Get Lucky: A YA Anthology

by Dean, Ali

  When he parks and turns off the truck, I put my hand on his arm to keep him from getting out right away.

  He raises a brow. “You okay, Kenny?”

  I nod, except I’m anything but. I know it’s weak, and probably not that big of a deal, but Cam is the only person who knows my whole history. This school—for three years it’s been a safe place, a place of anonymity where no one could hurt me because they didn’t know me. Without warning, Gage Christensen is here, about to become one of the more trusted people in my life.

  “You should know that my family… we’re different. We’re not conventional, not in the sense that you and your family are.”

  He laughs at this, pushing his arm back until it’s no longer me holding his arm, but his hand holding mine. “Kenny, my family is anything but conventional.” And then he breaks past my first defense. “Besides, I like you, and everything about you is unconventional. So, stop worrying and let’s get inside.”

  I blow out a breath and nod, jumping out of my side. I don’t make it down before he’s there, taking my book bag like he does whenever we’re together, swinging it over his own shoulder and slamming my door shut.

  We enter through the front door, because the garage is closed. The minute I open it, noise bursts out, and the scent of cooking food floods over us. I motion to Gage for my backpack, hanging it on the hook near the door, next to the other four.

  “Impressive. There are only three of us, and my mom threatens to throw away Joss’s and my stuff daily since we can’t manage to hang it up.”

  “April… she’s an ER nurse. She makes sure we run efficiently in the morning, so we can all get where we need to be.”

  He quirks his brow at me. “That your mom?”

  I wipe my hands on my jeans. “Foster parent,” I say. His eyes get wide, but I’m saved from looking at him for too long when the boys bullet out of the kitchen and into the living room, screaming at the top of their lungs. When they spot us, they pause long enough to eye Gage.

  “Who’s he?”

  This from Brandon, the oldest. Rylon mimics him almost immediately. Before I can turn to introduce him, Gage steps forward and holds out his hand to both boys. “Gage Christensen. You must be Brandon and Rylon.”

  Both boys shake his hand—cheeks pink with pleasure. “Are you Kennedy’s boyfriend?”

  My face flames, and I whisper-yell Brandon’s name. Gage just throws his arm around my shoulders with a laugh. “Life-partner, actually. But it’s pretty much the same thing.”

  April chooses this moment to walk in from the kitchen, Macy on her hip. Her eyes latch onto us and she pauses, lifting her brow. Macy wiggles down and skips over, hugging my legs. I use the excuse to duck out of Gage’s embrace and pick her up.

  “Gage this is Macy, and that’s April. April, this is Gage Christensen.”

  “He’s her love partner,” Rylon says.

  “Life,” I correct when Gage laughs. “Life partner, and it’s for a school project. Gage is just here to look at some pictures and such.”

  “Nice to meet you, Gage. You’re welcome to stay for dinner.”

  I open my mouth to protest, overwhelmed by Gage’s presence in the doorway, let alone at the dinner table, but Gage beats me to it. “Thanks, but I promised my mom I would be home. I was hoping Kennedy could come to dinner with my family on Friday, if that’s all right with you.”

  April nods. Then, she turns to the boys. “You go set the table.”

  Their groans fill the room. “But it’s Kennedy’s night.”

  One look from April has them shuffling off. “What kind of pictures do you need?”

  I set Macy down when she wiggles. “This week is about our childhood, so… anything to help show where I grew up.”

  April is silent a moment, searching my face, and then she nods. “Your book is in the office. Why don’t you take Gage in there? You guys can talk more privately.”

  I nod. Gage holds out his hand again. “It was nice to meet you, April.”

  “You as well, Gage.”

  He follows me, his hands tucked into his pockets. My shoulders are tense, and there’s a cramping in my stomach. When we get to the office, I step inside first, letting Gage through and then closing the French doors behind him.

  It’s not a large space, just enough for a desk, a futon, and a small television on top of a half book case where all of our important things sit, like the books April has made for each of us.

  I go and get mine, settling on the futon next to Gage.

  He’s pretty quiet, especially for Gage, and I wonder if it’s because he doesn’t know how to talk to me anymore.

  I open the album. It starts with the school photo that was taken my eighth grade year, the year I lived in a group facility until April and Brad adopted me at the end.

  “I grew up in Oxnard, and places near there. It was just my mom and me, and she wasn’t what you’d call a natural parent.” He stays quiet, staring at the picture of me from when I was thirteen—big eyes, lots of hair, thin, angular face, and no smile. I was sad—even I can see it.

  “When I was twelve, she died, and I got put into the system. I lived there for a year, and then someone who knew April and Brad sent them my way. I was lucky enough to end up with them. That’s what the rest of these pictures are.”

  Gage flips through the book, a small smile forming on his face when he gets to one of me with the kids at Halloween last year. I’m Jasmine, Gia is Rapunzel, and Macy is Sofia the First. The boys went rogue and donned Ninja costumes.

  April has done her best, taking pictures and giving me memories, but both Gage and I are aware that the first thirteen years of my life, that background, is nothing anyone would want a photo of, even if there were any to show.

  When he finishes looking at it, he closes the book. I can see the uncertainty all over him, and I hate it. Hate that he isn’t being the pushy, all-up-in-my-business Gage right now, but the quiet, reserved boy I have never met before.

  “Don’t feel sorry for me.” The words snap out of my mouth. Gage raises an eyebrow at me, and there’s a small smirk on his lips. The cramping in my stomach eases slightly.

  “Being sorry for you is not the same thing as feeling sorry for you, Kenny.”

  I stare at him, and he stares back, and then—finally—I breathe, because he’s right. If someone told me the story I just told him, I would be sorry they had to go through it. “The only other person who knows is Cam.” I don’t add, please don’t tell anyone, but I want to.

  He nods, understanding all over his face. And then he reaches over and slides his hand against mine until our palms are pressed together and our fingers are linked. “I like your family, Kenny.” He pauses, swallowing hard. I stare at our hands, memorizing the shape and feel of his much larger one in my own, the way it feels safe and warm. “I like you,” he says, and my eyes go to his.

  And, just like that, I realize I like him, too.

  Gage

  Week 3, Part 2: Falling all the Way

  I now eat lunch with Kenny and Cam every day.

  It started that first week. I mostly came over to annoy her because it amused me how embarrassed and irate she would get at my mere presence. But, now, after spending almost three weeks getting to know her, it’s strictly because I feel the need to see her. And she doesn’t wince in horror every time one of my teammates or friends comes over to the table and says hi or sits with us, so that’s a bonus.

  We only have one class together, every other day. That’s not enough for me. At first, she was this challenge, someone who had seen me and made a snap judgment, someone I wanted to prove wrong. The more I got to know her, the more I realized I liked spending time with her and pushing her out of her comfort zone. And, then, Tuesday happened.

  When she introduced me to her family—when she trusted me with her story… something shifted. There’s this need inside of me, a desire that has my heart beating fast when I’m near her, and my stomach twisting in knots when I�
��m not. Getting to know Kenny is like sitting crouched behind home, watching the runner swing around third, knowing he’s coming straight for me.

  It’s going to hurt like hell when he hits me, but if I can hold onto the ball long enough for the out, the pain will be worth it. If I can hold onto Kenny, these feelings of uncertainty and longing will be worth it.

  “Hey, you’re not a vegetarian, are you?”

  Kenny looks up from the textbook in front of her—seriously, even at lunch she has a book open to study—and crinkles her brow. “No. Why?”

  “Mom’s making lasagna—she just texted me to make sure she didn’t need to make a small one without meat for you.” Kenny’s hesitation tells me she’s thinking of how to back out of tonight. After Tuesday, she’s been quieter, not so sassy. But, she’s also been trying to say less in general. I’m not really into letting that happen.

  I reach over and grab her hand, ignoring the sound of Cam’s phone clattering when it hits the table. “You’re coming to practice, and then you’re coming home with me to meet the family. Mom is all ready to tell embarrassing stories and get out the baby pics.”

  She stares at our hands, sliding hers out from under mine, when someone yells my name. I want to snatch hers back, but I don’t. Instead, I settle for swinging my leg over the bench so I’m straddling it, which lets me face her fully.

  “Come home with me, Kenny. Have dinner with my family.”

  She doesn’t answer right away, and I hold my breath. It’s crazy how much her next words matter. Finally, she nods, a quick punctuation mark before she turns back to her textbook. “I’m not wearing your jersey at dinner, though. I draw the line at fawning over you around your parents, bet or no bet.”

  My breath eases out, but I play it cool and pick my sandwich up again. “After seeing a few of my baby pictures, you’ll be singing a different tune.”

  * * *

  “Is that your girlfriend?”

  Kenny and I have just walked through the door, and my younger sister, Joss, is at the foot of the stairs. I smack the brim of her ball cap, so it snugs over her eyes.

  “Kenny, this is Joss, the youngest Christensen with the least amount of manners.”

  Joss glares at me, and then heaves a sigh when Kenny holds out her hand. Swiping hers on her dirt streaked softball pants, Joss slaps her palm into Kenny’s and shakes brusquely. “Are you in high school?”

  Kenny nods. “Yes. Gage and I are the same age.”

  “How come you’re my size? I’m only eleven.”

  I see Kenny bite her lip in an attempt to hide a smile, and secretly thank Joss for being such a turd. “Just unlucky, I guess.”

  Joss nods her head in agreement.

  “How was practice?” I ask.

  Joss shrugs as she spins to head up the stairs and change. “Killed it. Like always.”

  “Such a humble child,” I say, turning back to Kenny. “Sorry—she doesn’t mean to be rude. She hasn’t quite grasped the concept of a filter.”

  “Must run in the family.”

  “Ah, she’s got jokes.” Swinging my arm around her shoulders, I lead her through the house. “Come on, Kenny, let’s meet the rest of the family.”

  My mom hugs her the minute we enter the kitchen, because that’s who she is. We sit down to dinner almost immediately, and then my dad starts in, asking Kenny questions about herself which she handles like a champ. Even when he asks about her family. I see her tense slightly, but then she smiles and tells them her mom’s an ER nurse and her dad’s a foreman at one of the big construction companies.

  After that, her shoulders seem to be looser, and her smile seems to come quicker. When Joss grills her about her position on baseball, Kenny looks at me out of the corner of her eye and smiles. “It’s improving.”

  We finish dinner, and Kenny turns to me. “All right, Christensen, it’s time. I want to see if you were really cute as you claim you were.”

  “He wasn’t,” Karen says, as she walks into the kitchen, her restaurant uniform splattered and dirty. Grabbing a wineglass, she pours it full and gulps it down on her way over. “Karen Christensen, the oldest and wisest of the Christensen kids.”

  “And the clumsiest,” Joss offers. “Spill another plate, Kar? What is that, five this month?”

  “Four.”

  “Karen’s a junior at Cal Lutheran. She comes home more than is normal,” I say, and Karen flips me the bird. When Mom snaps at her, I smile and stand. “On that note, Kenny and I are going to look at pictures.”

  Kenny stands, thanking my mom for dinner. She and my dad grin like idiots when Kenny turns around. I roll my eyes, but my own smile is pretty big.

  I take Kenny’s hand and link our fingers while we walk down the hallway back toward the front door and up the stairs. At the end, we step into the den, a wide open space that holds my gaming consoles and the big television. It also holds all of our childhood pictures and such on shelves. Mine is packed with trophies from Little League.

  “Hello, shrine.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” I smile, releasing Kenny’s hand to grab a large photo album from the bottom of the book case. Then, I grab her hand again and lead her to the couch, pulling her down with me. She makes no move to put space between us, and I take that as a good sign. “Are you ready to be impressed?”

  “Just open the book, Christensen.”

  We spend another twenty minutes going through photos. Kenny laughs when she sees me as the scrawny little towhead I was, hair so white I look like a ghost, gap so large between my front teeth you can see straight into my mouth. She laughs even harder when we get to my middle school years that are filled with braces, sharp elbows, and skinny knees.

  “Who would have thought you were so awkward?”

  “Everyone’s awkward in middle school,” I shoot back. And then I remember the hauntingly gorgeous picture of a younger Kenny. “Except you. Have you always been beautiful?”

  The comment is meant to be friendly, but I feel the air shift, and both of us stop laughing. We’re hip to hip on the couch, a picture album spread out over our laps. Suddenly, all I can feel is my side where Kenny is pressed against me. When I turn my head, I’m mere inches from her lips. My eyes track down to them, and then up again, her eyes wide.

  But she’s not pushing away from me.

  I lean forward slightly, closing the book and putting it on the couch. Kenny still hasn’t moved; her tongue slicks out and across her lips, drawing my attention again.

  Like magnets, we move closer together until my hands are tangled in her hair, and hers are gripping the front of my shirt.

  “I keep waiting for you to punch me,” I say, nose brushing against hers.

  Her laugh is weak. “Me, too.”

  “Well, as long as we’re both waiting.” I lean the rest of the way in, head angled, lips slightly parted. I can feel her breath against mine. My body tingles, and my heart thuds so hard against my ribs I’m surprised she can’t feel it. But I don’t move. I wait, giving her the choice, looking into her eyes. When she doesn’t pull back, I smile. And, then, I kiss the hell out of Kenny Russo.

  Even better, she kisses me back.

  Kennedy

  Week 4: Finance Fun

  People are staring at me. More accurately, people are staring at Gage, and, since my hand is in his and he’s dragging me around the grocery store like we’re in a theme park, moving excitedly from one item to the next, he’s causing heads to turn.

  There’s a neatly printed list in my pocket from earlier. Before meeting Gage at his practice, I went to the library and Googled low-budget shopping list. There was a recommendation for items to buy with twenty-five dollars, broken down into categories: grains, proteins, fruits, vegetables, and dairy. The budget Ms. Moyer gave us was low—especially since we have to pay rent.

  “We can’t afford that, Gage. Not to mention, we don’t need it.”

  The look on his face—I know why parents end up spoiling their kids; it’s this look ri
ght here, the one Gage is giving me that says, “But I want it.” I bite my lip to keep from smiling at how adorable it is.

  “Who doesn’t need a family-sized bag of Doritos?”

  I take the bag from him, and put it on the shelf. And, then, I point to the price tag. “People on a budget. Remember, we only have fifty dollars and we’re shopping for two weeks’ worth of food, which means we would never buy name brand. That’s budget suicide. Generic,” I say, and point to the store brand cheese-flavored Tortilla chips. “I have a list, and there is nothing on there about chips.”

  “Kenny, I draw the line at no chips. Generic is bad enough; I’m not living the rest of my life without eating chips.”

  I roll my eyes and drop his hand to take out my list. “Good thing we’re just pretend shopping, then. Here’s our list, life-partner. We can double some things since it’s estimated for twenty-five dollars instead of fifty.”

  Holding the list up, I watch his eyes focus on it. He squints, his expression a picture of horror. Finally, he grabs it and holds it up to me. “Is this is a joke, Kenny? Grains? Raisins? You want me to eat raisins again? What am I, two?”

  I choke back my laughter. He’s such a drama king. Instead, I hold out my hand to take the list back. “I don’t expect you to eat Raisins—but our budget eats them, because they’re cheap and fall under fruit.”

  He holds the list out of my reach. “Raisins are not fruit. Strawberries are fruit. Mangos are fruit. Even bananas are, though I have to admit, I only like them in my smoothies. Kiwi.” He snaps his fingers in front of my face as though he’s found the answer. “That’s a good fruit.”

  I reach for the list again, glaring when he continues to hold it out of reach, taunting me. “First, are you even aware that every fruit you listed cannot be bought in bulk, nor can it be bought for a simple price year round? No one on a budget would buy exotic fruit. And second,” I stop reaching and cock my head at him. “Kiwis, Gage? That’s a designer fruit. I expected better from you.”