A Whole Lot of Lucky (10 page)

“I told him lots of girls think he's hot.”

“But what did you say about me?” Silence.

It's funny how a bunch of no words at all makes you press the phone against your ear even harder and pace around your room like a lion in its cage.

“Hel-lo,” I say. “Amanda? Amanda?”

I want to reach through the phone and pluck her vocal cords. “Amanda! What did you tell Tanner about me?”

“I said … like … I don't know what I said. I wasn't sure if you liked him like that. You never talk about him.”

Hmm, true. I didn't know he liked me when he said
Rabbit
the day I wore my green shirt. I mean, Tanner
Law—I remember when he used to suck his thumb. Still, an unfamiliar feeling of lightness rises in my chest.
A boy likes me.
I guess he's okay. It kind of changes things to know he likes me.

All through supper, I try to decide if I like Tanner Law. Dad offers a nickel for my thoughts, which used to be a penny, but he's adjusted it for inflation. “Nothing,” I say.

“And your first day went well?” Mom asks for the sixteenth time.

Why does she keep asking me if my first day went well? You know she only wants to hear me say yes. What if I told her the truth; what if I told her,
Well, the building numbers are all mixed up, so I got lost on campus; I was tardy to most of my classes; I knocked over a cheerleader; and when I went into a bathroom to cry, there was a girl in there smoking. How was your day?

I pretend I can't answer because my mouth is full. And it is, but not with words she wants to hear.

Dad touches my arm. “Maybe this will cheer you
up.” He smiles at Mom, then me. “After supper, I'm taking you out for a new bike!”

“Yes!” I punch the air in a victory pose. The first thing on my list of Things I Need! Finally, the lottery is paying off. I shovel the chicken casserole into my mouth like an engineer trying to keep the train's fire going. I glug the milk and slam the glass down. Screeching back my chair, I jump and wave air pom-poms. “Ready!”

“Raa!” Libby says. She wants to be like me.

“Give me a minute,” Dad says.

“Hurry up, Da-ad, hurry up, BOOM! BOOM! Hurry up, Da-ad, hurry up, BOOM! BOOM!” I stamp my feet on the
boom boom
part.

“Settle down,” Mom says, putting more carrot bits onto Libby's tray.

Dad says, “Put your shoes on.”

My arms make a high V. “Yay!”

“Aaaee!” Libby, getting in on it. Orange carrotballs fly across the kitchen.

My shoes are on, my hopes are up, my dad's still eating. Quietly, I sing, “Hurry up, Da-ad, hurry up,
boom! boom!”
I whisper that last part.

Mom gives me the evil eye, but I see a twinkle in it.

I whistle the tune, singing the words in my head as I pace in laps through the kitchen, living room, and dining room.

The sun is setting by the time Dad's ready to leave.
Bright pink strokes and swirls of orange look like watercolors against the darkening blue sky. Dad lifts the garage door, and as he crosses the threshold, one strand of the bougainvillea laces itself around him. If I didn't know better, I'd think it was hugging him. He picks it off one pricker at a time, careful to not break the vine.

“Remind me to tie that thing up or chop it down,” he says, pretending I don't know that bougainvillea is his pride and joy.

When Dad and I finally head into a sports center, I sprint straight to the bikes in back. The salesman there has tattoos and rings stuck in his face. He points out different bicycles to Dad, explaining their features, blah, blah, blah, ohmygosh.

A girl's bike near the end flashes its glittery newness at me. The white handgrips beg my fingers to grab them. I can practically feel the energy coursing through its wires. I walk over and slide my hands over the chrome. “Can I try this one out?” I call to the salesman.

“Go ahead,” he says.

At first, I hop on and pedal the bike slowly, as if we're taking a Sunday ride, but somewhere between the scooters and the bathing suits, the power of the bike overtakes me. I pump like mad down the linoleum path that cuts around the store. “Beep! Beep!” I yell at a man walking too slowly. “Beep! Beep!” Old lady. “Beep! Beep!” I fly past Dad and the salesman.

“Slow down!” Dad hollers.

I force the pedals faster. My feet are pistons; sparks fly off the chain. People leap out of the way.

Dad flags me, but I race past him. I'm on spin cycle. I blur past the tents, the baseball bats, and the grills, speed by the cashiers, the shoes, and come up to the bikes again.

Dad steps into my path, but I press into the wind.

“Beep! Beep!”

“Hailee!”

“BEEP! BEEP!”

“HAILEE!”

My feet backpedal until I remember the handbrakes. I squeeze them hard. The tires squeal and lose their grip, sending me and the bike into a long, turning skid that ends in a slide along the floor.

When I get up and roll the silver bike back to its spot, Dad and the salesman stare at me. They are amazed. But as I get close, I see a vein popping out on Dad's forehead, a vein so rarely seen, his heart probably doesn't even know about it. His teeth slide back and forth over each other, chewing back words he's too mad to say.

I glance at the salesman. The stud in his eyebrow lifts with admiration.

“How many speeds does this one have?” I ask. I have used only one: faster than the speed of light.

“Fourteen,” he says. His lip ring twinkles.

Amanda's has twelve. “I'll take it.”

When we get into the van and buckle up, Dad starts
the motor but doesn't drive. “Hailee,” he starts and bends his head.

I'm about to get the biggest talking-to he's ever given. First the vein, now the serious voice. Probably a punishment, too. He hangs over the steering wheel in the dark, engine rumbling, then he shakes his head.

He starts laughing. I start laughing. Then he laughs louder, which makes me laugh harder, and in between laughing, he gasps for air and tries to say, “Beep! Beep!” which makes us crack up, our mouths open and our shoulders shaking with laughter so hard, it's silent.

That night, I smile in my bed thinking about it. Overall, things are going pretty well. My first day at school and I already have someone to hang with—Emily; Amanda was properly impressed with my Magnolia stories; someone likes me; and best of all, I got the Treads Silver Flash 151 bicycle with fourteen speeds. Even my cheery maple seems to have perked up, decorated on the tips with moonlit buds. Soon it will have new leaves.

My second Magnolia day starts with crying and screaming, but not mine.

Mom bought Libby a fancy new car seat, but judging by the way the windows are trying not to crack, I'd say Libby does not like it. She howls and thrashes against her five-point harness baby seat belt.

“Can you make her be quiet?” Her shrieks are curling my eyebrow hairs. This can't possibly be the best way to start my day.

Stress pours out of Mom's mouth. “I'm driving right now. Can you do something?”

If I twist too much, I'll wrinkle my smooth Magnolia uniform. “It's because you've got her sitting backward. I don't see why she needed a new car seat anyway.” The old one wasn't even that old; Mom bought it from a daycare yard sale only a year ago.

“I thought it would be nice, just like you getting a new bike.”

“She doesn't know—she's a baby! And besides, she hates it.”

“It's safer for her. I've been talking with the ladies at church and everyone's using these backward-facing ones now. So hate it or not, she's safer.”

Safe, shrieking Libby wails in the backseat. I press my hands so hard over my ears, if my head were a watermelon, I'd burst it. Over Libby's crying, I yell, “Did I have a car seat like that?”

“No.” Mom checks her mirrors before turning into the entrance for school. The van has a sticker now, so we wait as the gate opens automatically for us.

Libby's going to grow up spoiled.

When Mom stops at the dropoff for Magnolia, I recognize the expensive car in front of us—Nikki Simms. The mother's head has a cell phone pasted to one ear. Her fingers toodley-doo to Nikki, and she's laughing into the phone when she pulls away.

Nikki strolls the Magnolia path alone.

“Honey?” Mom says.

“Oh.” I unbuckle.

Mom leans over the console, but I bend my head, letting her give my hair a quick peck, then I check the back windshield to make sure no one saw that.

Babies like moving cars, but boy, do they hate parked
vans. Libby grabs at the air and screams. I get my stuff together and finger the door handle.

“Have a good day!” Mom yells over the squalling.

Pencils fall out of an unzipped pocket, and spiral notebooks slosh from a different pouch when I bend down to pick up the pencils. The power of Libby's howling scrambles my brain; I keep dropping things. Then she ramps up, her wailing pressing against the insides of the van. The doors and windows strain not to crack. This is a Category 4 tantrum—one-hundred-and-fifty-miles-an-hour shrieks and floods of tears.

I'm sweaty and rattled when I tumble onto the sidewalk. Libby delivers a roar so full of unhappiness and dissatisfaction, I slam the van door fast so none of it leaks out.

Poor Mom. Poor
me
!

After they leave, my day is immediately easier. I know where to go and I get there on time. I try to work in some of my poses as I walk:
over the shoulder,
which I use after tripping on a sidewalk crack;
runway walk,
which is extending your neck and holding your head straight like you've got a string pulling you up, except my heavy backpack makes me hunch forward a little; and
Oh! I can't find something,
which is where I root through my backpack pretending to search for an assignment because the bell hasn't rung yet and we're not supposed to go into the classrooms until then.

After lunch, Emily introduces me to the media specialist, Mrs. Weston, who seems impressed when I start listing all the books I've read since Christmas. When she hands me the sign-up sheet for the Library Club, I see that I'll be the fourth member. I hesitate with the pen for a moment. Why are only three other people listed? Are Library Club members losers?

Panic buzzes in my head. I'm in a new school, but I'm at the same place—dorksville. The uniforms make us look alike, but they don't disguise our statuses. How is that possible? Emily's okay, but I can already see that people think she's a nerd.
And I'm hanging around with her.
I cap the pen shut and lay it on the desk.

Mrs. Weston says, “Oh, you're going to fit right in. Sometimes we read the same book and have group discussion; sometimes we'll watch the movie after we read the book and talk about which one was better.” Okay, I do like doing that kind of stuff. “And sometimes, I pull you out of class to read books to our kindergarteners.”

It does sound fun. I uncap the pen, hold my writing hand over the form, but I can't make myself sign.

Mrs. Weston taps a blank line on the form. “Right there. And then one of your parents' names and a phone number where they can be reached.” I like the way she does her hair. It's kind of flippy.

Mrs. Weston smiles. I sort of smile back; then I realize she's waiting for me to fill out the form.

Three members.

I don't want to be a loser. I glance down at the signup sheet, and then I make my first important decision at Magnolia.

“Mom! I joined the Library Club!” I say, climbing into Mom's van after school. Libby naps in her backward seat. Thank God.

I almost didn't join. But then my brain said,
You know you love this library. Wood floors, curved banisters, green comfy chairs—and don't forget the Starbuck's!
My brain was right. I decided the people who hadn't joined the Library Club were the true losers and I added my name to the list.

The Silver Flash waits for me like a horse in its stall. The old red bike leans against the wall like an old man on a cane. For a second, I feel sorry for it. It was a loyal bike and even though it
is
the ugliest tomato red with rust to match, and sounds like a cat hacking up hairballs, cost the same as a school lunch, and doesn't have hand brakes or speeds, it served me well. But like I said,
that feeling lasts only a second. The Silver Flash is so much easier to love.

I would pay more than a dollar and a pack of Smarties to ride the Silver Flash. But I will take the high road. Amanda can ride it for free.

“Really?” She is humbled by my generosity. She shoots me a serious glance and goes, “I'll be careful.”

We're riding to Matthew's game at the high school this afternoon. I've got money in my pocket and plans to spend it—the snack bar at the baseball fields has just about everything. I sit on Amanda's driveway, the cement rough and warm against my skin, and watch her ride my bike. My freckles start to get hot. I wish they would connect; then I would be really tan.

The garage door roars open and I shriek.

Running footsteps, then, “What?”

I look up into Matthew's face and feel mine turn a million shades of I'm-so-embarrassed.

He tilts his head. His shaggy, curly hair falls to the side in waves. “You okay?”

I nod dumbly.

Somehow, in his black jersey and gray baseball pants, he's taller; his eyes are greener; the muscles in his arms are bigger. He leans down, brings his face closer to mine. My heart pounds. My eyes close.

He swats a lovebug off my cheek.

“You better move off the driveway,” he says, pulling open the driver's side door of their van. Matthew has his
learner's permit. “We're about to back up. I'd hate to ruin my perfect driving record!” He climbs in.