fly off the shelves.” —\u003ci\u003eSLJ\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A delectable companion to \u003ci\u003eAnna and the French Kiss\u003c\/i\u003e.” —\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“With a swoonworthy romance and a cast of unforgettable characters, \u003ci\u003eLola and the Boy Next Door \u003c\/i\u003eis another unputdownable read.” —MTV.comStephanie Perkins is the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author and anthology editor of multiple books, including \u003ci\u003eAnna and the French Kiss\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eLola and the Boy Next Door\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eIsla and the Happily Ever After\u003c\/i\u003e, as well as contemporary horror novels \u003ci\u003eThere’s Someone Inside Your House\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Woods Are Always Watching\u003c\/i\u003e. She has always worked with books—first as a bookseller, then as a librarian, and now as a novelist. Stephanie lives in the mountains of North Carolina with her husband. Every room of their house is painted a different color of the rainbow.I have three simple wishes. They’re really not too much to ask.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe first is to attend the winter formal dressed like Marie Antoinette. I want a wig so elaborate it could cage a bird and a dress so wide I’ll only be able to enter the dance through a set of double doors. But I’ll hold my skirts high as I arrive to reveal a pair of platform combat boots, so everyone can see that, underneath the frills, I’m punk-rock tough.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe second is for my parents to approve of my boyfriend. They hate him. They hate his bleached hair with its constant dark roots, and they hate his arms, which are tattooed with sleeves of spiderwebs and stars. They say his eyebrows condescend, that his smile is more of a smirk. And they’re sick of hearing his music blasting from my bedroom, and they’re tired of fighting about my curfew whenever I watch his band play in clubs.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd my third wish?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo never ever ever see the Bell twins ever again. Ever.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut I’d much rather discuss my boyfriend. I realize it’s not cool to desire parental approval, but honestly, my life would be so much easier if they accepted that Max is \u003ci\u003ethe one.\u003c\/i\u003e It’d mean the end of embarrassing restrictions, the end of every-hour-on-thehour phone-call check-ins on dates, and—best of all—the end of Sunday brunch.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe end of mornings like this.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Another waffle, Max?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy father, Nathan, pushes the golden stack across our antique farmhouse table and toward my boyfriend. This is not a real question. It’s a command, so that my parents can continue their interrogation before we leave. Our reward for dealing with brunch? A more relaxed Sunday afternoon date with fewer check-ins.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMax takes two and helps himself to the homemade raspberry-peach syrup. “Thanks, sir. Incredible, as always.” He pours the syrup carefully, a drop in each square. Despite appearances, Max is careful by nature. This is why he never drinks or smokes pot on Saturday nights. He doesn’t want to come to brunch looking hungover, which is, of course, what my parents are watching for. Evidence of debauchery.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Thank Andy.” Nathan jerks his head toward my other dad, who runs a pie bakery out of our home. “He made them.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Delicious. Thank you, sir.” Max never misses a beat. “Lola, did you get enough?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI stretch, and the seven inches of Bakelite bracelets on my right arm knock against each other. “Yeah, like, twenty minutes ago. Come on,” I turn and plead to Andy, the candidate most likely to let us leave early. “Can’t we go now?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe bats his eyes innocently. “More orange juice? Frittata?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“No.” I fight to keep from slumping. Slumping is unattractive.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNathan stabs another waffle. “So. Max. How goes the world of meter reading?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen Max isn’t being an indie punk garage-rock god, he works for the City of San Francisco. It irks Nathan that Max has no interest in college. But what my dad doesn’t grasp is that Max is actually brilliant. He reads complicated philosophy books written by people with names I can’t pronounce and watches tons of angry political documentaries. I certainly wouldn’t debate him. Max smiles politely, and his dark eyebrows raise a titch. “The same as last week.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“And the band?” Andy asks. “Wasn’t some record executive supposed to come on Friday?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy boyfriend frowns. The guy from the label never showed. Max updates Andy about Amphetamine’s forthcoming album instead, while Nathan and I exchange scowls. No doubt my father is disappointed that, once again, he hasn’t found anything to incriminate Max. Apart from the age thing, of course.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhich is the real reason my parents hate my boyfriend.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey hate that I’m seventeen, and Max is twenty-two.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut I’m a firm believer in age-doesn’t-matter. Besides, it’s only five years, way less than the difference between my parents. Though it’s no use pointing this out, or the fact that my boyfriend is the same age Nathan was when my parents started dating. This only gets them worked up. “\u003ci\u003eI\u003c\/i\u003e may have been his age, but Andy was thirty,” Nathan always says. “Not a teenager. And we’d both had several boyfriends before, plenty of life experience. You can’t jump into these things.You have to be careful.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut they don’t remember what it’s like to be young and in love. Of course I can jump into these things. When it’s someone like Max, I’d be stupid not to. My best friend thinks it’s hilarious that my parents are so strict. After all, shouldn’t a couple of gay men sympathize with the temptation offered by a sexy, slightly dangerous boyfriend?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis is so far from the truth it’s painful.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt doesn’t matter that I’m a perfect daughter. I don’t drink or do drugs, and I’ve never smoked a cigarette. I haven’t crashed their car—I can’t even drive, so they’re not paying high insurance rates—and I have a decent job. I make good grades. Well, apart from biology, but I refused to dissect that fetal pig on principle. And I only have one hole per ear and no ink. Yet. I’m not even embarrassed to hug my parents in public.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eExcept when Nathan wears a sweatband when he goes running. Because really.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI clear my dishes from the table, hoping to speed things along. Today Max is taking me to one of my favorite places, the Japanese Tea Garden, and then he’s driving me to work for my evening shift. And hopefully, in between stops, we’ll spend some quality time together in his ’64 Chevy Impala.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI lean against the kitchen countertop, dreaming of Max’s car.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’m just shocked she’s not wearing her kimono,” Nathan says.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What?” I hate it when I space out and realize people have been talking about me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Chinese pajamas to the Japanese Tea Garden,” he continues, gesturing at my red silk bottoms. “What \u003ci\u003ewill\u003c\/i\u003e people think?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI don’t believe in fashion. I believe in costume. Life is too short to be the same person every day. I roll my eyes to show Max that I realize my parents are acting lame.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Our little drag queen,” Andy says.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Because that’s a new one.” I snatch his plate and dump the brunch remains into Betsy’s bowl. Her eyes bug, and she inhales the waffle scraps in one big doggie bite.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBetsy’s full name is Heavens to Betsy, and we rescued her from animal control several years ago. She’s a mutt, built like a golden retriever but black in color. I wanted a black dog, because Andy once clipped a magazine article—he’s \u003ci\u003ealways\u003c\/i\u003e clipping articles, usually about teens dying from overdoses or contracting syphilis or getting pregnant and dropping out of school—about how black dogs are always the last to be adopted at shelters and, therefore, more likely to be put down. Which is totally Dog Racism, if you ask me. Betsy is all heart. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Lola.” Andy is wearing his serious face. “I wasn’t finished.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“So get a new plate.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Lola,”\u003c\/i\u003e Nathan says, and I give Andy a clean plate. I’m afraid they’re about to turn this into A Thing in front of Max, when they notice Betsy begging for more waffles.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“No,” I tell her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Have you walked her today?” Nathan asks me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“No, Andy did.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Before I started cooking,” Andy says. “She’s ready for another.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Why don’t you take her for a walk while we finish up with Max?” Nathan asks. Another command, not a question.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI glance at Max, and he closes his eyes like he can’t believe they’re pulling this trick again. “But, Dad—”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“No buts. You wanted the dog, you walk her.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis is one of Nathan’s most annoying catchphrases. Heavens to Betsy was supposed to be mine, but she had the nerve to fall in love with Nathan instead, which irritates Andy and me to no end. We’re the ones who feed and walk her. I reach for the biodegradable baggies and her leash—the one I’ve embroidered with hearts and Russian nesting dolls—and she’s already going berserk. “Yeah, yeah. Come on.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI shoot Max another apologetic look, and then Betsy and I are out the door.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere are twenty-one stairs from our porch to the sidewalk. Anywhere you go in San Francisco, you have to deal with steps and hills. It’s unusually warm outside, so along with my pajama bottoms and Bakelite bangles, I’m wearing a tank top. I’ve also got on my giant white Jackie O sunglasses, a long brunette wig with emerald tips, and black ballet slippers. \u003ci\u003eReal\u003c\/i\u003e ballet slippers, not the flats that only look like ballet slippers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy New Year’s resolution was to never again wear the same outfit twice.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe sunshine feels good on my shoulders. It doesn’t matter that it’s August; because of the bay, the temperature doesn’t change much throughout the year. It’s always cool. Today I’m grateful for the peculiar weather, because it means I won’t have to bring a sweater on my date. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBetsy pees on the teeny rectangle of grass in front of the lavender Victorian next door—she always pees here, which I totally approve of—and we move on. Despite my annoying parents, I’m happy. I have a romantic date with my boyfriend, a great schedule with my favorite coworkers, and one more week of summer vacation.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe hike up and down the massive hill that separates my street from the park. When we arrive, a Korean gentleman in a velveteen tracksuit greets us. He’s doing tai chi between the palm trees. “Hello, Dolores! How was your birthday?” Mr. Lim is the only person apart from my parents (when they’re mad) who calls me by my real name. His daughter Lindsey is my best friend; they live a few streets over.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Hi, Mr. Lim. It was divine!” My birthday was last week. Mine is the earliest of anyone in my grade, which I love. It gives me an additional air of maturity. “How’s the restaurant?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Very good, thank you. Everyone asking for beef galbi this week. Goodbye, Dolores! Hello to your parents.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe old lady name is because I was named after one. My great-grandma Dolores Deeks died a few years before I was born. She was Andy’s grandmother, and she was fabulous. The kind of woman who wore feathered hats and marched in civil rights protests. Dolores was the first person Andy came out to. He was thirteen. They were really close, and when she died, she left Andy her house. That’s where we live, in Great-Grandma Dolores’s mint green Victorian in the Castro district.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhich we’d never be able to afford without her generous bequeathal. My parents make a healthy living, but nothing like the neighbors. The well-kept homes on our street, with their decorative gabled cornices and extravagant wooden ornamentation, all come from old money. Including the lavender house next door.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy name is also shared with this park, Mission Dolores. It’s not a coincidence. Great-Grandma Dolores was named after the nearby mission, which was named after a creek called \u003ci\u003eArroyo de Nuestra Señora de los Dolores.\u003c\/i\u003e This translates to “Our Lady of Sorrows Creek.” Because who wouldn’t want to be named after a depressing body of water? There’s also a major street around here called Dolores. It’s kind of weird.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI’d rather be a Lola.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHeavens to Betsy finishes, and we head home. I hope my parents haven’t been torturing Max. For someone so brash onstage, he’s actually an introvert, and these weekly meetings aren’t easy on him. “I thought dealing with one protective father was bad enough,” he once said. “But two? Your dads are gonna be the death of me, Lo.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA moving truck rattles by, and it’s odd, because suddenly—just that quickly—my good mood is replaced by unease. We pick up speed. Max must be beyond uncomfortable right now. I can’t explain it, but the closer I get to home, the worse I feel. A terrible scenario loops through my mind: my parents, so relentless with inquiries that Max decides I’m not worth it anymore. My hope is that someday, when we’ve been together longer than one summer, my parents will realize he’s \u003ci\u003ethe one,\u003c\/i\u003e and age won’t be an issue anymore. But despite their inability to see this truth now, they aren’t dumb. They deal with Max because they think if they forbade me from seeing him, we’d just run off together. I’d move into his apartment and get a job dancing naked or dealing acid.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhich is beyond misguided.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut I’m jogging now, hauling Betsy down the hill. Something’s not right. And I’m positive it’s happened—that Max has left or my parents have cornered him into a heated argument about the lack of direction in his life—when I reach my street and everything clicks into place. The moving truck.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNot the brunch.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe moving truck.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut I’m sure the truck belongs to another renter. It has to, it always does. The last family, this couple that smelled like baby Swiss and collected medical oddities like shriveled livers in formaldehyde and oversize models of vaginas, vacated a week ago. In the last two years, there’s been a string of renters, and every time someone moves out, I can’t help but feel ill until the new ones arrive.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBecause what if \u003ci\u003enow\u003c\/i\u003e is the time they move back in?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI slow down to get a better look at the truck. Is anyone outside? I didn’t notice a car in the garage when we passed earlier, but I’ve made a habit out of not staring at the house next door. Sure enough, there are two people ahead on the sidewalk. I strain my eyes and find, with a mixture of agitation and relief, that it’s just the movers. Betsy tugs on her leash, and I pick up the pace again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI’m sure there’s nothing to worry about. What are the chances?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eExcept . . . there’s \u003ci\u003ealways\u003c\/i\u003e a chance. The movers lift a white sofa from the back of the truck, and my heart thumps harder. Do I recognize it? Have I sat on that love seat before? But no. I don’t know it. I peer inside the crammed truck, searching for anything familiar, and I’m met with stacks of severe modern furniture that I’ve never seen before.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt’s not them. It can’t be them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt’s not them!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI grin from ear to ear—a silly smile that makes me look like a child, which I don’t normally allow myself to do—and wave to the movers. They grunt and nod back. The lavender garage door is open, and now I’m positive that it wasn’t earlier. I inspect the car, and my relief deepens. It’s something compact and silver, and I don’t recognize it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSaved. Again. It \u003ci\u003eis\u003c\/i\u003e a happy day.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBetsy and I bound inside. “Brunch is over! Let’s go, Max.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEveryone is staring out the front window in our living room.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Looks like we have neighbors again,” I say.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAndy looks surprised by the cheer in my voice. We’ve never talked about it, but he knows something happened there two years ago. He knows that I worry about their return, that I fret each moving day.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What?” I grin again, but then stop myself, conscious of Max. I tone it down.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Uh, Lo? You didn’t see them, by any chance, did you?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAndy’s concern is touching. I release Betsy from her leash and whisk into the kitchen. Determined to hurry the morning and get to my date, I swipe the remaining dishes from the table and head toward the sink. “Nope.” I laugh. “What? Do they have another plastic vagina? A stuffed giraffe? A medieval suit of armor—what?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAll three of them are staring at me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy throat tightens. “What is it?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMax examines me with an unusual curiosity. “Your parents say you know the family.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo. NO.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSomeone says something else, but the words don’t register. My feet are carrying me toward the window while my brain is screaming for me to turn back. It can’t be them. It wasn’t their furniture! It wasn’t their car! But people buy new things. My eyes are riveted next door as a figure emerges onto the porch. The dishes in my hands—\u003ci\u003eWhy am I still carrying the brunch plates?\u003c\/i\u003e—shatter against the floor.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBecause there she is.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCalliope Bell.","brand":"Speak","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":48233342107877,"sku":"NP9780142422014","price":13.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780142422014.jpg?v=1767731664","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/lola-and-the-boy-next-door-isbn-9780142422014","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}