A Whole Lot of Lucky (14 page)

Me:
Amanda, this is Hailee. I'm texting you from my new phone! LOL!

I press send. “I just texted Amanda!” I yell to Mom and Dad in the front seat. We're on the way home from the store after church. “I wrote, ‘Amanda, I'm texting you from my new phone! LOL!'”

I have to explain to them that LOL means laughing out loud. Then I text Amanda about how I had to explain LOL to Mom and Dad. I set up contacts for Emily and Nikki. I've never called Nikki, but she gave me her phone number that day in the convertible.

“Turn around, Mom!”

Click!
I take her picture. I add her to my contacts
and Dad, too, because they also got cell phones today. “Take my picture, Mom.”

She stabs the screen with her fingernail.

“Not like that!” I roar. OMG!

My phone tweedles. “Amanda's texting me!” I read it out loud. All my teachers say I project my voice well.

Amanda:
Wow, what kind of phone did you get?

I peck out my answer. “I'm going to tell her you guys got phones, too. And that I got a laptop. Hey, it's fixing my typos!”
Send.

“Libby!”
Click.
Trees passing by.
Click. Click.

Now my phone makes a different sound. I slide my finger across to answer. “Hello?”

Amanda's voice blasts through the ear dots. “Oh, my gosh! I can't believe you got a phone!”

“And a laptop!”

“You're so lucky!”

“I know!”

Mom turns around. “Hailee, you're yelling.”

I nod. Then to Amanda, “Say hi to Libby.” I put the phone up to Libby's ear and hear Amanda's voice. Libby tries to grab the phone. I pull it to myself. “Me again!”

“Yelling,” Mom says.

“I'll call you back later,” I say. “No! I'll text you!”

Me:
I love my new phone. Do you have anyone's number I could put into my contacts?

Send.

I text Emily. Hi, Emily, it's Hailee and this is my new phone! Just got it! LOL! I read the message, then backspace over LOL, because why would I be laughing out loud about getting a cell phone? My thumbs hover over the illuminated keyboard. I press a colon, then a parenthesis. Now my message reads, Emily, it's Hailee and this is my new phone! Just got it!:)

I start to send the same text to Nikki, but then I change stuff because Nikki is different from Amanda and Emily, so the text I now send looks like this: Nikki, it's Hailee. New phone. Just got it.

Amanda buzzes in with a text. She's sent me Tanner Law's number. Huh. She never told me she had his number. Emily sends a text that, when I open it, fills the screen with exclamation points. A Christmas-morning feeling washes over me.

I poke my head up to the front seat and hold my cell phone in front of me. “Which ringtone do you like better?” I ask Mom and Dad. The first one sounds like a dull flat line. The second is a silver jagged buzzer. The third one chirps red notes. The fourth one—

“Stop!” Mom laughs. “You're driving me crazy!”

Dad shifts the rearview mirror. “Plus, I don't want to work Libby up before her nap.”

Libby.

At home, Dad unpacks my laptop, but it's useless until the guy comes to hook up the Internet. I don't mind, though; there is so much to do on my phone. The phone asks me if I want to hook up to a network. I see my neighbor's last name and click on it. I have wi-fi! I click a picture of my cheery red maple, which, now that the new leaves are opening, should be called my chartreuse maple. I click Dad outside on a ladder against the garage, tying the bougainvillea to the trellis with special florist string he bought. I click myself in the mirror, then hold the phone away and up, and click another picture of myself. Then I review my photos. My nose slopes down into a bump; my eyes crinkle into slits. I delete both pictures.

I finger-comb my hair so it falls across one eye. Instead of a big fat smile like in the other pictures, I keep my lips together as if I've got a secret and I'm teasing the other person. Pulling my shoulders back, I hold one arm up, aim, and click.

The playback photo reveals a mysterious girl with dark eyes. It's me but it's not me. I love it. Immediately, I text it to Amanda and Emily to use as a contact picture.

By the time I'm called for supper, I've taken more than a hundred pictures, played a bunch of free games, and decided on my ringtones. I carry my phone down and lay it on the table beside my knife.

You could sharpen pencils on Mom's raised eyebrow.
I move the phone over to the island and take my place at the table.

“Can I open a Facebook account?”

“What's that?” Dad asks.

OMG! I would ROFL, but I'd probably get into trouble or hit a table leg. Instead, I stay in my seat and explain Facebook. Dad and Mom exchange I-don't-think-so glances. Before they can say anything, I point out the benefits—Emily's on Facebook, and probably lots of other people—but the word “no” radiates from their faces. “And some of my teachers have Facebook class pages.”

Something changes in Mom's expression.

Knowing I've hit on the right tactic, I press on. “I can use it to keep up with assignments and group projects.” Silence. I look from one parent to the other. “I wouldn't do anything wrong on it; I'd set my account to private.”

Dad says, “How do you know about all this?”

I shrug. I really don't know. It's like you absorb it from the atmosphere.

Sighing, Dad says, “We're willing to give it a try.”

“But be careful,” Mom says. “We'll be checking your computer.” Then a flood of don't do this and don't do that crashes over me. She drowns me in rules and batters me with regulations. The black hole of parental guidance tries to suck me into its vortex, but I hold on to my chair and keep my mouth closed until it's
over and finally the words subside, the table stops lurching, and Libby sticks a green bean in her mouth.

I take a deep breath. Mom sits up; Dad cocks his head. They stretch their spines forward, their bodies asking,
What do you have to say about all this?

I look at both of them and consider my answer. “Pass the potatoes, please.”

* * *

I've been in bed for only an hour and already I've got fifty-seven friends on Facebook. Amanda isn't allowed on Facebook, but Emily is and she becomes my first friend. Nikki Simms's posts are private. I visit other pages and websites but I keep coming back to Nikki's page. Are we friends? She says hi to me. She took me in the car with her. But she hasn't texted me back about my new phone; I don't know if I should bother her on Facebook.

I won't do it. Instead, I play a hangman game. I look at YouTube. I go back to Facebook.

I discover one of my teachers from Palm Middle. Her wall is private, too, but she left her pictures open. I go into an album called “Beach.” She wears a one-piece suit like my mom does. OMG—teachers don't wear bathing suits! They probably have rules against that. In another picture, two little kids bury her in the sand and she's smiling even though there's sand in her hair and on her face. Then she's raising her glass in a restaurant and laughing as if she's a regular person and not a teacher.
You'd think she has this whole other life outside of school. I can't wait to show Amanda.

I lurk through some other pages and finally go back to Nikki's. She was the second nice person to me at Magnolia. I tap into her photos. The “Neighborhood” album contains close-ups and strange angles of old buildings and houses. Some of the photos could be ads for jeans or skateboards, they're that good. She must walk around for hours, there are so many pictures.

I click into “Mobile Uploads.” The first one is a Magnolia girl, Alexis, I think. I swipe her picture off. Next is Jordan, Jordan and Nikki, Nikki and—ohmygosh—Nikki and me! “Riding around with Hailee,” reads the caption. Our hair whips in the wind and our eyes are brilliant. You can tell we're going fast because the only thing in focus is us.

We
are
friends.

I click the request. Then I type in every name I can think of and blast friend requests into cyberspace. Some of the people I hardly know, but I know
of
them and they must know
of
me, because they accept my friend request. I LOL at some of their posts, and I
like
some of their photos. As I read every story and every comment, I can't help but marvel at this new world I am now part of. It's a parallel universe. People are cooler here, and they look better, too. I upload the new mysterious photo of me as my profile picture.

Someone mentions an app that makes people look older. First, I try it on my own photo, but it doesn't work because my face is angled. I laugh at how it makes Libby bald and toothless. I apply it to Mom's photo. It lays equators across her forehead and creases her skin like a pie crust. It scalps her hair. I feel like I did when I forgot to water my African violets for a long time, and the leaves became crackly and brown. I stare at the fake photo of Mom, then press
delete.

Later, my phone vibrates in my hand. I startle under the covers, not knowing what time it is or how long I've been asleep. The screen casts a pale blue light in the tent of my sheet.

Nikki Simms:
Cool.

I scramble upright. Cool. What is cool? My sleepy mental notes can't remember. Then I realize she's replying to my text from today—yesterday, actually. It's 3:05 a.m. and Nikki Simms thinks it's cool I got a phone.

“OMG,” my brain texts to me.

My thumbs type a paragraph about shopping for the phone, but before I press
send,
I press
delete
because what I just wrote is boring. Then I write about riding in the car, but that was two days ago and old news. If I talk about history class, I'll sound like a dork.

I rock on my bed in the dark and think.

Think.

Think.

Think.

Me:
Nikki, this is my new phone. Just got it.
Nikki Simms:
Cool.

I bite the sides of my cheek, something I do only when locked in serious concentration. Finally, I come up with something to say back.

Me:
def

It seems just right. It matches her response. I send it, wait for a second, then put my phone on the nightstand. My clock reads 3:31 a.m. It has taken me twenty-seven minutes to type three letters. I hope she likes my reply.

The whole way to school the next morning, I check my messages. Lots of them, but not one from Nikki. I wonder if we are friends or not. Of course, this would be the morning a car accident holds us up. The red lights of an ambulance swirl while I click around on my phone.

I bounce my legs up and down. I bend to the left and then to the right of the headrest in front of me. “Can you go around?” I ask Mom. I've planned to accidentally run into Nikki to see if she got my request and my text.

“Nope, we're stuck.” Then her lips move silently in a whispered prayer for the people in the accident.

When we finally pull up to Magnolia, I have just enough time to get to my first class before the tardy bell rings. Emily panics when I hold my phone under the desk to show her my photos.

“Turn it off! Turn it off!” she whispers.

She keeps herself focused on Ms. Reilly, even when I nudge her and try to pass my phone over. I send her a quick e-mail, but she shakes her head and doesn't reply. My phone vibrates. I bend my head and scroll through my News Feed: a girl from Palm Middle is home sick today. She is eating chocolate ice cream and watching TV.

Ms. Reilly calls out my name. I jerk my head up. I click off my phone and slide it under my thigh. Ms. Reilly asks, “Do I have your attention?”

“Yes.” I hope she doesn't ask me what she's been saying.

She goes on with the lesson, and I hold my head in a way that looks like I'm listening. I wonder what TV show that girl is watching. My fingers itch to find out.

After class, Emily apologizes for not taking my phone. “I didn't want to get in trouble.”

I check my messages as we walk down the hall. Some are Facebook notifications and some are junk mail. None are from Nikki. When I finally see her in history class, I say, “I've been having trouble with my phone. Did you get my message last night?”

“Yeah, you were up late, too,” she says.

I don't know what to say next. “Okay, just checking.” I want to ask about the friend request, but I don't know how.

“Okay, dude.”

“Okay.” I stand by her chair until I realize she's waiting for more. “Okay,” I say again and shove off to my own desk.

Mrs. Fuller announces a pop quiz. Everyone groans until silenced by Mrs. Fuller's evil glare.

Nikki raises her hand. “Do I have to take the quiz?” she asks. “I was absent a couple of days last week.” She folds her hands on her lap, straightens her posture.

Mrs. Fuller turns flat eyes on her. If they were having a no-smiling contest, she'd win. “Miss Simms, this is a pop quiz. Your attendance, or lack of it, is not my problem.”

“But I wasn't here. Don't we get the same number of days to catch up? That would mean I have until tomorrow.” I can't see Nikki's face, but her voice is extra polite.

Pinched-faced Mrs. Fuller passes out the quizzes. Grabbing a marker, she writes on the dry-erase board, “N. Simms—Quiz Tues.” When the papers reach Nikki, she turns to pass them and catches my eye. She mouths “Ha!” and flashes a tiny thumbs-up, and then sits quietly while the rest of us are tested.

* * *

Emily moves in stop-animation across my laptop. We are video chatting as we work on our assignments. Emily splits the screen to show me what she's done on the yearbook so far. The eighth graders are the senior editors
and get to make all the decisions about page design and which candid photos to use. Sixth graders are called contributors. Emily is contributing a description of the Book Fair Family Night.