Get Lucky: A YA Anthology

by Dean, Ali

  When we head onto the court for the March Matchup finals Sunday evening, I feel like I’m outside my body, looking down. The crowds are bigger than any I’ve played in front of before. People are squeezed into the bleachers, which are even more jam-packed than the final matches at State, because both the guys’ and girls’ teams are represented. The court is illuminated in the dimming light, and I imagine that people watching Jesse and me know that we are more than a team.

  When we practiced together this week, the coaches hadn’t decided if we should be paired together for the tournament. They thought we might try overpowering each other or something. It wasn’t instant magic, but, after a day or two practicing as a team, we were unstoppable. And it’s been that way since the tournament started on Friday afternoon. We’ve burned through each team like we were fire, but we know that this match is the ultimate challenge.

  We’re playing the reigning March Matchup champions, Tori and Nick McGrath. They’re twins, which magnifies the intimidation factor. Aside from this tournament, we only play their high school at State, and Tori McGrath beat me at the semi-finals last year. Barely. Ironically, Jesse beat Nick in the guys’ State semi-final, and went on to win at the finals, though Tori took runner-up. All four of us, as individuals and as doubles partners, want to win, and each team has the potential to do it. The McGraths might be slight favorites, but only because they won last year, and, well, they are twins. But Jesse and I have our own kind of chemistry, and, so far, it seems to work on and off the court.

  If we win this match, Hillcrest takes the overall trophy, which we haven’t done in years. If Dunstan wins, they take the trophy for the fourth year in a row. No pressure or anything.

  It’s a three set match. The first set is point for point, but we take the win 7-5. Jesse dominates the court more than any doubles partner I’ve had in the past, but he doesn’t take over my space. He trusts me, and I trust him, and I never realized how important that is to doubles tennis.

  My mother is sitting in the front row bleachers with Roger and Olivia. Laura and Paul Kendrick are seated beside them, but they aren’t really friends with Delilah Ferris. They are polite enough to her, but they’ve acted more like parents to me than she has. I’ve been focused on the game, and ignoring my mother has been easy, but when we take a break between sets, she’s only a couple feet away.

  She says my name, and I pretend not to hear her. I can feel Jesse’s eyes watching me. But Delilah Ferris won’t be ignored. She stands up and comes over to me, puts a hand on my arm in a false display of maternal care. I construe it as a threat. But the fear that usually accompanies her subtle warnings isn’t there.

  “Mackenzie, darling, you are playing so well. I’m really proud of you.”

  I’m no longer afraid of Delilah Ferris and, with that realization, she doesn’t hold any power over me. I’m not doing this anymore. I don’t need her in my life, and I especially don’t need a fake version of a mother. “Really, Mom? Don’t bother.” I’m speaking quietly, because no one, except the Kendricks, would understand if I lashed out at her right now. They’d just think I was a volatile angry teenager. But I can’t play her little game for one more minute, and it has to end.

  Her eyes darken, and there’s not a trace of hurt there. She knows what I’m saying, that I’m rejecting her attempts to put a mother-daughter encounter on display. It’s a prime time to do it, with everyone in the bleachers. But there’s nothing in it for me, besides avoidance of her wrath, which doesn’t intimidate me like it used to.

  I’m tired of going along with this. Exhausted, actually. So that’s what I tell her. “I need to focus on the next set, Mom,” I tell her in a low voice. “I don’t have the time or energy to help you look like a good mother. You should just go home. I don’t need you here.”

  The words are harsh, I know that, but it’s a long time coming. Her carefully composed face flashes angrily, but she gathers herself enough to nod, and then she returns to her seat. She doesn’t leave like I told her to, but I don’t care. I’ve stood up to her, and she can’t fight me on it with this audience. As far as I’m concerned, we’re done. She’ll lash out in some way, some day, but it’s worth dealing with if it means I’m free of her.

  Jesse is the only one who heard the exchange, and he rubs my back as we walk to our side of the court. “I don’t know what made you do that just now, but I am so proud of you.” He cringes, and then says. “Shit, that’s what she just said, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, but you mean it.”

  “I do.”

  It feels as if I’ve finally cut loose the chains that I’ve been carrying around, for no other reason than habit, and because I wasn’t sure I was strong enough to pull them off. But it was easy. And, as I throw the ball in the air for a serve, I’ve never felt lighter. Like I’m finally liberated.

  Jesse plays off my energy, and we’re all over the court: blazes of fire, hitting every shot over the net with power and force, running down each tough ball they try to lobby at us. I don’t even feel the burn and aches in my muscles that typically hit me at the final match of a three-day tournament. Without those chains, I’m quicker than ever before, and Jesse is right there with me, keeping up.

  Everyone was expecting the match to go to the third set, but it doesn’t. We take the second set easily, and the crowd roars.

  As soon as we’re done shaking hands with our opponents, who seem a little dazed from how that set just went down, I’m in Jesse’s arms. I don’t know who reached for the other first, but he’s lifting me up and kissing me right in front of everyone, and I’ve never been happier.

  It’s time to start going for what I want, and not just on the tennis court. In my relationships, too. The fear was holding me back, and I didn’t even know it until I took a chance. With Jesse. And with my mother, who left in the middle of the last set. She watched me play after I said those words, and saw that I was free from her grasp. Olivia left in a huff behind her.

  Olivia might not have understood what went down with between me and my mother, but she couldn’t miss that Jesse is more than my doubles’ partner. We’re not hiding anything anymore, not from each other or from anyone else. Olivia doesn’t stand a chance with Jesse, and her flustered and defeated expression as she followed my mother off the court told me she knew it.

  It wasn’t luck that got us the trophy today, or put me in Jesse’s arms. No, I can’t just let life happen to me, I’ll always be stuck. I can’t wait for happiness to land in my lap, watching the boy I love from a distance, playing tennis to escape instead of for the joy of it. I have to make my life happen and go after it.

  “You guys, seriously? Just… that’s enough.” Emma is tugging at us, and, when I finally pull away, I see that our entire team is on the court, cheering and waiting for us to break up so they can congratulate us.

  Jesse puts his arm around me, and we turn to our team. “I’m so damn proud of you,” he whispers in my ear. And though it feels good to hear it, the best part is that I am proud of myself. I earned this moment.

  She Loves Me, She Loves Me Not

  By Kristen Kehoe

  Kennedy

  The Assignment

  So, this is what they mean by karma.

  I must admit, I wasn’t a believer. First, because if anyone should be seeking vengeance for wrongdoings in their lifetime, it’s me. Hello? Deadbeat dad, alcoholic mom? Both gone from my life already? Yeah, I should definitely have earned some kind of vengeance points.

  And second—I’m Irish-Italian. No matter what our crime, we don’t believe it’s the universe trying to mess with us, we believe it’s the big guy in the sky, reminding us to pay our penance or fear the wrath. A few Hail Marys, a little Holy Water—it’s all good. And, if it’s not, well, there’s always the green mile to really remind us we aren’t in charge. (Words of wisdom from dear old mom on a semi-sober day.)

  Only, no act of contrition or reference to penance already paid is going to reverse the time-space continuu
m, and somehow keep this moment from happening. And it is happening.

  I’m lined up in an arc around the classroom, and near the end because my last name is Russo. One by one, the people around me are being taken from our position at the end of the alphabet, and paired with a classmate whose last name puts them at the beginning of the alphabet. I don’t know if Ms. Moyer was schooled in wartime tactics, but this watching everyone pair off has given me enough time to panic. The walls feel like they are closing in, and I can barely breathe. I have counted spaces and people, and if my calculations are correct—it’s freaking counting, so of course they are—I am two seconds away from being made Gage Christensen’s life-partner for the next five weeks.

  Sweet Baby Jesus, this can’t be happening. Karma laughs in my face as my name is called. Oh, it’s happening, she says. Get ready.

  “Miss Russo, Mr. Christensen, please.” Ms. Moyer gestures us forward. I know other people are staring daggers into my back because they were hoping for this exact moment to happen to them—to be paired with the baseball god, with broad shoulders and a gorgeous smile.

  “Get ya some, Christensen,” one of the few other boys in the class calls out when I walk by. My body tightens, and, though I don’t hang my head in shame and fear, I wish I could. This is why I wasn’t dreaming of being his partner—I hate being the center of attention.

  Normally, I never would have let this happen. If Ms. Moyer was predictable like all teachers, she would have passed a hat around with everyone’s name in it. I would have drawn for form’s sake, already having a candidate in mind, said their name, crumpled the piece of paper so it was lost when asked for evidence, and ultimately been assigned the partner that was as quiet like me, and said teacher scrambled to rearrange pairs for the person whose name I drew and ignored.

  Our project would be done efficiently and in record time, and no one would be shouting across the room at us.

  But not this time. This time, I’m in the front of the room with the other five pairs, staring at my new partner—my new life-partner. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph…Thanks for nothing.

  “Hey, Kenny, how’s it going?”

  I try a smile, but I’m pretty sure it shakes on my face, and makes me look like I’m suffering from a seizure. My new partner’s smile turns concerned—not a good sign.

  Gage Christensen is the high school boy television makes people believe in. Translation: he’s gorgeous. And funny. And athletic. And gorgeous.

  He’s tall, blonde, and has teeth so straight and white, you wonder if you could see yourself in them when he smiles, and he’s confident. Of course he is—he’s the “it kid” of the junior class because he has everything an “it kid” needs—height, looks, and a goddamned likeable personality. Let us not forget his all-state mention in baseball by his sophomore year.

  How do I know? It’s all people talk about. He’s all they talk about. Which is why I cannot be paired with him. No one knows me—and that’s what I want.

  “It’s Kennedy.”

  His eyes widen just a fraction, but enough for me to see they really are the clearest blue ever created, and then I realize how my response sounded. I clear my throat, ready to apologize for snapping, but he raises his brow—just a tiny bit—and for some reason, I shut down my apology like a Blockbuster. We stand in silence while the rest of the people are partnered off.

  Since the class is called Life Science, and its purpose is to talk about family and money and goals—don’t even get me started—the majority of the populace is female, and so are the couples. Hence, the life-partner title. Ms. Moyer, always ready to throw a wrench into everyone’s world, has decided we need to learn about more than sex and STDs, more than poverty and how bad choices can affect every aspect of our lives, more than ATM cards and credit cards, and bank balances and interest rates.

  She wants us to learn what it means to be a part of something. Bleh.

  Give me a good Calculus equation any day, but please don’t ask me to talk about my feelings.

  I sit when Ms. Moyer tells us to, stealing a glance at Gage out of the corner of my eye. I can feel him next to me—it’s all but impossible not to, since he’s at least twice my size and makes no attempt at keeping his limbs on his side of the table. Or his scent. I take shallow breaths, trying to ignore the faint and intoxicating smell that, combined with an impressive jawline and those eyes, makes me forget why I can’t be his partner.

  For thirty minutes, Ms. Moyer explains the goal of this assignment, and my panic rises with each word. Spend time together. Depend on each other. Get to know one another. Dear God. Assignment? Please, this is more like a life sentence. In what world do teachers pair students up and encourage them to play house?

  “It’s not playing house,” Ms. Moyer says. I snap my head up, and realize I’ve spoken aloud. I never speak in class unless it’s to answer a question asked directly to me. Now, all eyes are on me, and I feel a small, cold line of sweat trickle down my back. This is exactly what I didn’t want to happen, and it’s no one’s fault but my own.

  “It’s learning to live, Miss Russo. Don’t you agree that we live better when we have relationships to live for? When we understand our goals, and who will be there to help us achieve them?”

  My stomach seizes into cramps, and my throat closes tight, but I don’t move a muscle. Please, dear God, don’t let those be tears that are building—don’t let me cry in front of everyone. I want to stand and walk out, or—even better—stand and tell her that no, I don’t freaking believe that because some of us have to learn to live in this world alone through no choice of our own. But… I can’t.

  Making a scene—any kind of scene—means eyes would follow me. I don’t want or need that kind of attention. Instead, I nod. Ms. Moyer looks at me, her eyes widening a fraction as if she just remembered my file—a file she’s surely seen. A file that tells her I don’t have anyone to live for, or be supported by, and I haven’t for a really long time.

  Gage

  The Life Sentence

  I am not a combative guy. It’s not really in my nature. My motto has always been, do what makes you happy, don’t hurt anybody else, don’t take things too seriously, and be nice. Live and let live, ya know?

  My current partner does not seem to live by the same sentiments.

  Prickly. It’s the best word I can use to describe her—other than gorgeous, but seriously, even the big brown eyes and mass of waving brown hair cascading over slender shoulders toward what might just be a pretty nice figure can’t compete with the cold shoulder and “hands off” posture.

  We’ve been sentenced to a life together for the next five weeks—which shouldn’t feel like an eternity, but the girl next to me is making me rethink just how many days that actually is. Ms. Moyer has called her out on her attitude, and though she appears to want to rage at the woman, she’s now silently fuming. Admittedly, the fuming is a little better than the angry muttering, and not just because it adds a nice hint of pink to her sharp cheekbones.

  Honestly, this is one of the easier assignments I’ve ever been given, and I can’t quite understand why Miss Snooty Pants over there is complaining. We have a teacher telling us to hang out, get to know each other, make a budget, and go grocery shopping… for a grade—how hard can it be?

  When I try to make light of the situation, and tell my dearest partner this, she rolls her eyes and begins scribbling notes onto our handout.

  “That’s exactly the kind of attitude I would expect from someone like you.”

  Like me… If there’s a hot button I have, it’s that statement right there.

  Want to get to know me? Go for it. Say my name, stop me in the hallway, ask me a question, sit with me at lunch, hit me up on Twitter. Do any of these things, and we can talk. But, don’t hear my name and make assumptions, thinking I won’t call you on them. Even nice guys have their limits—it appears prickly-pants has just made me reach mine. In record time, too.

  “Because you know me so well?” Like I
said—not usually combative. But her assumption that she can group me with others she assumes are like me, and write us all off as useless, has my shoulders tensing and my hackles rising. This girl—she looks at me like I’m slime on the bottom of her shoe, and treats me even worse. We’ve been partners for approximately thirty-five minutes, and she’s hated me for all of them, but she hasn’t once introduced herself.

  That—that pisses me off, enough I’m going to make sure she feels like shit for it.

  Sticking my hand out, so she has no choice but to stop talking and acknowledge it, I raise an eyebrow when she glares at me, leaving my outstretched hand in her face.

  “Gage Christensen. Despite your all-knowing attitude about me, I don’t think we’ve ever met.”

  Her eyes are so slitted, I’m surprised she can see me out of them. “Kennedy Russo—and we have met before. Freshman year, biology. We had the same class.”

  “Were we lab partners?”

  “No.”

  She tries to take her hand back. I hold onto it, perversely satisfied, when her eyes widen and she yanks even harder. Please. I’m 6’3”, and a hundred and seventy pounds. She’s maybe a foot shorter, and an easy fifty pounds lighter—she’s not winning this battle.

  “Did we ever work on a project together? Sit at the same lab table?” I prompt. Her face pinks just the slightest a bit more underneath her beautiful olive skin, the first indication she might be feeling something else along with angry. She shakes her head no. “So, we had the same class, but we never spoke. Am I reading you correctly when I infer that you think, just because we were in the same room together for nine months, we’ve met each other? Enough for you to pass judgement, and decide you know who I am?”

  “Everyone knows who you are,” she snaps, but her voice stays low. “You’re Gage Christensen, the baseball god and social elite of the junior class.”