A Whole Lot of Lucky (24 page)

The guide explains how the Spanish fought from the fort only when threatened, but later the British captured it and had to live inside its walls. Other girls press against the wooden rails to get a closer glimpse of the British quarters, but I move like a robot with no arms.

Mrs. Grant whispers, “I think it's okay if you relax. She didn't want you touching the walls because if
everyone who comes here touches them, we'd wear it down.”

I like walking like an alien.

We trump up the stairs, hugging the side because another tour group is coming down at the same time. It's even gustier up here. Mrs. Grant tries to hold her hairstyle in place with her hands, but I let my hair whip across my face. Cannons, real cannons, aim through cutout areas, ready to blast the enemy. The rocky, uneven wall barely comes up to my waist. I peer over the edge and wonder if the blue-green river was this pretty hundreds of years ago.

Pulling strands of hair out of my mouth, I turn around and spot Nikki sneaking down the stairs. Alexis leans against the cannons on the middle of the roof, turned green by the sea air.

“What a beautiful background,” Mrs. Grant says. “Girls, line up by the edge and let me take your picture.” She turns around and calls to Nikki in a way that tells me she somehow sensed Nikki slipping away. “Come back, we're going to take a picture.”

Nikki gives Mrs. Grant an exaggerated grimace and asks, “Do you mind if I run to the bathroom? I'll be right back.”

Mrs. Grant thinks it's a great idea. “Let's all go,” she says. “But first let's take this picture.”

Nikki frowns. When she sees me looking, she pantomimes smoking a cigarette. I glance away quickly.

The sun broils my freckles and makes my shirt damp. After we use the bathroom, Mrs. Grant sprays Gia and me with sunblock. “Because you're so fair,” she says.

Alexis sniggers.

After the fort, we walk to some of the small museums, then eat our lunches on a bench where I fry like a tomato. I'm as crisp as bacon and greasy from sunblock. Miserable.

Mrs. Grant checks her phone. “Oh! We have to be back on the bus in a little while. What do you girls want to do—hit the shops or visit the Oldest Wooden Schoolhouse?”

“Shop!” we all shout.

I am excited about the shopping. Never before have I been given money for anything besides food on field trips. But I'm loaded today. Who knows what I will buy? The sky's the limit.

Consulting the map, Mrs. Grant leads us to the shopping district. Fudge shops, candy stores, and ice cream parlors are too many to count. One shop is fashioned like a jewelry counter with different types of fudge filling the display cases: peanut butter, chocolate, coffee, maple, butterscotch, praline, vanilla, vanilla butternut, and more.

Everyone in our group buys fudge except for me. I can get chocolate any old time—I'm saving my money for something special. Near the fudge shop is a store with tie-dyed T-shirts hanging in the window. Nikki
insists she will die if we don't go in. She and Alexis come out wearing dangling feather earrings.

Cotton candy, caramel corn, lattes—the other girls spend money as if they have ATMs in their backpacks. I watch them pay a ridiculous amount for strawberry lemonade as I sip from the bottled water I bought a couple stores ago. Mrs. Grant isn't any better. Bags and bags loop over her arms.

Finally, we stop in a boutique that has things I like. Barrels of gag gifts like black glasses with big noses and mustaches sit by the front door. I put one on. “Gia,” I say.

Alexis scrunches her nose. “That's disgusting. You're probably breathing in someone else's mucus.”

Mucus. So gross. I whip the glasses off and toss them in the barrel. Alexis looks at me as if I'm one giant snot.

“Where's Nikki?” Mrs. Grant says, glancing around from the postcard stand. Looking straight at Alexis,

“Where is Nikki?”

Alexis makes big doe eyes. “I don't know,” she says. “I'm sure she'll be right back, wherever she is.”

Mrs. Grant scans the shop. “Gia?”

Gia puts down a wooden flute. “I don't know, Mom.”

“Stay here, girls.” Mrs. Grant makes a sweep through the store, then steps outside.

I look at Alexis as she watches out the window. Her
fake innocent eyes didn't fool me—she knows exactly what's going on. Then she suddenly pretends to be interested in the plastic snakes in front of her.

Glancing out of the window, I see Mrs. Grant walking with Nikki from behind the shop. Smoke curls from Mrs. Grant's hands. It takes me a second to realize she's caught Nikki in the act of smoking. I'm stunned. I can't look anywhere else. Mrs. Grant grinds out the cigarette in a potted plant and grabs Nikki by the elbow as they duck into the open doorway.

“Gia?” she commands. “You girls have ten more minutes to shop. Mrs. Fuller's waiting for Nikki and I'm escorting her to the drop-off. Just meet me there, okay?” She sounds like my mom on her worst day.

Nikki closes her eyes and sighs, like this is just one more thing on a very long and hard list.

Alexis says to Gia, “Is your mom always like that?”

Gia huffs, dismissing her own mother in one derisive snort.

I feel bad for Nikki, but at the same time, she shouldn't have been smoking. She should never be smoking. She should never be skipping; she should never be swearing; and she should never, ever ride in the backseats of cars driven by reckless boys she doesn't even know.

I close my eyes and sigh, too. I hope things turn out for her, but I have a feeling they won't.

Since this is probably the last store we'll visit, I decide
to concentrate on finding something good here. None of the St. Augustine mugs appeal to me, and neither do the silk-screened T-shirts. I pick up a rubbery clear ball that has a lighthouse inside. It bounces pretty well. I bounce it a few times, then catch it, and drop it back where I found it. I can collect my own shells, so I pass by entire shelves of them.

“Hey,” Alexis says. “You got any money left?”

Trouble,
a little voice in my head says. Alarms light up in nerves up and down my arms. “Well … yeah.”

“Gimme some. I want to buy that hat.”

“No!” I gulp. I feel like I used to every morning in the bicycle pen at Palm Middle. “I'm looking for something for someone.”

“I know you've got at least two twenties. I saw them in your backpack when you got your lunch out.”

I shake my head. My heart pings against my chest. I back off, but she closes in on me. Grown-ups are never around when you need them.

“Stop,” I say. “Leave me alone.”

She sneers. “Or what?”

“Or …” I gasp for air. “Or …” Then I take one huge balloon breath and let it slowly deflate from every single cell in my body. I am so tired of mean girls. “Leave me alone,” I say, “or I will
finish
you.” I tremble with rage and shake my jowls like the baseball coach. “I will SHUT YOU DOWN!”

“You little—” She jerks my arm.

I kick her in the shin. She yelps like a dog, crouches, then limps toward me.

I kick her in the other shin. Harder.

When she looks up, her eyes fill with angry tears. “You're so pathetic.”

Pathetic feels pretty good as I watch her hobble away from me. My heart is still racing, but it feels strong. My toes hurt only a little bit; good thing they told us to wear sneakers for this field trip.
I will shut you down. Jerk. Kick.
Oh, my gosh! Wait till Amanda hears about this!

Then I remember my last words to her.

From the far corner near the door, Alexis complains to Gia so loudly, I can't help but hear her. She's talking about me, and you know what? I don't even care. I move deeper into the store and farther away from them.

The jewelry sparkles for my attention. Thin slivers of shiny beach shells, iridescent in creams and pinks, hang from leather chains. Turquoise rings remind me of the river I'd seen earlier. Then I spot a tiny compass on a golden rope necklace. Catching it in my hand, I move it in different directions. The hand inside spins.

This is perfect.

I'm so happy when the cashier hands me my bag. I turn around for Alexis and Gia, but they're not there. I coast between the shelves. “Alexis? Gia?” I call out. “Alexis?”

“Alexis!” I wait. “Alexis!”

I run out of the store and look left and right. I don't
see anyone I know. I don't see any blue Magnolia uniforms. I don't know which way we came from.

“Alexis!” I shout. My heart pounds like a bass drum. Panic tightens my skin. Left or right, left or right? It all looks the same to me.

I'm lost.

I pound the streets. I avoid all eye contact with strangers. My heart is racing and so are my feet. People mill around slow as turtles.
Get out of my way!
I have to find my bus. The shops and their wares look familiar and the same as each other. Rows of small buildings line both sides of the narrow streets. I break into a run.

Never talk to strangers. Don't look like a tourist. Act like you know where you're going.

A guy wearing sagging jeans and an open plaid shirt jogs alongside me. I cast a furtive look at him—unshaven, tan, and creased like old leather. My heart skips a frightened beat when his mouth slithers into a smile. “Where you in such a hurry to?”

I bolt from him. Run blind through alleys. Cross streets without looking. A car screeches to a stop, blares its horn at me. I run and I run and I run. My pulse
shoots through my limbs. My hands feel swollen; my tongue is thick. Black dots dance across my vision and a rush of light-headedness overwhelms me to the point that I stumble up a curb, lean against a wall, and slide down.

Tremors quake inside me and burst through in shivers and shakes. I draw my knees up, wrap my arms around them, and burst into tears. I can't stop trembling.

“Excuse me—”

I look up. My face is wet. My skin is hot. “NO!” I growl.

A lady, a grandma lady. Taken aback as if I bit her.

I roll to my feet and though I back away, I bare my teeth. The hair on the back of my neck rises. I lower my head and sway, watching her, checking her movements.

She speaks gently. “I'm not going to hurt you. Are you okay? Do you need help?” Her face matches her voice, kind and concerned.

Keeping her at bay, I glance around. I don't recognize anything. The bus has left without me; this I know. Over and over this morning, they warned us to be on time or be left behind. A lump forms like a rock in my throat. I swallow and swallow again.

She takes a step forward.

“No!” I crouch into a defensive position. My mind races in total blankness. Tears dribble from my eyes. I can't stop swallowing.

“Okay,” she says. She smells like chocolate chip cookies. Talking slowly and quietly, she says, “I'm going inside and I'll bring you something to drink, okay? Just stay right there.”

My mouth quivers uncontrollably. I press my hands to my face.

The door cranks open. “I didn't know what you liked, so I grabbed a bottled water.” I don't answer.

She sets it down beside me and backs up.

“My name is Sylvia Stiles. I have three grown children and seven grandchildren, two of them girls. One is in fifth grade.” She pauses—my cue to say something, but I don't.

“You'd like her. Her name's Molly. What's yours?”

I open the bottled water and chug it down so fast, I'm breathless when I stop. “I'm not supposed to talk to strangers.” My voice comes out garbled. I swipe at my eyes. I could run past her if I needed to. She's old. She couldn't catch me.

Sylvia Stiles bites her lip. Her gray hair is longer than most old ladies wear it, and a braid hides under one side. “That's a good rule. Molly's mother has the same rule for her. But if Molly were lost, I hope someone nice would take a chance and help her.”

She takes one careful step forward. Then another.

I crumple into tears.

My throat is clogged and Mrs. Stiles can't understand what I'm saying. I let her lead me through her knick-knack shop to a cozy little room with a wicker love seat and a rocking chair. Her hands flutter around me, unsure of themselves, and then she decides it's okay to hug me and it's just what I need. The floodgates open. I cry about missing the bus. I cry about Amanda. I cry about being lost. I picture Mom and Dad—their faces when they realize I'm missing—and I cry even harder.

Mrs. Stiles rocks me and talks about Molly. After a while, I find myself listening and my tears slow down to a trickle. I sniff up my blubbery snot and my body shudders with the relief of draining a thousand tears.

“Well,” Mrs. Stiles says. “I'll bet people are wondering where you are.”

I slobbily nod.

Mrs. Stiles lifts a phone from the side table. It's the old-fashioned kind with a cord. She picks up the handset, then replaces it. “I guess I should know your name!”

My mouth is sticky from crying. “Hailee Richardson.”

“That's so pretty,” she says. Her blue eyes light up with kindness. “Are you with a school group?”

I start bawling again. “I want to call my mom.” I don't know if Mrs. Stiles understands me or not, but she puts the phone in my lap and I dial my home number. No one answers. I hang up and dial again. Hang up, dial. Hang up, dial. Hang up. The bottom of my stomach falls out. “They're not home!”

“Don't cry. Don't cry.” Mrs. Stiles tries to calm me. “Do they have cell phones?”

Yes! Call their cell phones. My index finger aims at the keypad, ready to jab out the numbers, and then I realize I don't know them. They were programmed into my cell phone; I never had to memorize them. My chest threatens to burst.

No home phone, no Mom phone, no Dad phone. My mind wrings its hands. Then it dawns on me that there is one number etched in my brain since forever.