Get Lucky: A YA Anthology

by Dean, Ali

  Thanks to Jared, and my first fifteen meaningless kisses, in this moment, I wasn’t scared at all. I wasn’t nervous or insecure. I wasn’t worried about what it would be like, or if I would be any good at it. I wasn’t worried about the when or where, and I knew it wasn’t with the wrong guy. I was simply ready and able to enjoy it. And savor the moment I did.

  I knew this was the kiss that counted, and I knew Jared was the guy I wanted. This was the one I would write down in my journal, and, later, when Selena inevitably found me and demanded every single detail, this is the kiss we would swoon over together. The one I was swooning over now.

  The contact made my blood boil. My heart pounded, my stomach twisted, and everything inside me felt as if it needed to be closer to him or I would burst. I reacted with my lips first, kissing him back hard enough to encourage him to deepen the kiss. He happily obliged.

  His hesitancy melted away, and a new urgency overtook him. This was the heat and the desire I’d felt before with some of my more passionate kisses. But, mixed with his desperate want of me, personally, and the shocking intensity of my own feelings, this kiss blew all of the others away. They couldn’t even compare.

  A blissful sigh escaped me, and I gasped, “Definitely real.”

  Jared grinned against my lips, and brought one of his hands to my cheek. The kiss morphed into something softer…sweeter. Again, this was new. Of all my kisses today, none of them had been given with so much care. So much gentleness. It was as if Jared wanted me to know that he felt more for me than just passion.

  I melted. Utterly and completely. Became mush. Every bone in my body turned to rubber. If I’d been standing, my knees would have buckled. As it was, I was only still perched on the fence because Jared had one of his arms around me. If not for his secure grip on me, I’d have fallen.

  Actually, I did fall. I fell head over heels. This was my sixteenth kiss, on my sixteenth birthday, by the sixteenth different guy—forgive me, person—yet it was really my first kiss, by the first guy that really mattered. This was my first real kiss. And it was everything I’d ever dreamed of.

  Eventually he broke the kiss, but he kept me in his arms as we both came back to our senses. “I told you I was going to give you a real kiss for your birthday.”

  I shook my head. “Better than real.”

  He smiled at my answer, but this time it wasn’t his award-winning smile. It was a better smile, a new smile, and one that was just for me. “Good. Then, will you go out with me?”

  I didn’t know what to say. Of course, by now, I understood that he liked me, but it was such a shock. And my own feelings had hit me so fast that I was still trying to get used to them.

  “I’ve liked you for a while, Cassie, but I didn’t think you were interested. And I was afraid you’d think it was weird because of Ben.”

  I laughed. “Ben will think it’s weird.”

  Actually, Ben was going to freak out. I almost couldn’t wait to tell him.

  Jared smirked. “I don’t care.”

  I matched his devilish grin. “Me either.”

  “So, is that a yes, then? To you and me?”

  As Kolby would say it was an Oh, hell yes! But I have a little more tact than my hopeless friend, so I kept that particular response to myself, and instead reached into my front pocket. I pulled out the penny Jared had given me this morning and placed it in the palm of his hand. “Looks like this is your lucky day.”

  While he smiled down at the coin, I wrapped my arms around his neck. “You know? I’ve received a lot of kisses today. I think it’s about time I give one.”

  Jared grinned. “I guess it really is my lucky day.”

  Make that seventeen kisses in one day. That’s definitely got to be a record.

  Four Letter Words

  A Novella

  by Ginger Scott

  Swim

  I hope the water below his feet is ice cold.

  I wasn’t going to come to the homecoming carnival, but, when I found out Jace Padgett was going to be sitting in the dunk tank, I changed my mind.

  “That’ll be three dollars,” the short blonde working the money booth says. I hand over a ten, and tell her I want three rounds—nine balls. I’m pretty confident in my aim, but, just in case, I’d like to buy a little insurance.

  “I’ll throw in one extra ball for the dollar,” she says, raising her eyebrows a tick. “I don’t have change yet.”

  “Deal,” I say.

  If I dunk him with my first throw, I’ll just do it again.

  Jace looks dry. And warm. And he doesn’t even see me coming.

  “Play ball!” squeaks out the boy standing near the throwing line. His hands are holding the ten softballs I purchased, and he keeps dropping them one at a time. His arms are skinny; nothing like the boy perched up on the seat of the tank. Jace rests comfortably up there, waiting to lure a line of giggling girls to his booth just to see him get wet at the fair price of one dollar per chance.

  Jace doesn’t turn with this guy’s shout. He just keeps talking to the group of cheerleaders, standing at the side of the booth; all obsessed with his half-naked body and sculpted abs.

  I take the bright yellow softball into my palm, and spin it in my fingers a few times, finding the right grip. This isn’t my sport, but I grew up playing with the neighborhood boys on our street—everything from football and soccer to baseball and hockey. I know I’ve got an arm. And so does Jace, because he was always right there in the streets with me.

  Satisfied with my hold, I narrow my eyes, zeroing in on my target, before flitting my gaze one last time to that cocky smile, the chuckle shaking his annoyingly perfect chest, and the way his right eyebrow rises higher than his left when he’s flirting.

  “Hope you can swim,” I say, loud enough that it catches his attention.

  My arm cocks back, and I launch the ball with a grunt as Jace’s eyes meet mine. The look of surprise coloring his cheeks is priceless, and, for one whole second, I feel better. My ball nails the target dead center, and, in a blink, Miller High School’s soon-to-be homecoming king is submerged. His arms flail, his hair twists under the water, his mouth puffs out dozens of bubbles—all as he sinks to the bottom of the glass tank I just forced him into.

  “Ahhhhh,” I breathe out, a smirk twitching at the corner of my mouth for the first time in two days. The satisfaction is fleeting, though, and, as Jace pushes up from the water, his hands running through the wet strands of dirty blonde hair, that buzz I got from soaking him turns into a dull ache. It isn’t regret. I don’t regret showing him I’m angry. It’s hurt from his betrayal, and the fact that I lived in an illusion for years that never had any hope of becoming real.

  His eyes lock with mine, like lasers, as he climbs back up to his seat. One of his curvy, tittering fans is quick to toss him a towel. He doesn’t smile, and he doesn’t say a word…to me. He only shakes his head a little, pinching his brow, as if to ask “What’s this all about?”

  And that fire cycles back into my belly again. I throw hard and fast, clipping the edge of the target, and sending him—and his stupid towel—back into the water. When he comes up for air this time, he actually looks pissed.

  “What the hell, Dakota? Why are you being such a…”

  He doesn’t finish, catching himself in time. But things get slow after that. The oh my gods from his fan club hit my ears in a faint whisper, as his arms flex and he pulls himself back to the platform. His dripping hair covers part of his eyes, and his hand pushes it to the side so he can shoot me a gaze that gives me all the proof I need—that he doesn’t think he did anything wrong at all. That he’s clueless. That he doesn’t give a damn.

  “Go to hell, Jace Padgett!” I seethe, grabbing a ball quickly from the skinny freshman, with shaking knees, standing next to me. In one swift motion, I pitch the hard ball right at Jace’s head. He jerks to the side, nearly falling into the water again, but deflects the ball, sending it clanking off of the tank and into the water whe
re it floats.

  His eyes snap to mine, and I fold my arms across my chest to meet his challenge. My lip quivers because I’m so mad I could cry, but I hold it all in—every muscle in my body working to build a shield against this boy I put on a pedestal.

  This war between Jace Padgett and me has been brewing for a long time. When I look back on it, it’s really a miracle that things haven’t blown up sooner.

  Ha. When I look back on it, it’s pathetic how long I let him walk all over me.

  It all started the day his family moved into the two-story house at the end of our cul-de-sac. My best friend, Brit, and I were riding our bikes in circles a few yards away from their busy driveway, curious about the family with six boys—especially the cute one who looked like he was maybe in sixth grade, too. When a gnarly branch found its way in between the spokes of my ten-speed, and sent me end-over-end in the middle of the road, I screamed bloody murder. Jace—all green-eyed and freckled, with his hat twisted sideways—came running to my rescue. He towered over me, even then, lifting me in his arms and carrying my gangly-legged self into his freshly unpacked family kitchen where his mom bandaged me up.

  From that moment on, I was sunk. The next day at school, Jace’s first at Cartwright Elementary, he sat next to me and asked for help on his math assignment. The day after that, he asked if I would mind finishing the problems he didn’t know how to do. By the end of the week, I was taking his math homework home with me, and, when sixth grade turned into seventh, I was writing his essays with my left hand. I slid him through junior high, and his first three years of high school were filled with honor roll awards, and eligibility on the football team, thanks to the hours I put in doing my homework first, then using different words, ink and handwriting on his.

  It seemed like a good trade. I was this indispensable friend to one of the most important—and cutest—boys in school, and all it cost me was a little extra time in the evenings and on weekends. And, for a while, we really were friends. When we were younger, he’d let me join in on the football games in the middle of our street. I was his favorite target, and, when we’d beat the other kids in the neighborhood, I’d climb on his back so he could carry me around while we bragged about our win. In junior high, when my volleyball practices matched his football schedule, our parents took turns giving us rides home. He would wait for me outside of the locker room, and carry my bag, and I would save him half of my Pop Tarts for our trip to school in the morning.

  We were good friends, even if I hid my notebooks from him where I practiced writing my first name with his last. I had a crush. Jace had lots of girlfriends. And, because I was too embarrassed to do anything about any of it, I was satisfied with the arrangement, knowing I would always have something he needed.

  Once high school started, those rides stopped, and our circles split. I would get nods in the hallway that were sometimes actual “hellos” outside his house. But, other than that, socially, we were acquaintances. We always partnered for class assignments, but there was this silent contract—an expectation—that I would do all of the work at home, and he would share the credit.

  I have been making Jace Padgett shine in the classroom for six freaking years. And I’m exhausted from it. But I still would have done it. I would have carried the scam on for one more year because, as distant as he held me, I still lived for those occasional glances and the even more occasional moments in our neighborhood when he would be his old self and stop to talk. The school’s star quarterback was my Folsom Lane hero long before anyone here noticed how beautiful and amazing he was. And, just like them, I love seeing him be great. At least…I did.

  If only he hadn’t ruined my entire life to save his own ass.

  It was just a poetry assignment. The points didn’t even amount to much. But, for me, that poetry assignment meant moving on to the district contest, then regionals and state. It meant a sit-down meeting with the Saunders Writers College in New Hampshire. It meant opening the door to the one thing I wanted more than being Jace Padgett’s girlfriend.

  And he stole it.

  I told him I wouldn’t have time to write both of our poems. He said it was fine, that he’d just do this one on his own. I believed him, until last Friday, when our language arts teacher Mrs. Mendoza read a short list of names all heading to district to compete for the next level. My name wasn’t on that list, which broke my heart enough, but then…Jace’s name was.

  He wasn’t even in class for the announcement, having left early for that night’s football game. When I asked to read the winners’ poems after class, I got a stern look, followed by a lecture for not completing my own assignment. I glazed over when Mrs. Mendoza rattled on about how disappointed she was in me, how she had high hopes for my entry. I didn’t hear a word she said, and I didn’t need to read the winning poems any more. I knew which one was Jace’s—I knew because it was supposed to be mine. I had asked him to turn it in for me when I was out sick.

  My poem was called Four Letter Words, and all it took was for him to type four letters of his own at the top—JACE—to change the course of my life.

  I used to think I loved Jace Padgett. But, standing here, staring him right in his lying, selfish eyes, I realize I don’t love this boy at all.

  I hate him.

  Four letters—HATE.

  Give

  My tantrum felt good for a solid hour and a half. I came home, slammed my bedroom door, opened it, and slammed it again—seven more times. My parents won’t be home from work for hours, so I felt free to express my rage. And now…now I feel free to sit on top of the kitchen island with a semi-full box of brown sugar in one hand and a spoon in the other.

  “You’re going to get sick,” Brit says, stepping through the main door to my personal little scene of crazy, adolescent acting-outness.

  “Maybe then Jace can write a poem about it. Oh…wait…no. Better yet, I’ll write the poem. And then it will be brilliant, and he can swoop in and put his name on it and take all the glory!” I wave the spoon above my head for emphasis, then dig into the sugar and scoop a spoonful into my mouth. My teeth are starting to hurt. And my stomach. Brit was right.

  “It’s kind of your fault, too, you know,” she says.

  I glare at her like a wild woman.

  “Not. Helping,” I respond, through a crunchy bite of sugar bits.

  I toss my spoon in the sink, push the box of sugar away, and fall back to lay my body over the entire counter space. This is called wallowing. I’ve perfected it.

  “I know, but it doesn’t mean I’m not right,” she says.

  I sigh and slap my hand over my eyes before letting my fingers slip open and my head fall toward my friend, my sad eyes looking at her. I’m crashing—both from the sugar and the high of taking off Jace’s head.

  “How bad was it?” I ask.

  Brit grimaces.

  “He didn’t get hurt. And people only talked about it for the rest of the carnival. It closed an hour after you left, and I’m sure they’re on to something else by now. Most people are going to the dance, so there’s that…” she says, a slight shake to her head. She’s lying. I love her for it.

  “I looked crazy,” I say.

  Her lips purse, and she breathes in through her nose before pulling her hand up to show me a pinch.

  “A little,” she says.

  My lungs feel like they can’t quite get full. It’s been like this ever since I found out about the poem. It meant so much to me. But Jace—I can’t turn him in. And I hate myself for that. I think that’s what makes me the angriest; that, through it all, I still pick Jace. I still hide his secret. I still take the fall, and make him look good, while I look invisible. Can you even look invisible? Crap…I guess I don’t even look at all.

  Brit is the only person I’ve told. I can trust her, and she’s known about the work I do for Jace for years, though I think she’d smack me if she really knew how far I’ve gone in cheating for him. There have been tests, book reports, essays. I used to
tilt my spelling quiz to the side so he could see, and I would be the last to turn my test in just to make sure he had time enough to capture every single word because he would write slow from having to strain to see my writing.

  I’m pathetic.

  If anything should have been enough to break me—to get me to speak up—it should have been the poem. I was close. I sat outside Mrs. Mendoza’s door the next morning with the proof—with my rough drafts, the notes I made in margins, the file on my computer, and the time stamp from when I first typed it. I probably would have done it, too. But then our algebra teacher walked by. And then the government teacher. And the football coach, who just got done making a huge speech the day before about what a model Jace is and how he thinks of him like a son.

  The walls would come crumbling down. Jace would be in trouble…probably lots of it. And there would be questions: How did this happen? Has he done it before? Does this make him ineligible to play? We’re going to need to move him out of your classes. Why have you helped him?

  Selfishly, it’s that last question that probably really made me get up and leave my post, tucking my proof away and taking my zero on an assignment that I’d looked forward to for more than a year. I don’t want to answer that question out loud. I don’t want people to know how much I love Jace Padgett—but mostly I don’t want Jace to know how much I love him.

  As if my pity party could get any worse, it’s broken up by the rattling knock on my kitchen window—the way Jace used to announce his arrival when we were kids. He hasn’t knocked there in years.

  “You have company,” Brit says, a wry smile filled with empathy stretching from cheek to cheek.

  “I can’t believe he’s here,” I say to nobody really. I push myself up on my hands, and let my long brown hair fall in front of my face.