A Whole Lot of Lucky (15 page)

Reading her words, I feel as though I am there, the buttery smell of popcorn pulling me through the crowd. I hear the little kids shriek as they jump in the inflatables. Neon purple and fluorescent green lightsticks dangle from necklaces.

“This is good,” I say to her face on my screen. Video chatting is weird because you're looking at the other person and they're looking at you, but neither one of you glances up at the camera, so you never actually make eye contact.

“Really?” She rereads the words, then I watch as whole phrases are sucked into the screen, replaced with new words that pop in one letter at a time. “What about that?” Emily asks. “Does that sound better?”

Both ways sound good to me. My phone chirps—text message.

Nikki Simms:
Hey.

“Nikki Simms is texting me.” I hold the phone up to the camera.

Emily's eyes widen behind her glasses. “What does she want?”

“I don't know.” But I am thrilled.

Me:
Hey.

Hardly a second passes and I get another text from her.

Nikki Simms:
Can you believe Fuller today?
She's a royal pain in the—

“Oh, my gosh!” I blurt. Nikki has spelled the word properly, in all its swearing glory.

Emily pipes up from the other side. “What does it say?” Enlarging the text with my fingers, I turn the display so Emily can read it for herself. She giggles on the last word. Neither of us says the curse out loud, but even reading it silently feels daring. Emily wants to know what happened with Mrs. Fuller, and I tell her about the pop quiz and how Nikki should have been allowed more time.

Emily doesn't agree. “Pop quizzes are different,” she says. “That's why they're
pop
quizzes.”

“But you can't be quizzed on stuff you weren't even in class for. It's not fair.”

The digital version of Emily freezes in a shrug while her voice goes, “What are you going to say back?”

I can't top that swear word, but I want to show Nikki that I'm on her side.

Me:
Royal!

Emily is still frozen. I could examine every single pixel on her face and she'd never even know. I jump when my phone sounds off again.

Nikki Simms:
Fuller's evil. All I've done since I got home is work on assignments for her class. It's taking sooooo long. Would you send me the quiz questions? I need to get an A, but I don't have time to study because I've also got a paper due in a different class.

The corners of my mouth drop. I hold the phone up to the computer camera.

“She wants you to cheat!” Emily unfreezes. She's moved in so close to read Nikki's text, all that shows is the top of her head. Coils of her hair spring up against the camera.

I pull my phone away and reread the text. I am aware of Emily moving around on her side of the screen, but I'm more aware of Nikki on the other end of the phone, waiting for my answer.

Emily goes, “Tell her you can't.” As if it were that simple.

Reviewing my mental notes, I pull up the video of Mrs. Fuller bragging about flying to Rome, and you know that's exactly what she was doing. That's why it was funny when Nikki said,
I believe the Pantheon is to your left.
Whenever Nikki talks to her, Mrs. Fuller wears
a sour expression, like she's tasting something she does not like and never will.

“It's only ten questions,” I say out loud.

Emily shakes her head.

“She doesn't have time—”

“No!”

“But she's got other homework!”

“I wouldn't do it,” Emily says, all judge, jury, and secret witnesslike. Boingy-boing ropes of hair doodle in front of her face.

Nikki Simms: ?

Emily is frozen on my screen again. Her voice cuts up in dashes and dots. None of her words make it through.

Would it hurt to help Nikki? No one would even know.

“If you're still there,” I say to frozen Emily, “I have to log off.”

I pick up my phone.

I bet you want to know what I did next.

I called Amanda, who's on her first day of spring break. All she did today was nothing, which is always better than going to school. Thanks to Mom and Dad, I don't get a spring break this year. Magnolia had theirs before I started and Palm Middle is just now having theirs. As usual, I get the short end of the stick.

“How about I come over?” Amanda asks. She was so bored today that she cleaned her room for something to do.

I whisk her upstairs as soon as she gets here. She smells like coconuts and sweat. “Did you lay out today?”

She inspects her arms and asks, “Do I look darker?”

Of course she does. My freckles are jealous.

We sit on the floor. Outside the window, my maple catches most of the sun in its spread-out leaves, flickering
patterns of sunlight on my rug. Our backs against my bed, I scroll to the texts between Nikki and me and hand my phone to Amanda.

“You shouldn't give her the quiz questions,” Amanda says. Even after I describe Nikki's side of it, Amanda doesn't change her mind. “It's cheating.”

“But I'm not trying to cheat; I'm trying to help. She's got all that other stuff to do at the same time. Plus, Mrs. Fuller doesn't like her.”

Amanda shrugs as if that doesn't matter.

I'm offended on Nikki's behalf. “Mrs. Fuller is a windbag.” I tell Amanda about the Pantheon and Mrs. Fuller's sour face every time she talks to Nikki.

Rrring!
Amanda startles at the sound of my laptop's alert.

“It's Emily!” I shriek and pull the laptop from the top of my dresser. “Hi, Emily! Amanda's here.”

Amanda leans way over and sees herself in the little square that shows you what the camera is seeing. “Oh, my gosh! This is so cool. Is this video chatting?”

Embarrassment melts my face. “Sorry,” I say to Emily. “Amanda's not allowed to Skype.”

Amanda scrunches her mouth and asks, “What did you tell her that for?” at the same time Emily says, “I can call back if you're busy.”

I press
mute,
hold a finger up to Emily, and say to Amanda, “How about I call Emily back?”

“Why?” Amanda asks. Her voice sounds like crossed
arms. “She's
my
neighbor, too. Or do you have something
private
to talk about?”

“No!” Yes! Private
school
stuff. If only Amanda's parents could send her to Magnolia. We could join the same sports, and I'd go over to Amanda's house every day so Matthew could coach us, even though he's never played lacrosse, but I bet he's good at it.

Emily texts in the chat box: I will call back later.

“Look!” Amanda gestures toward the screen. “You're being rude!”

I gasp at Digital Emily and scramble to click the sound back on. “Sorry!” I say for the second time. I guess the three of us are going to talk now, because I can't ask either one of them to leave—someone's feelings would be hurt.

“So,” I say, “did you practice your flute?” I'm asking to be polite, but also because I don't know what else to say, since I'm friends with Amanda, and I'm friends with Emily, but I've never been friends with Amanda and Emily.

Amanda leans so close to the laptop, I bet Emily is counting her pores. “Can you play something?” Amanda asks. Gently, I push her back so we can both see the monitor. Amanda peers at the little video of herself and fixes her hair.

Emily's mouth says, “I don't know,” but her eyes say,
Yes, yes! Please ask me again.

I want Amanda to hear how good Emily is. “Play something—something we know!”

We watch as Emily moves away from the screen, pulls out a case, screws her flute together, and returns. I do believe I see a little sparkle behind her glasses. She says, “Do you know Vivaldi?”

“ViBaldy?” Oh, good one!

Amanda elbows me.

“No,” Emily says, not getting it. She pronounces the name slowly, in an overly exaggerated manner, her top teeth setting on top of her bottom lip to show me the vee sound. “Vi
-v
aldi,” she says.

I move my features into confusion. “Vi
Salty
?”

Emily shakes her head. “Vi—”

Amanda pushes in front of me. “Hailee's trying to be funny. I don't think we know that group.”

“Vivaldi was a composer,” Emily says, but she says it nicely.

I whisper to Amanda, “A composer, not a band.” “Well, you didn't know either!”

“But
I
didn't say anything!”

A couple of flute notes trill from the laptop. The song is so familiar; it's … it's—

“Star Trek!”
Amanda yells.

I was just about to say that.

Emily's fingers move like centipede legs over the keys, making spaceships zoom through my head. The
flute has an actual voice—not Emily's; it's a flute, not a kazoo—clear and pure at times, and wiggly like a singer at others. It's amazing, really. When she's done, she lowers her flute and her eyes.

“Wow,” I say. If Emily went on one of those TV talent shows, she'd win.

“You play so well!” Amanda says.

Emily murmurs her thanks and brings the flute to a whisper before her mouth. The silvery sounds of wind and waterfalls cascade from the instrument. I am in a forest, the mist rising, and goldfinches calling from the treetops. It is beautiful.

When she finishes the melody, I clap and Amanda joins me.

“How do you make that little hole with your mouth?” I ask. “Do you whistle into the flute? How long have you been playing?”

Emily unscrews the flute. “Three years.”

Amanda and I say all sorts of nice things about Emily's flute playing. Emily angles her head slightly aside and down, as if she can't face the compliments straight on.

Changing the topic, Emily says, “Did you text that one person back?”

“You mean Nikki?” Amanda yells at my monitor, examining her own face from side to side.

Emily pops when she realizes Amanda knows what she's talking about. She goggles from behind her lenses. Emily asks Amanda, “Did she tell you?”

She.
She!
Like I'm outside the circle, which is wrong, because I am the center of it. “Yes, I told her,” I say, even though the question wasn't directed at me. “She—”

Amanda butts in. “I don't think she should do it.”

“I don't, either,” agrees Emily.

They hardly know each other and they're ganging up on me.

“It's just a quiz.” I stick up for myself.

“It's cheating!” they say in unison, then they laugh together.

My fingertips fidget on the edges of the touch pad.

For one thing, neither of them is in Fuller's class; they don't see how she acts toward Nikki. Also, and I can hardly blame Emily for this because she's been brainwashed by Magnolia, but Amanda should know how unfair teachers can be. You saw how I was practically expelled from school for helping Amanda out of a crack just so she wouldn't get laughed at. Sometimes you have what happened, and then you have what
really
happened right behind it.

Emily's voice crackles. Her head tilts up. Her eyes are shy but hopeful. “I'm having a sleepover this Friday,” she says. “Do you want to come? You can come, too, Amanda.” Then she freezes.

I tap the keyboard. “Are you still there?”

“No, I'm not here.”

Her voice is so deadpan, I don't get it for a second, but Amanda laughs immediately.

We agree to ask our moms, and even though I can't see her, I know Emily's got that surprised little smile on her face like she did when I first said I would have lunch with her.

“I always thought she was stuck-up,” Amanda says after I log off, “but she's actually nice.”

“I just thought she was weird, never coming outside or anything.” It's true; in all the years I can remember, I've never seen Emily playing outside. From tricycle to bicycle—no Emily. No tag, no chalk drawing, no skating. I wonder why. “But she
is
nice.”

“And funny,” Amanda adds.

“Yeah,” I say. Not to brag or anything, but I'm pretty funny, too. For instance:

Man: The dog ran away.

Lady: Doggone it.

See how quickly I made that joke up? That's how funny I am. Sometimes even your own best friend can take you for granted.

Amanda and I go downstairs, where Mom is folding clothes and Libby is working hard at unfolding them.

Amanda swoops Libby off her feet. “Happy Hannah Hearts!” She picks up the doll and makes it talk to my baby sister. “Hi, Libby!” Then she pushes Hannah into Libby's belly, making her giggle.

Mom watches them and smiles. “Amanda, would you like to babysit this Thursday?”

“Babysit? Sure,” she says at the same time I ask where Mom's going.

Mom runs her hand down a towel before folding it in neat little squares. “Just errands. Maybe you could get one practice diaper change in before you girls do something else?” Mom brightens her eyes and aims a smile at us.

I groan, but Amanda hitches Libby on her hip. Well, it's fun to do stuff when it's not your regular chore
and
you're getting paid for it. I never get paid to watch Libby. I make a mental note to add
nanny
to my list of Things I Need because neither Dad nor Mom is going to come up with it.

Amanda's all excited about babysitting when she gets up on her still shiny pink bike and rides home. March flutters by me in windy scarves scented with magnolia. The beads on the crape myrtle rattle to each other, stirred by the breeze. A little chill ripples up my arm as cottony, purple-blue clouds mushroom across the sky. I head in, grab my phone, and rush upstairs.

Me:
I forget some of them, but here are the quiz questions I remember.