Lulu Dark Can See Through Walls Read Online Free

to me—eighth grade was the year I had mono. I probably missed the entire thing.
    A strange, hollow feeling settled in my stomach. I hadn’t been trying to do any real damage. I do have some decency. It’s like, I only make fun of people for being fat if they’re totally skinny. You don’t want to cut too close to the bone; otherwise you end up looking like a jerk.
    But Rachel and / are always bickering, I told myself. There was nothing to do now except put it all out of my mind. For the rest of the evening I tried hard not to think about what I had said. Dwelling on it gave me a bad case of guilt-induced anxiety.
    The music the band was playing was shaking me from the inside out, humming with a warm, dreamy drunkenness. I felt it in my knees and lungs, and I closed my eyes, letting the thrill of the room blanket me. There it was again: another glimpse of the perfect.
    I was still stuck in it twenty minutes later when the Many Handsomes’ last song ended. It took a couple of seconds of listening to the crowd going wild for me to realize that the set was over.
    The stage lights blinked off, and I was struggling to see when I felt a tap on my shoulder from above. My heart somersaulted when I realized that I was face-to-face with Alfy Romero.
    He was bent down, leaning over at me from the stage. All I could make out was the vague outline of his chiseled jaw, his perfect lips. His breath, which didn’t even smell bad, grazed my cheek. He put his hand on my shoulder. I nearly swooned.
    “This one,” he called to someone in the wings.
    For once I was dumbstruck. I opened my mouth to speak and realized that I had no idea what to say.
    It didn’t matter, though. A second later the stage lights faded back on.
    As the rest of the band returned to the stage, Alfy stood up and strapped on his guitar for the encore. He stood wide-legged in a warrior stance, bounced once, and strummed a big, echoing power chord before the drums and the bass kicked in.
     
    When the show was over, we were sweaty and breathless, glowing with energy. I was still getting my bearings when a big guy in a dirty T-shirt and cargo shorts came sidling up next to me.
    “From Alfy Romero,” he said. He handed me a piece of folded-up paper before shuffling off to the stage door.
    Surreptitiously I looked down and unfolded the paper he’d handed me. It was the Many Handsomes’ set list, printed in messy, boyish, Sharpie scrawl. At the bottom a note: You’re beautiful, it read, in the same adorable chicken scratch. Call me. XOXO Alfy R. Then—prize of all prizes—his phone number! I gasped and stuffed it quickly into my purse.
    Suddenly I felt eyes on me. Daisy and Charlie were both staring.
    “Lulu,” Daisy said, slack-jawed. “You are brilliant! How did you make that happen?”
    I shrugged. It was a total mystery to me.
    Charlie shook his head. “I hope you’re not actually considering calling him. I mean, musicians will give their numbers to anything in heels.”
    My smile quickly evaporated. “But I’m wearing hot pink cowboy boots!” I argued weakly.
    “Charlie, don’t be such a jerk,” Daisy stepped in. “It’s obvious that Alfy noticed Lulu because she’s one of a kind and he happened to be nervy enough to do something about it!”
    “Whatever,” Charlie said. “Believe what you want to believe. I’m outta here.”
    “You’re not going to stay for another coffee?” I asked.
    “Nah, I promised my sister I’d take her dog for a walk before I went to bed.” He gave us each a quick kiss on the cheek, zipped up his sweatshirt, and booked for the door.
    I was still trying to figure out what to make of the situation when I heard a giggle behind me and felt a cold wetness on my butt.
    “Oops!” came a shrill, familiar chirp. I twirled around. No surprise; it was Rachel and Marisol again. Rachel was clutching an empty glass to her chest, barely hiding her jubilance.
    “What the hell . . . ?” I exclaimed, craning my neck to