“Psychics aren’t real.”
“Oh, right.”
Aunt Jenny went to see a psychic last October, right around her diagnosis. The psychic told her she would make a full recovery, and charged her a hundred bucks. I wanted to find that psychic and stomp on all the little bones in her foot and take Aunt Jenny’s money back.
“So you think it’s a hoax?” I asked. “Somebody messing with me?”
Bobby didn’t say anything.
“I mean, of course it’s a hoax. Nobody can control someone else’s luck.”
Still quiet.
“Even though there’s been a lot of coincidences lately. They’re just coincidences.”
Bobby finally spoke. “If you believe in it, then it works.”
I wasn’t sure what he meant. “What, like Tinkerbell?”
“No. Like the placebo effect.”
I gave him another blank look.
“It’s a scientific phenomenon. A placebo is a fake pill. In headache studies, for example, researchers tell the test participants they’re being given aspirin for their headache. But what some of the participants are really getting is a fake pill with no medicine in it. Often, the participants who take the placebo find that their headache is cured anyway. The participants expect the pill to work, so it does. Someone told you that you would be lucky this month, and so you are. Or so you perceive.”
I tried to understand what Bobby was telling me. “So it’s a fake-out?”
“It depends,” he said. He rose to his feet and made eye contact for the first time since we’d been talking. “Is your headache cured?”
“I’m not sure,” I said.
Bobby resumed scanning the beach for treasure. “Then maybe it wasn’t hurting in the first place,” he said, walking away.
* * *
I was just as confused after talking with Bobby as I had been before. I walked back to the house, stopping outside to shake the sand off my feet so Grandma wouldn’t complain about me getting sand in her beach house, which, btw, is built on sand. Then I heard Mom’s voice.
“The school suspended the boy for a week,” she said. “And they suspended Savannah, too, even though she’s the victim. Like the poor girl hasn’t been punished enough! It’s so backward and sexist, but nowadays all the schools have these zero-tolerance policies when it comes to sending those pictures. Those kids are lucky they weren’t expelled.”
Grandma clucked. “They should expel them! You don’t want Emma going to school with kids like that.”
“Oh, give me a break,” said Mom. “We’ve known Savvy since she was eight years old. She’s a normal girl who made a common mistake. Savvy wanted to be popular, and she got peer-pressured. It could’ve just as easily been Emma, falling for that boy. She’s lucky she wasn’t ‘cool’ enough to hang out with the popular kids.”
I froze.
As much as it sucked to hear it said out loud, casually, like a fact everybody accepted about the world, I knew Mom was right: My fundamental lack of coolness probably saved me. If the popular group had ever liked me—if I’d gotten everything I put on my luck list—I would have been the one hanging out at Dakota’s. I would have been the one making out with Tyler Hoff. Me. Not Savvy. And I would have done anything Tyler asked of me—even send him a topless pic.
Luck, I was starting to realize, comes in many flavors. I’d been thinking of luck as “things I wanted to happen,” but luck was also “preventing things I didn’t want to happen.” I had been lucky all afternoon—lucky a rogue wave didn’t sweep me out to sea, lucky I didn’t trip on the boardwalk and break my back, lucky that it was Bobby on the deserted beach and not a serial killer. Something bad could have happened to me, but it didn’t.
It happened to Savvy instead.
I finished de-sanding myself and went inside. Mom and Grandma killed their conversation as soon as I opened the door.
“Bloop,” said Mom.
“Where did you go?” asked Grandma. She sounded suspicious, as if maybe instead of walking on the beach I’d been out sending topless pics of myself to the world at large.
“Beach,” I said. Before she could say it, I added, “Don’t worry—I shook off the sand.”
* * *
That afternoon, Mom went to the island’s one daily AA meeting. Grandma “rested her eyes for a minute,” which means she “fell asleep snoring on the couch for two hours.”
I read and did schoolwork and looked at my phone for a while. Waggytail had posted pics of the new dogs for adoption, and I hearted them all. Brooke had pics of her and Harrison trying on costumes at the costume shop: Harrison as an Egyptian king, Brooke as a pirate, the two of them wearing the two halves of a bear costume. The head of the bear looked hilarious with Harrison’s skinny legs sticking out, and Brooke looked like she was wearing giant furry overalls made for a huge fat man. Heart, heart, heart, crying-from-laughing emoji, stop having fun without me, LOL.
Venice Biandi had also posted some pics of herself at Dakota’s house, looking like she’d climbed up another step on the social ladder. There she was, doing duckface with Dakota and Naturi, draped seductively across Tyler’s lap.
Careful, Venice, I thought. Keep that shirt on.
When Mom came back, Grandma was still asleep. “Let’s go down to the bay and watch the sunset,” Mom suggested. I grabbed my hoodie, put on Penguin’s leash, and followed her.
I could feel Aunt Jenny walking beside us. Early in the season, when the horseshoe crabs would crawl onto the shore to mate, Aunt Jenny would go down to the bay and look for any that were stuck on their backs in the sand. Once they’re beached like that, they’re basically food for the seagulls. It’s pretty gruesome. Aunt Jenny would take a beached crab and pick it up by the sides of its shell and chuck it back into the bay, saving its life.
“No need to thank me,” she’d call as the crab scooted away into deeper water. “Live your life to the fullest—that’s thanks enough for me.”
I always thought it was kind of silly. Once when we were crab hunting and I’d grown bored of it, I told her it was dumb. “It’ll just wash up and get beached again. You can’t save them all.”
Aunt Jenny picked up a big old crusty crab. It waved its claws at me. “But I can save this one.”
Now I wondered how many crabs Aunt Jenny saved, and how many babies those crabs had. This summer, she would save none. If a crab got beached, it was getting eaten alive by a bird. Bad luck for you, crab.
Mom must have been thinking the same thing. “I bet the crabs are sad Aunt Jenny’s not coming this year.”
“Yeah. It’s gonna be a crab-pocalypse.”
“Yeah. Unless…”
“Unless what?” I asked, uneasy. There was no way I could pick up one of those creepy-crawly things with all the legs and whatnot. Even if it meant that I was dooming the creatures to a gory death. I. Just. Could. Not.
“We could get a shovel,” Mom said, stopping short. “Let’s go back and get the shovel.”
We headed back to the house, got the shovel, and hurried over to the bay, where six or seven crabs were stuck on their backs. Mom used the shovel to scoop them up and deposit them into the water. The seagulls squawked and cried, clearly yelling in seagull-ese, “YOU STUPID JERKS JUST RUINED DINNER.” Penguin barked at them until they fled.
We sat where the ground met the dune, where the sand was dry and the bugs weren’t too bad. The sun was thinking about going down, but it hadn’t made up its mind yet. It hung over the bay, making everything brilliant and pink and orange, then sank gradually, like a kid who’s tired but doesn’t want to fall asleep.
Aunt Jenny was gone. But the crabs were saved.
“Bloop,” said Mom.
“Bloop,” I confirmed.
“Wrff,” added Penguin. We took our shovel and walked home.
* * *
We’d just made it back to our apartment on Sunday evening, after the epic return journey from Grandma’s, and we were scouring the fridge for someth
ing quick to make for dinner when Mom got a FaceTime request from Darren.
I thought she’d ignore it, but she smoothed her hair and straightened her shirt and sat down to answer it on her laptop. “Hey, Dare,” she said brightly when the connection came through. “What’s up?”
Dare? I thought.
“Hey, Katie the Computer Lady.”
Mom laughed. I froze. OMG. They were flirting. So, so awkward. Few things are as cringeworthy as witnessing your parent flirt. It’s like accidentally walking into the bathroom while they’re pooping. Nobody wants to see that.
More important, Mom’s not allowed to flirt with men who have wives or girlfriends. This is the rule her best friend made right after Mom became unintentionally pregnant by a married man. Aunt Jenny agreed with Mom that, yes, it all worked out for the best, because I was the greatest thing that ever happened to her and to the universe in general. But Mom had to agree with Aunt Jenny that she could have picked an unmarried man to get intentionally pregnant with, instead of the other way around.
Then, two years ago, there was a client named Pete who told Mom he wanted to leave his wife so he could be with her, even though he and Mom had never even kissed. I wouldn’t have known anything about that situation, but Mom and Aunt Jenny were talking about it one night in the kitchen when I happened to be in an eavesdropping mood.
“I’m not trying to break up a marriage!” Mom said to Aunt Jenny. “It’s not my fault Pete went nuts. I never said I wanted to be romantic with him. I don’t know where he got that idea, but it wasn’t from me!”
Aunt Jenny could raise one eyebrow without the other one, something she was often forced to do with Mom. I didn’t hear Mom say anything in reply, so I assumed Aunt Jenny had deployed the eyebrow.
“Okay,” Mom confessed. “I flirted with him. But he started it! And there was no physical contact!” Pause. “And I already quit working for him! I’m never going to see him again.”
Another silence. Aunt Jenny’s eyebrow must have been working overtime.
“Fine,” said Mom. “I solemnly swear that I will never again flirt with a man who’s in a relationship. Okay?”
And now, here she was sitting in the exact same chair in the exact same kitchen where she swore to Aunt Jenny that she would never again flirt with a taken guy. Flirting with a taken guy.
“Hey,” I said loudly. “Your child is starving to death.”
She looked at me like You better hurry up and die, then, before I kill you.
I didn’t know if she knew what I was thinking or why I was being a brat. But she did end the call and close the laptop, and we skipped the cooking and went out to the diner down the block.
And that, I sincerely hoped, was the end of that.
Nine
“Hey, rat. Want some cheese?”
It was Lucky Day 22. Dakota stood in front of my lunch table, arms folded. Brooke, Harrison, Geneva, and the rest of the cast acted like they weren’t there. We were pretty great at it, because we’re actors. If we ran out of conversation, we just said our lines from the show, with the word “banana” in place of the nouns (“You’re my whole banana!” “But I need my own banana!” “If your banana was still alive, she’d agree with me.” Etc.).
Naturi sneered at me. “Or are you having garbage for lunch?”
My drama friends had become my buffer at school, keeping me safe from the whispers and looks people hurled at me. It wasn’t just Dakota’s group that was bugging me; it was most of the kids in the eighth grade. Every kid knows you’re not supposed to tattle to adults, and even people who weren’t friends with Tyler hated me for ratting on him.
Which, as you will recall, I did not do.
Tyler returned to school as popular as ever: a hero to the boys, a magnet to the girls. Meanwhile, Savvy had become a fictional character. People felt free to make up stories about things she supposedly did. All they had to do was start a sentence with “I heard she…” and then they could say anything they liked. Over the course of five days, I’d heard that (1) Savvy was in love with Tyler and wouldn’t stop texting him, (2) Savvy was a sexting addict, and (3) Savvy was pregnant.
“Rat!” Sierra said sharply. “Why aren’t you squealing?”
I wouldn’t give Dakota and her crew the satisfaction of a response. They couldn’t get to me. They could taunt me at lunch, but I was surrounded by supportive friends. They could catch up to me in the girls’ locker room after gym, but …
But nothing, actually. That was legit scary. Nobody else was there, and Dakota had me backed up against a locker, with the combination lock sticking into my back.
“You messed with Tyler,” she growled at me. “Nobody messes with my friend.”
I didn’t mess with Tyler! I wanted to say, but not a lot of air was reaching my brain at that moment. Dakota’s hot breath was right in my face, and her fist was ready to follow.
Just as I was mentally writing my will, the janitor yelled from the hallway. “Time to go, ladies. I gotta mop up in there.”
Gratefully, I scooted past them and ran to math class.
This was my life.
Don’t get me wrong—there were some bright spots, namely, everything having to do with the play. Me and Brooke and Harrison and Geneva—or some combination thereof—were together so much, we’d developed a shorthand code that involved us saying things like “That’s not your mustard” or “Jabberwocky makes sense now,” to the total bafflement of everyone around us.
Also, I really enjoyed acting. It turned out that I could cry on cue by thinking of Mom crying after Aunt Jenny’s funeral, which was the saddest sight I’d ever seen. Ms. Engel was full of praise for me, and Melanie said I fully embodied Nadine. “You brought her to life,” she said dramatically (of course). When I was at rehearsal, I felt great.
Except for one thing: Lewis.
I hated him with the fire of a thousand burning suns. He had helped spread the picture of Savvy. He hung out with the worst human beings on the planet. He did nothing while his friends harassed me in the lunchroom and any other room they could catch me in. He sat at the cool table with a smirky smile on his face, and I would have given up a kidney if I could have slapped him hard enough to wipe it off permanently.
* * *
“Today,” said Ms. Engel at Wednesday afternoon’s rehearsal, “we rehearse the love scene.”
Of course.
Lewis’s smirk twisted into something else. He took his position on the stage and waited for me. I dragged my feet, dreading every second of this.
“Let’s start where Julian enters,” said Ms. Engel. “From ‘Psst, Nadine, over here!’ Okay?”
Lewis climbed the stepladder representing the tree outside Nadine’s window. The crew was building a great-looking fake tree, but it wasn’t done yet. Most of the crew members were upper schoolers, and a few of the guys were severely hot. Another bonus of the theatrical life.
“‘Psst, Nadine,’” said Lewis, knocking on an invisible pane of glass. “‘Over here!’”
I couldn’t look him in the eyes. I wished this were a scene where I had to get really angry, because I could have done that with no problem. Instead, it was a tender scene in which Julian tells Nadine that he won’t let her father come between them.
“Okay, Emma,” said Ms. Engel. “You’re over by the dresser brushing your hair.”
I stood downstage left and mimed brushing.
“Then you hear him, and you stop, but you don’t turn. Remember, you’re hoping he will go away on his own, so you don’t have to feel stuck between him and your father.”
Hoping he will go away. That I could do. All through the scene, as Lewis climbed down off the ladder and we said our lines standing close to each other, I stared at his chin instead of his eyes and thought, Go away, go away, go away.
At one point Ms. Engel said, “Okay, maybe less resistance to him, Emma. Yes, you’re trying to be strong, but this is the man you love. Also, eye contact. I feel like you’re not connecti
ng somehow.”
I looked into Lewis’s eyes. I hadn’t really done that before. He was usually squinting or looking down his nose at people. Now his eyes were wide open. Lewis’s eyes were hazel and green, with stubby brown lashes, and they looked … sad.
In my mind, I’d been saying, Go away, go away, go away. I knew he heard me loud and clear. I didn’t know for sure what Lewis was thinking, but his eyes said, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
No you’re not.
He reached for my hand, as instructed by the script. He held it gently in his own, caressing it with his thumb.
“I love that thumb thing,” said Ms. Engel. “Even if they can’t see it past the first three rows. Perfect. Emma, keep looking into his eyes.”
Yes, I am. I’m sorry. Please believe me.
No. Drop dead.
“Okay,” Ms. Engel said. “Now you lean forward…”
Lewis leaned forward.
“And you kiss her.”
Lewis gave me one last searching look. Please, Emma, don’t hate me.
I thought you loved being hated.
Not by you.
He touched my face with his fingers, closed his eyes, and then his warm lips met mine. He kissed me softly, not too much pressure—a teasing, tingling kiss. My head spun, and my disloyal, idiot lips were like “YES. THIS. MORE.” Lewis slowly withdrew and looked at me.
“Wow,” said Ms. Engel.
“Wow,” said Melanie.
WOW, I thought. My pulse was pounding. Why? I’d kissed boys before, playing spin-the-bottle and stuff, nothing very romantic. But I had never really been kissed by a boy. Not like that.
I looked at Lewis, alarmed. He had dropped to one knee and was retying his shoe. It almost looked like he was going to propose.
He looked up at me with concern. Was that okay? I know you didn’t want to kiss me, but it was in the script.
I tried to catch my breath and steady my gaze. Yeah, that was okay.
Lewis smiled. Not smirked, not leered, but smiled. I couldn’t help it—I smiled back at him.
“Guys, that was great,” said Ms. Engel. “Now let’s take it from the top again.”
Lucky Little Things Page 8