Lucky Me

by Saba Kapur

  Jack did some heavy sighing as he evaluated his options. If he had learned anything about me in the short time he had been around, he would know that I was stubborn as hell. Plus he wasn’t going to rat me out to Dad; that just wasn’t his style. Jack nodded reluctantly. He seemed like he wanted to argue some more but had evidently decided against it.

  “I guess,” he said, “I could go visit my sister for a couple of hours. She lives pretty close to campus so I’d be nearby in case anything happened.”

  I beamed at him, trying to control the urge to hug him. “I promise you, it’ll be quick! Nothing’s going to happen, I swear.”

  “If your dad wants to fire me then you have to back me up.”

  “Done.”

  “Same goes for suing me.”

  “He’s not going to sue you!”

  “And if anything happens to you, I get to beat the crap out of Fells.”

  “Um, no you don’t!” I said, looking alarmed. Jack blinked at me. “But . . . that’s negotiable.”

  Jack blew out a defeated sigh. “Fine. I guess we can make this work.”

  Seriously. I should write a book or something. I am living proof that you can truly achieve anything in life if you dedicate yourself and persevere.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The news about Miss Golden Globe had divided my house in half. Mom was, of course, completely over the moon and was already planning possible outfits for the night. Dad was a lot less excited, which wasn’t at all surprising, considering his favorite hobby was worrying about me. He kept talking about how it probably wasn’t safe for me to be in the spotlight at this time, and how he couldn’t believe I hadn’t mentioned Dr. D’s request to “save the date.” I’ll admit, I was mildly horrified that he didn’t tell me he was super proud and throw a lavish party in my honor. Miss Golden Globe was no small thing, but he just kept saying, “I’ll think about it” every time I wanted to talk about it. Which basically meant no.

  In the meantime, my biggest issue was the UCLA party and my first night alone with Milo. I had somehow managed to get Jack on board, but there were still a few creases to smooth out. Aria and Veronica had been on my case all day Friday and then Saturday morning, unable to believe I was missing Brendan’s party without a solid reason. I didn’t even bother pulling the illness excuse this time. I went straight for the parent card and claimed that “I really didn’t want to talk about it,” while assuring them that yes, I too couldn’t believe how much of a nightmare my dad was being. Sorry for throwing you under the bus like that, Dad. Oh, and all the other stuff I was about to lie about, too.

  Lying to my friends felt so wrong, and I was tempted to just surrender and tell them everything. But I always managed to hold back at the last minute. It just wasn’t the right time yet. Unfortunately, this meant I couldn’t turn to them with the biggest issue in my life: what to wear to the party. I needed an outfit that would make me look so sexy that Milo would melt on the spot. Aria’s closet really would have come in handy at a time like this, but seeing as it was unavailable, I was left with two choices. First there was Anya, who dressed like a pilgrim, and then there was my mother, who didn’t dress at all. “Wear a low-cut dress and lots of red lipstick. That’s step one.” That had been her grand advice when I had asked how to make a guy fall in love with you. I didn’t stick around to hear step two, because judging by her experiences, it would only end in divorce.

  When it was finally Saturday night, the state of my room had declined by a million. Clothes and shoes were strewn all over the bed and floor, as I kept throwing hangers out of my way. Milo Fells and I were going on the closest thing we had to a date, and goddammit, I was going to look like a freaking sex bomb if it killed me. After trying on hundreds of different combinations that failed to satisfy my ideal look, I finally settled for a little, black, Stella McCartney dress. It was a bit of a safe option, but this was no time to be taking risks.

  I had asked Mom if I could borrow her stylist, Kat, to do my makeup, but she had some fancy dinner party she needed to attend in Beverly Hills, and needed her for the night. Left to fend for myself, I curled the ends of my hair and added shimmer and mascara to my eyelashes, careful not to accidently rip off the fake lashes that had taken me a good twenty minutes to put on. It felt like I was wearing umbrellas on my eyes, but they made them look bigger and brighter, which meant Milo could gaze into them all night long as if my life were a Katherine Heigl movie.

  By the time eight-thirty approached, my makeup was done, my red heels were on and I was coating my lips with red lipstick, just like my mother had recommended. All said and done, I looked pretty damn hot, considering I had accidently poked myself in the eye with the eye pencil twice and had to stop it from watering like a flowing river. The way I saw it, there were three things that could go down that night. One, I would make a complete fool of myself the whole night, talking non-stop in my ridiculous British accent. Two, I could babble the night away, get kidnapped-slash-killed or worse, break my heel. Lastly, I could be amazing and blow Milo’s mind and carry myself as a true lady, casually attending a party for raging alcoholics in the making. I was hoping the third option would work in my favor, but my luck so far hadn’t been too promising.

  When the clock hit nine, I was considering investing in an asthma pump. Jack and I said our hurried goodbyes and ran out of the house. He did some head shaking and frustrated sighing, reminding me that we had to time our return perfectly. I did a lot of nodding and said, “yes, sir,” and watched him climb into his Jeep and drive away. Milo had come to pick me up looking like something out of a Hugo Boss ad, with his leather jacket and perfectly styled hair. Thankfully he had listened to my text that had explicitly stated, in caps, NOT to ring the doorbell, as it was “broken,” and to just text me when he was outside. Not a great start to a romantic evening, but beggars can’t be choosers. Milo had also adhered to the Halloween theme judging by the batman mask resting on the backseat, which went perfectly with my velvety cat ears headband. Everything up ‘til that point had been perfect, until I greeted him by saying “What’s up, brotha?” This was apparently my brain’s way of telling me that it wanted me to end up miserable and lonely. Thanks for having my back, brain. No, really.

  Needless to say, the rest of the car ride to the party consisted of lame jokes and a lot of heavy breathing on my part. I couldn’t believe that any guy would put up with my crazy like Milo was. Plus, every time I thought I was getting more comfortable around him, my British accent would threaten to resurface and ruin any chances I had with the guy. Which were already minimal. I managed to structure a few sentences and tell Milo about the offer of being Miss Golden Globe. Unlike Jack, he had shared my excitement and told me I’d look so stunning on stage, no one would even bother looking at the award. More heavy breathing on my part ensued.

  Luckily, I didn’t have to do too much of the talking because Milo seemed to be taking the lead on that front. His small talk gave me the opportunity to gather some interesting facts about him. For example, his favorite dessert was cheesecake, which isn’t exactly chocolate mousse, like mine is. But it could have been worse. He could have said he wasn’t a “dessert person,” and then I would have been forced to jump out of a moving car. His favorite cuisine was Thai, he had one older brother and a German Shepherd named Woody, in honor of the beloved cowboy in his favorite movie growing up, Toy Story. Of course, I enthusiastically agreed that it was my favorite as well, but that was a lie. It’s adorable, don’t get me wrong. But Anastasia is totally the best movie ever, no doubt about it. A beautiful girl with a little puppy and big dreams, who one day meets a handsome stranger that helps discover that she’s, in fact, the lost Princess of Russia? It was practically a metaphor for my entire existence. Except, of course, that Milo is not a fraud like Dimitri, I am not at all Russian royalty, and I’m pretty sure Dr. D does not have a tiny bat as a sidekick. But I could be wrong about the bat, I don’t know.
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  In between my sad jokes and unattractive breathing problems, Milo also managed to give me updates on the cleaning company that Dad had hired a few months ago. He said that the company had sent over a list of names of the people who had cleaned our house, but the police couldn’t a connection to my family or the Dumpling Hospital for any of them. The police also hadn’t been able to find the last bugging device, and I didn’t know the first thing about spy equipment, so there was no point in me keeping a look out for it. All in all, the investigation was at a bit of a standstill. Dad may have been right about the Golden Globes being a pretty bad idea at this point, but it was also the only chance I had to meet Dr. D. That is, if we didn’t find all we needed at the UCLA party, packaged in a little box with a pink ribbon wrapped around it. I hadn’t exactly mentioned to Milo my plans for investigation at the party, but if I could manage the colossal issue of Jack Anderson, then this was cake.

  We finally pulled up to the party after what seemed like an entire lifetime of shy conversations and nervous laughter. Milo parked a lot closer to the party than Jack and I had on our first trip, and thank God, because Jimmy Choo heels aren’t the most comfortable footwear. The last thing I needed was to fall flat on my face and still have another ten minutes to walk before we actually arrived. I quickly texted Jack, reassuring him we were still alive, then told myself everything was going to be perfect as long as I managed not to get killed or kidnapped.

  “Are you ready?” Milo asked, as I gently closed my car door behind me.

  I adjusted the hem of my dress with a nod and said, “I think so.”

  Batman mask and kitty ears in our hands, we walked toward the party, which could surely be heard from Guatemala based on the volume of the music. Milo was so close. I could almost hear his heart beating next to me. I desperately wanted to act like a normal human being who could charm him with my natural humor and grace. Instead my tongue refused to move and I had to convince my heart not to break down every time I saw him. The problem was, I was starting to like him a lot. Too much for the amount I knew him. I mean, it was one thing to look at him and be in awe of how an average guy could look that amazing, but it’s another thing to have legit feelings for someone. Sometimes I felt that way about Jack too, but Jack was . . . Jack. He was annoying and frustrating and I always felt confused around him. One minute we were best friends and the next I couldn’t stand to see him.

  But Milo never seemed to get on my nerves. And despite my inability to communicate like a normal human being, we seemed to click. Yes, I didn’t know him very well. But I’ve never actually met Jude Law, and I’m pretty sure we’d click too. I kept telling myself that getting involved with someone days after a break up is just wrong, but come on. The next time your boyfriend leaves for Texas to become a cowboy and the hottest police cadet you’ve ever seen wants to take you to a college party, why don’t you tell me about what’s right or wrong.

  Club music was blasting from all corners, and tipsy people were dancing all up the street. A girl with hair brighter than Veronica’s stumbled past us. She wore leather black plants with stiletto heels and what I could only presume was a top three sizes too small for her. The boy she was with was dressed head-to-toe as Spiderman and was visibly smashed, even though it was barely ten o’clock.

  “This must be it,” Milo said, and I looked up at the house ahead.

  “The flyer did say it had palm trees,” I told him.

  The flyer failed to mention, however, that the fraternity house was in fact ninety percent made up of palm trees. They were everywhere, completely surrounding the house like a gateway. Cars were parked all up and down the road and through the large glass windows I could see the inside of the house was packed with drunken college students.

  A guy dressed as Ronald McDonald waddled past us in his huge shoes and eerie white makeup. His bright red lips curved into a scary smile as he gave me the once-over. I gave him a never-going-to-happen look, and I think he took it well because in a matter of seconds he was eyeing up the sexy nurse standing a few feet away.

  “Do you and your friends go to a lot of these parties?” I asked Milo, trying to hide the disgust from my tone.

  “Hardly ever,” he replied. “This isn’t really my idea of a good time.”

  “So then why’d you come?”

  “Well I figured it might be worth it if you were going to be there.”

  Lord have mercy on my poor ovaries.

  “Right,” I practically squeaked. “Does Detective Reynolds know that we’re here?”

  “Well,” Milo said, looking a little sheepish. “I didn’t really mention it. But it’s a party that we both just happen to be at. Nothing wrong with that, right?”

  “You tell me. You’re the police cadet.”

  Milo smiled and held up his Batman mask. “I also happen to be the savior of Gotham. But, whatever. I don’t really like to brag.”

  “Are you sure the city can manage without you for a night?” I asked.

  See? I could be normal if I really, really concentrated.

  “Let me know if you see any bat signals in the sky. I might have to bail.”

  “Like Christian?” I asked, and Milo looked at me in confusion. Oh no, he didn’t get it. “You know, bail. Bale. Like Christian Bale? Batman? No? Not feeling the joke?”

  “Oh God,” Milo said, but a laugh escaped from his groan. “That was a terrible joke. We might need to work on Catwoman’s sense of humor.”

  I had actually been pretty proud of that one, but I smiled sheepishly and said, “I’ve got plenty more stashed in the cat ears.”

  “Well then in that case I can’t wait to hear the rest of them,” Milo laughed.

  Yeah, careful what you wish for, pal. But we were flirting! Like actually flirting and not just Milo saying funny and sweet things and me hyperventilating like a weirdo! And if you ask me, I was actually doing a pretty decent job at it, considering my lack of previous experience in such matters. Brendan and I had never flirted. He had just asked me out and I pretty much shrugged and said yes. Jack and I didn’t do too much of the flirting game either. We spent most of the time mentally throwing lamps at each other and pretending there was no sexual tension in the room. I had been scared I didn’t really know to flirt, but based on how the conversation was going, I was doing a B+ job.

  “Dude!” A guy dressed up as some type of Greek god slung his arm affectionately around another guy, right in front of Milo and I. “You ready to get your party on?”

  His friend, who was dressed in a red, fluffy onesie that mildly resembled Elmo, smiled. “Dude, hell yeah! I’m gonna get so turnt up!”

  Milo and I exchanged glances. Based on how low Elmo had the zipper on his onesie, I doubted his costume would stay on for long.

  “So, you ready?” Milo asked me, and I turned my attention away from the boys. “To get ‘turnt’ up?”

  I gave a nervous laugh and nodded. Those thirty seconds of flirting had been great while they lasted, but I waved goodbye to the chance of it occurring it again. Truth be told, I was freaking out. Big time. If Elmo and Zeus were any indication of the crowd, the party was going to be wild inside, and I wasn’t sure I was fully up for it yet. It wasn’t just the fact that Milo and I were finally alone together without the police or my parents or Jack, which was giving me enough anxiety to begin with. It was also the possibility of Ao Jie Kai being right on the other side of the wide frat house doors, holding all the answers I needed in the palm of his hand.

  I did some quick, mental pep talking as Milo and I made our way up to the fraternity house’s front doors, where a young guy around Milo’s age was sitting at a table with a metal box and a stack of plastic cups. He didn’t have any costume on, but we knew he was part of the fraternity because he had the Greek symbols for their house on a small nametag, attached to his flannel shirt.

  “Five bucks entry per person,” he told
us in a bored voice, pointing to the metal box. “You get a free plastic cup. Ten bucks if you want the bigger plastic cups.”

  Milo and I looked at each other. It seemed the fraternity had conveniently forgotten to mention an entry fee on their flyer.

  “Okay, we’ll get two small cups,” Milo said with a light shrug.

  “Sorry,” the guy said, not looking apologetic in the slightest. He didn’t even bat an eyelash. “We’re out of five dollar cups. You gotta take a ten dollar one.”

  Milo looked at me again with raised eyebrows. I didn’t have any loose cash on me, but it didn’t matter. Milo was already being a gentleman and pulling his out, handing the guy a twenty-dollar bill.

  Flannel shirt guy paused, eyed me up and down, and handed Milo two five dollar bills back. “Here’s ten bucks change. You get a discount ‘cause your girl is hot.”

  Well, we couldn’t argue with a policy like that. I did some internal flailing and fist pumping when Milo didn’t correct him about assuming I was his girlfriend.

  “Well,” Milo said, pocketing his wallet and change. We moved toward the door so more people could pay for their entry. “I guess your cat ears have superpowers after all.”

  That was great and all, but he needed to tone down his perfection. Those damn dimples were all I could see, and they were constantly threatening to turn me into a babbling lunatic. By the end of the night, Milo was going to be inquiring about whether or not free therapy was given to police officers, and it would be all my fault.

  I was starting to look like the Ronald McDonald I had seen moments before, with my forced smile and fake enthusiasm. It looked like I was scoping out the place for potential victims, when actually I was desperately trying to grab the reigns on my out of control emotions. We walked inside, pushing our way past a group of guys that were dressed in silky robes, boxing gloves hanging around their necks. The inside of the fraternity house was a cemetery for class and dignity. People were everywhere, on the dance floor, on top of each other on the couches, canoodling with others against walls. It was like all the rich high school parties I’d ever been to, only three times more sexual and with cheaper alcohol. There was a DJ dressed as a giant taco in the back of the room playing a remix of a Kanye West song, violently head banging with one headphone pressed to his ear. He stood directly underneath a black, felt sign that read, Feel A’ite on Frite Nite. I stood there gaping at the red block letters for a few seconds, amazed that even basic grammar had taken a beating that night. Well, you have to give them points for creativity.