A Whole Lot of Lucky (21 page)

Dad grabs my phone, slips it into his pocket. “This is ridiculous. You spend more time on that thing than you do with real people.”

My jaw goes slack. “But, Dad—”

He stops me with his hand.

“Mom,” I plead. No use.

“I'm staging an intervention,” Dad says. He's trying to joke, but this isn't funny. I ask in a super polite way for the phone back. I wheedle and whine and use puppy-dog eyes, but Mom and Dad are firm—they'll give the phone back in the morning. For now, they say, enjoy the beach with us.

I'm as shuttered down as the dark Daytona Beach pier.

* * *

The sun is a yellow scoop of sherbet rising over the morning waves. I wake up with it. Below, towels lay out on lounge chairs around the pool, saving places for people who probably went back to bed after sticking their towels out there.

A family swims in the pool, but the water for the twirly slide isn't on yet. Going down would be a butt scraper. Plus, I'd be afraid of a security guard coming out if I even tried. Joggers, just a few of them, lope across the beach, but it's otherwise more or less empty.

I turn from the windows and sigh.

Do I dare get my phone from Mom and Dad's room? Libby won't wake up, and Dad—he's snoring like a bear. His low, deep snorting and gurgling rumbles through the walls and into the living room. If Mom can sleep through that, she can sleep through anything.

Padding up to their door, I roll my feet, cracking any bone that needs it because I sure don't want anything cracking in their room. Grabbing the door handle, I turn it s-l-o-w-l-y, then creep in. My phone sits on Dad's nightstand.

I tiptoe around the bed, trying hard not to giggle at Dad's thunderous rumbles, then pick up my phone.

Nikki Simms:
Then we had a little “visit” with Novey this morning. They talked about my grades, my absences, and my “attitude.” Your little friend Emily has a big mouth.

No, she doesn't! She didn't even say anything.

The rest of Nikki's texts are more of the same, each one more bitterly blaming Emily, calling her words I would never use, and cursing her own parents.

I have no idea how to respond. Just then, Dad snorts, startling himself and waking up Mom, who narrows her eyes at me. I'm standing right there with the phone in my hand.

Mom is fully awake, pointing her hands and jerking her head as she lectures me about obedience and manners. Libby wakes up and thinks
Everyone's here!
and shouts her Libby Language while prancing around in the crib. I begin to argue with Mom, and the room fills with a mishmash of accusations and interruptions until Dad slams his hands down on the bed and says, “Enough! Gimme that.” Never have I seen Dad's mouth so angry. “I'm sick of this phone. You obviously can't discipline yourself with it, so I will—you're grounded from your phone for two weeks.”

My face morphs with horror. I open my mouth but he cuts me off.

“And your laptop is just for schoolwork.”

I stew on the couch while they stir in the room. Bathing suits are snapped on, breakfast is made, lotion is applied. Mom and Dad are in good moods, holding hands and laughing at Libby and her moonwalk on the sand.

Nobody but me notices that the castle walls we erected yesterday have been eroded by the tides and all that's left is a shapeless glob of wet sand.

I am miserable with my own company and my sunburnt shoulders when we get home Sunday night. Daytona Beach gave Dad and Libby caramel-colored skin. Mom is as white as ever, having spent most of her time under the umbrella or SPF 70 sunblock. If she had climbed to the roof of the hotel, moonlight would've reflected off her and guided ships and boats to safety.

Before I go to bed, Mom rubs aloe vera onto my back, soothing the burn I feel on the outside but not the botheration roiling on the inside. (And if you don't think botheration is a real word, go ahead and look it up.) My pajamas sandpaper against my skin and I'm in a foul mood when I wake up for school Monday morning. Did Nikki send me more texts? Did Emily practice her flute? Did that one girl whose name I can't remember study for the algebra test she was so worried about?
I don't know the answer to any of these questions because I'm grounded from my phone.

When I swish into my seat first period, Emily smiles her little smile. Well, sure, of course she would. Everything is normal for her; her phone didn't bubble over with molten trouble this weekend. She's so lucky. I sprinted across campus clutching my backpack as if it were a blankie or a shield, but Emily DeCamp is walking around without a care in this world.

“Do you even know what happened after you showed Mrs. Weston my phone last week?” I blurt, interrupting her good mood talk about writing photo captions for the yearbook.

For once, her hair isn't blocking her face, but something seems to shut down around her and divide us. She says, “I didn't show her your phone—that was an accident. You know; you were there.”

“Whatever.” A slice of hurt cuts through Emily's gaze, but I dismiss it. “Nikki got in big trouble and it wouldn't have happened if Mrs. Weston didn't see my e-mail.”

“It wouldn't have happened if Nikki hadn't skipped.”

“It's not like she hurt anyone or committed a crime.”

“Truancy is a crime, punishable by juvenile court.” Emily speaks like a brainwashed citizen.

“Juvie! If you knew that, why did you leave my messages open? Why didn't you give my phone back? I
had the rottenest weekend and now I'm grounded from my phone for
two weeks
and I'm only allowed to do schoolwork on my laptop.”

“Girls.” Ms. Reilly appears between us. I'd been so focused on getting across the seriousness of what happened to Nikki, I didn't notice what was happening right around me. “I'm teaching. You're talking. Since I'm not going to stop, you're going to have to. Jacob?” She waggles her fingers at him. “Trade places with Hailee.”

Stunned, I don't move.

Ms. Reilly raps my desk. “Now.”

Emily and I sit in separate hemispheres.

At lunch, Emily focuses on her food. Cyndi sits next to her. Yeah, that's right—I called her Cyndi. Emily does a pretty good job of pretending I'm invisible. I think she's mad at me for being mad at her. I gobble down my peanut butter and marshmallow sandwich and tell them I have to go; I can't think of a good excuse, so I just hurry up, get out of there, and go to the library.
Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs
describes my mood exactly.

People all the time browse through the books, pull one out, then decide they're not interested in it. You'd think they'd put the book back where they got it, right? I mean, the empty space is right there like a missing baby tooth. But no, they just stick the book anywhere, or they leave it sitting, unfiled. It's a good thing I stopped by.

I'm putting books into their
proper
places when Nikki meanders into the library, spots me, and makes a beeline for my location.

“I've been looking for you all day,” she says.

Usually, people wait until
after
school to beat other people up.

“Did you get my texts?” she asks. Before I can answer, she melts like butter onto a seat. “Did you read my last one?” I shake my head. She goes, “I asked you to delete all the texts I sent you about Emily. I don't want anyone else reading them, okay?”

The stress of the whole weekend drains from me like dirty bathwater. My bones go as soft as the taffy I saw being pulled in a storefront on Daytona Beach. Nikki Simms is still talking to me and she wants to forget the whole thing. If Dad hadn't taken away my phone, I would've read Nikki's last message. I would've been able to enjoy Daytona Beach.

Relief pulls out a chair for me, and I drop into it beside Nikki. “You wouldn't believe what my dad did,” I say and then tell her the whole story of him staging a cell-phone intervention and grounding me from the phone and my laptop (because being able to do schoolwork on it doesn't count as being able to actually use it).

“So Emily got us both in trouble. That sucks.” Blue eyes glitter under narrowed lids. “That really sucks.
Anyway, forget about her. Alexis and I were talking about having a sleepover, but she can't do it at her house because her parents are going out, and I can't do it at my house because Jordan's having friends over, so I thought we could do it at your house. Do you want to?”

Does the library have books? Is the ocean salty? Does Mickey Mouse have two big ears? “Yes!” I say. Then I think of Nikki's white pillared house with its marble floors and whispering garden fountain. My house is a shack compared to hers. Shame and embarrassment tumble out of my mouth. “My house isn't very nice.” I feel disloyal, but it's true. “We need new furniture—some of it's kind of old.” Because it's from garage sales. “My mom hasn't really had time to decorate because of Libby.” Blame it on Libby.

“Don't worry about it,” Nikki says. She means it. “Will your mom say yes?”

I adopt her cool demeanor. “Definitely.”

“Excellent.” She eyes the nearby bookcase that houses Staff Selections. Her eyes flick to the display; then she reaches over and touches
The Outsiders
—my pick. “Cool. I've read this book.”

Sleepover and
The Outsiders
—can this day get any better? I don't think so. I wish I could post about this on Facebook.

Later, when I see Nikki in history class, she says hi
first. As I wade through the desks to my seat, it dawns on me that other girls pull their feet in as I pass. They've been doing that in other classes, too, and in the hallway. One girl picks up her messenger bag and glances at me like a dog wanting to be petted.

Rainbows radiate in the classroom and I swear I hear angels sing. I have reached the inner circle. I am a sidekick—
Nikki's
sidekick. That means I get some of the benefits of being popular, like people moving for me, smiling at me, and probably even talking about me, like,
Hey, you should read
The Outsiders—
Hailee Richardson picked it out.

Remember when I said this day couldn't get any better? Boy, I was wrong!

After she calls roll, Mrs. Fuller talks about the upcoming field trip to St. Augustine. I try to concentrate, but my mind races with sleepover anticipation. Mrs. Fuller tells us to write down what she's saying because paper and pencil never forget.

Good point. Clicking my mechanical pencil, I start my notes.

SLEEPOVER!

Food:
Root beer, potato chips, popcorn, nachos, chocolate ice cream. For breakfast, doughnuts.
Games
: Light as a Feather, scavenger hunt, penny pitch, Bloody Mary.
Movies:

Mom and Dad only let me watch PG movies. Too embarrassing. I cross out movies. I'm not sure about the games, either, but I leave them for now.

* * *

Mom and Dad say yes to the sleepover and all the stuff on my list. I thought they'd say no way, but Dad said it's about time I started hanging around with people instead of my phone.

The school week drags along with a ball and chain attached to each day. Emily has civics instead of history, so she doesn't get to go on the field trip. I don't mention the sleepover to her, which makes me feel bad because I had a good time at hers, but Emily wouldn't mix well with Nikki or Alexis. Especially not now.

Neither would Amanda. Nikki is smooth and cool like an outlaw, and Amanda's completing good deeds for the Compass Club. It's kind of embarrassing.

Tuesday afternoon, Amanda calls on the house phone. I take it into my room and sit on the floor. She asks, “What's wrong with your cell?”

“Nothing,” I say, then explain the hard, long story of my chastisement.

“Oh.” She's probably pouting on my behalf. “Well, you
are
kind of always on your phone.”

What? She's supposed to be on my side. “Amanda, you don't have a smart phone and you're not on Facebook. If you were, you'd understand.”

“Well, I don't need a smart phone to understand when someone's being rude.”

“Neither do I, Miss I-Can't-Take-My-Eyes-Off-Tanner-Law. Were you even going to tell me he was your boyfriend?” I cross my arms. She can't see me, but I send indignant waves through the phone line.

“It just happened! I swear, that was the first time he'd been to my house.”

“What about Compass Club?
I
was supposed to help you with that.”

“Like you helped me before? You abandoned me.” Icicles hang from each of her words. “Tanner
wants
to help. He's not going to take off just because someone pulls up in a convertible.”

Well! “You said you wished you'd come!” I'm like an elephant—I remember everything.

“That doesn't matter. You dumped me!”

“I was gone only a few minutes!”

“You would've done whatever Nikki asked, just like giving her the quiz answers. She's got you wrapped around her finger.”

My mouth opens in silent protest. “That's not true. You don't like her because she's cool and pretty.”

Pause.

Amanda says, “You know what? You think you're all that now. You act like you're so important with your phone and your Facebook. No one cares that you won the lottery; no one even talks about it anymore. You're
just the same old Hailee—or, no, no—I
wish
you were the same old Hailee because then you wouldn't be so stuck-up.”

“Well, just so you know, I don't care what happens at Palm Middle. I love Magnolia. And I'm glad I'm not the old Hailee because the old Hailee would care about what you just said and I don't.”

I go on. “Oh, and guess what? I'm having a sleepover and you're not invited because
you're not a Magnolia girl.”