A Whole Lot of Lucky (18 page)

The bell rings. I grit my teeth.

Me:
I am a loser and a dork. Have fun without me.

I don't really write that, but I might as well have because Nikki will realize it sooner or later. My feet shuffle down the path, finding the way to my first class
while my mind dashes for the perfect words and phrases. My life at Magnolia hinges on what I say next.

Me:
Cool.

Okay, good start.

Me:
Cool. I might have a test today. Say hi to the swans for me.

When I press
send,
I feel like I've just lost something that I won't be able to get back.

* * *

This day is intolerable. The digital clock on our class monitors couldn't move any slower. It's like dog years times adult years, especially as I sit through the class Nikki's supposed to be in. I am the only one with a heartbeat as everyone else moves in slow motion. No one cares about the cavernous black hole that is Nikki's desk, but my eyes are drawn to it like paper clips to a magnet.

They're at Lake Eola. I'm the doofus at school. Honor roll, Library Club, perfect attendance, could I be any dorkier? Mom's to blame—she raised me to be this way.
Education is important. Be a good citizen. Honor thy father and thy mother.
God needs to make a commandment for parents:
Give thy kids a break.
I suffer through
history and my last class and only then do I feel a bit of relief because I spot Alexis back on campus to catch her bus home.

Their day at Lake Eola being over, my day of torture ends as well. All my suffering has worn me out, and I trudge like a mule with a heavy load to Library Club.

“Still tired?” Emily asks, referring to the excuse I gave her at lunch when I sat like the hunchback of Notre Dame and glowered at my milk carton.

I throw my backpack behind the return desk. I need to talk with someone about this. Clicking over to my messages, I hand my phone to her so she can read the entire order of events. One library cart is full of books ready to be reshelved. Tugging it out, I say, “I'll be right back.”

Dewey Decimal is a blanket on top of all your other thoughts. No matter what's bothering you, Dewey will take your mind off it. As I work my way down the stacks, I talk to myself inside my head.
Arc, Arc—Archer comes before Architect.
Sliding the books into the proper places gives me a sense of satisfaction. You can't help but feel that way when everything is in order.

When I tote the cart back, Emily is checking someone out. Mrs. Weston leans over the return desk looking at something. Squinting her eyes to focus on a phone left on the counter.
My
phone. I rush the cart closer. The display is lit up. The gray frame of my e-mail program is open.

Oh, my gosh. Oh, my gosh.

I whip the cart around the desk on two wheels and scarf up my phone. “Hi, Mrs. Weston.”

Her eyebrows knit in the middle, a point of concern. “Hailee, I just saw something on your phone that was not good.”

Emily blanches behind Mrs. Weston. Her eyes bug out. “It's my fault. I put the phone down when I had to check out the books.”

“I'm surprised with you girls.” She quotes from our handbook the oaths to report cheating, drug use, and other non-Magnolia behavior. “Hailee, may I please see your phone?”

I slide my fingertips across the screen, accidentally deleting the string of incriminating e-mails; at least it feels accidental when I do it. I'm horrified and relieved when the e-mails slurp into the little trash can. When I hand the phone over, my inbox is full of noncriminal activity.

“What happened? Did you just delete that message?” She flits up and down over my inbox.

I tremble like a Chihuahua. “I don't know! I don't know what I did!” And I don't. I mean, I know what I did, but I don't know how I did it—I had no out-loud thoughts of doing it.

Mrs. Weston says, “Girls, I'm going to have to report this to the office.”

“No!” I step closer to her. Suddenly I know the
exact meanings of “implore” and “beseech.” “Please don't. It's my fault.”

She waits for me to go on, so I do.

“I left my phone out. It's not Emily's fault or anyone else's. My phone should've been in my backpack. If I hadn't shown it to Emily, she wouldn't have put it down and you wouldn't have read it.” I'm throwing everything out there. “Plus, aren't those private? I'm sorry, but aren't e-mail messages private?” My lungs pump air fast. My hands feel clammy.

Mrs. Weston's face is full of reproach. “Hailee, I'm disappointed with you. Just saying you're sorry doesn't excuse what you've done. A true apology means owning up to the actions you're responsible for.” She rolls her head back as if seeking advice from above.

I hope he throws some down for me, too. I'm in a world of trouble, which would be okay if it were just me, but this is a chewed-up gum ball rolling in the grass picking up everything in its path. “Emily didn't know anything. I only now showed her.”

Sighing, Mrs. Weston glances back at Emily. Emily's nose and part of one eye show through sprigs of frightened hair. “Emily, please go to the second floor and straighten up the nonfiction.”

Emily mouths “Sorry” when Mrs. Weston isn't looking.

“Exactly what did that e-mail say?”

I can't believe I'm being interrogated. She can stick
me in a reading room, put the spotlight on me, and feed me only bread and water. I won't be the pigeon. I won't sing. Nobody's going to call me a snitch. Besides, she wants to know
exactly
what the e-mails said. God is my witness and so are you—I don't remember the
exact
words.

I shudder with a million sighs. “I don't know,” I say honestly.

Mrs. Weston lets out her own cool breath. “Hailee, I'm a pretty fair judge of character. I know you're a good girl, a conscientious student. Were you aware that you're supposed to report things like this?” She gestures with the phone before handing it back to me.

I shake my head. Mom read the manual on student conduct, not me.

She nods her head. A decision has been made.

“Are you going to call my parents?” Tears wet my eyes.

Taking a moment to consider my question, Mrs. Weston speaks with a softer voice. “I don't believe I need to. You know right from wrong.” She crouches and snags books out of the drop box. “And
you
didn't skip.”

Relief floods my body.

“But I'm going to have to report what I read.”

Volts of electricity slam from the top of my hair to the tips of my toes. My mind flashes with a bright light, a bright blank light. I am zombified.

My brain is a sluggish battery starting a car. A plan I
can't read yet forms in the back of my mind. My body obeys, strapping on my backpack, smoothing down my hair. I hear myself telling Mrs. Weston I just remembered my mom is picking me up early. I'm aware of Emily bending over the rail, her loopy masses hanging in spirals.

My feet know where they're going even if the back of my head hasn't told the front. I text Mom and tell her we're doing something special in Library Club today and that I'll text her when she has to pick me up. Mom doesn't like to text.
Takes too long,
she says, so the phone rings, and it's her telling me to have fun and be careful and all that kind of mom stuff.

I've seen these streets and houses flying by from the van windows, but everything is different on foot. For one thing: it's hotter. My toes itch with sweat from Magnolia socks and shoes. My backpack feels like a turtle hanging on. I unbutton the very top button of my shirt and tug at the already moist collar.

The roots of old grandpa oaks turn up the plates of the sidewalk. I walk through the peaks and valleys. Lizards scurry away from my feet. The April sun is doing its best to make this the most miserable walk I've ever taken. Cars pass me, bumping down the brick road. The last of the azaleas stretch their pale pink flowers through white picket fences like an offering. They brush me gently as I pass, but I can't stop for them because I'm on a mission.

The yellow house with white columns is even
bigger when you're standing on the sidewalk in front of it. The circular driveway is long enough to hold three or four limos, maybe five, but right now, not a single car is parked in it. Live oaks grace the side yard with their old and twisting branches, forming a leafy canopy and deep dark shade. Italian cypresses, erect as nutcracker soldiers, flank the huge wooden double front doors. Flower boxes hang from the second-story windows, spilling over with every color in the crayon box.

This is Nikki Simms's house.

I take measured steps across the drive, working up my courage, wondering what I'll say, how she'll react. Sweeping, polished steps take me to the door before I'm ready. Bracts of bougainvillea drape from a trellis in a large clay pot. The vines are tight, controlled, close-clipped. I wish Dad could see them. When I lean in to inspect, one of the vines pinches the pad of my thumb. I snatch my hand away, suck on the pain.

Raising my uninjured hand, I make a fist and rap on the door. The wood is so thick, I'm not sure my knock has made it through to the other side. I should leave right now. If Nikki gets in trouble, she wouldn't know I had anything to do with it. Why didn't I think this through? My heart beats double-time. I've got to get out of here, get back to the library. If I hurry, Emily will still be there, and I can slide in next to her and pretend none of this happened.

Relieved, I pirouette on the steps.

Then I hear locks being turned, a creak, and a whoosh.

“Hailee Richardson,” Nikki says. “What are you doing here?”

Nikki leans against the front doorway. A gust of cold air-conditioned air rolls out from the inside. Behind me are the empty driveway and street. Nikki asks, “Did you walk here?”

I swallow and nod. My skin steams inside my sweaty Magnolia blouse. I wore the shorts today, but since they go down to the tops of my knees, and the socks come up to the bottoms of my knees, it's not like the outfit lets you cool off.

A voice shouts from inside. “Shut the door!”

Nikki lowers her eyelids in response. “Come on,” she says and swings the door more open for me.

Usually, I have to ask before I go to a new person's house, but there's no way I'm going to be a Goody Two-shoes with Nikki waiting on me. Besides, I've always wondered what it would be like inside this place.

The tiled foyer holds a baby grand piano. I wonder if anyone plays it.

“Who's here?” Jordan's voice scrapes against the high ceilings from another room. “You're not supposed to let any of your little friends in.”

“Shut up,” Nikki responds.

I follow her over tile floors so pretty they put my mom's countertops to shame. Statues of women—one naked!—stand in arched niches throughout the hallway that takes us to the kitchen.

“Oh, my gosh!” I can't help it. “My mom would love this kitchen!”

Jordan's dark head whips around from the couch in the family room. “I
said
you're not allowed to have anyone over.”

I freeze. My last footstep echoes.

Jordan's words have no effect on Nikki. “Just watch your dumb vampire show, okay?”

Behind Jordan, pale teenagers live their lives on a huge flat-screen TV. A stone fireplace takes up another side, and the third wall is floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking gardens with cobblestone paths leading you deeper and deeper into the shade.
This
is how I thought
we
would live after winning the lottery.

Jordan puffs on a cigarette and gazes at me. “Chain gang.”

“Her name's Hailee.” Nikki pulls a frosty mug out
of the freezer, fills it with lemonade, and hands it to me. “Let's sit on the veranda.”

“No company in the house while Mom's gone.”

Nikki shoots her a look as we cut by the couch.

Jordan groans with irritation and whirls back into position in front of the vampires. She seems to forget us as she puts the cigarette to her lips and inhales.

Nikki flips her off.

My eyeballs sproing out of my head. I steal a glance at Jordan, who has seen nothing except really white-skinned girls brooding.

The veranda is a screened patio bigger than my living room and dining room put together. The patio furniture is set to overlook the gardens, and a stone path on the opposite side leads to a pool. Nikki motions for me to sit on a glider with her and I obey, glancing around to take it all in. The veranda is like the Garden of Eden. Braided ficus trees show off their teardrop leaves. Plumbago rambles over its pots, tumbling in soft blue cascades. A fountain murmurs with water so prettily, I could lie on this glider and listen to it all day and be happy.

“I love your house.” In the movie of my life, this will be my home.

Nikki taps out a cigarette from a pack lying on the wrought-iron cocktail table. Lighting it, she invites me to have one by holding hers out.

I shake my head.

She grins, takes a drag. “Sorry, I keep forgetting. So what's up?”

Holding my lemonade with both hands, I take three big gulps before I can speak. Then I tell her about showing the e-mails to Emily and how Emily had to check out books and that's when Mrs. Weston saw my phone and read the messages.

Shadows cross Nikki's face, like when vultures or fast-moving clouds block out the sun, and the earth flickers from light to darkness, causing squirrels and rabbits to hide from what could be a bald eagle plunging from the sky to break their necks and carry them off. Even a red-shouldered hawk can't fend off an eagle.

When I'm done, Nikki blows a thick stream of smoke straight into my face. I'm scared to turn away. I don't want to look afraid, but wispy fingers of smoke scratch my throat, and I gulp down more lemonade to stifle my urge to cough.