Lucky and the Banged-up Ballerina

by Emmy Grace

  “Really?”

  That makes me feel marginally better.

  “Yeah, your chemistry was crazy good. There for a second, I thought he was going to kiss you.”

  “Seriously?” It felt good. It felt believable. But then again, I might not be the best judge.

  “Yes. Seriously.”

  “It felt kinda magical.”

  “It looked kinda magical.”

  We both sigh. Probably for different reasons, though. Regina’s no doubt fantasizing about Cruz DiSpirito. I, on the other hand, am enthralled with being Baby Houseman for a little while.

  “Good thing he didn’t kiss me, though,” I muse.

  “You don’t think it would actually work on him, do you? I mean, he’s famous.”

  “I don’t know, but I wouldn’t want to test the theory.”

  “Test what theory?” Liam asks. When I turn to look at him, his face is the darkest thundercloud I’ve seen yet.

  “What’s wrong with you?” If anyone should be in a twirl right now, it should be me.

  He ignores my question and repeats his own. “What theory?”

  Before I can come up with an acceptable lie, Regina tells him the truth. “When Lucky kisses a guy, he gets a little too…determined.”

  “Determined?” he asks. Regina nods. “Determined about what?”

  “About Lucky.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “They get sort of obsessed.”

  He turns to glare at me. “When you kiss them?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How obsessed?”

  “Very obsessed,” Regina explains. “Like stalker obsessed. It’s why she had to leave Gator Cove.”

  “Regina,” I hiss.

  “Were you in danger?” Liam’s expression has moved from fierce thundercloud to menacing category four hurricane sky.

  “I don’t know if I’d say danger.”

  “She was once,” Regina confesses. I turn a silencing glower on her and she raises her palms up. “What? It’s true.”

  “Look, it wasn’t that big of a deal,” I tell Liam, hoping to downplay it.

  “And this happens when you kiss men?”

  “It has a few times.”

  “Every time,” Regina mutters.

  “Why?”

  “It’s like the end result of that whole catnip thing,” I explain. Liam told me that I was like catnip to men because they all respond to my “lucky charm” as Regina calls it. “Whatever Beebee did to me when she thought she blessed me makes it hard for men to resist me, and even more so after I kiss them.”

  This doesn’t seem to be allaying Liam’s irrational upset.

  “So what’s the solution?”

  I shrug. “I don’t kiss men.”

  “Ever?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Hm,” is his short reply. I can’t tell if he’s satisfied with my answer or somewhat confused.

  “Well, if it’s any consolation, after tonight, I don’t think you’ll have to worry about Cruz DiSpirito kissing you. If he shows up at all, I’ll be shocked.”

  “He has to! What will I do if he doesn’t? Felonious might make me do something worse.”

  Both Regina and I look to Liam when he says, “I’ll do it.”

  “Pardon?” I ask just as Regina squeals and claps her hands.

  “I’ll do it. Felonious can’t make someone that doesn’t even live in this town do something against his will. If he doesn’t show, I’ll do it.”

  “You can’t do this. You…you… I bet you can’t even dance.”

  Meanwhile, I’m thinking that if Liam Dunning can dance on top of all his other fine attributes, the world as we know it might explode into a shower of estrogen and sweet, sweet dreams.

  He doesn’t answer so much as he demonstrates. He yanks me into his arms and flicks me down into that long, slow arc from right to left, from the very beginning of the scene, pressing my lower body snugly to his.

  When he straightens me, pausing long enough to stare down into my eyes, Johnny style, the only thing I hear is Regina’s gasp.

  And the world around me explodes.

  Or at least it does in my head.

  15

  One dose.

  One dose of those diet pills. That’s all it took.

  I knew I felt a little off yesterday, but I had no idea that little bit of dizziness and that spacey sensation would end up like this. I’ve been up all night making one mad dash after another to the toilet. We are now on a first name basis like never before.

  I call her Betsy.

  I glance left to the golden rays of daylight that are now streaming through my window. I’m still curled into a sweaty ball of belly gurgling intestinal cramps, but at this point, I feel like I might survive.

  Maybe.

  What I can say without doubt is that I now fully understand the mechanism of action of Melt Away. Some sort of chemical reaction happens in your fat cells, causing them to be melted. It’s probably the equivalent of ingesting napalm or something similarly healthy and not at all life-threatening. Then once the fat cells have melted, they pour through your bloodstream to land in your colon like liquid hot magma, which then exits the human body in a relentless, lightning-fast, hair-raising stream of something disgusting.

  If I were to weigh right now, I’d probably be three pounds lighter, easily, so technically the product works like a charm. But would I ever do it again? Ever, ever in a thousand years?

  Not if you put a gun to my head and a cattle prod to my chaffed back side.

  My phone rings from the pillow beside me. Gumbo raises his head and gives me a soft, sleepy snort. While the dog, the cat, the hamster, the fish, and the parrot all slept through my many trips to visit Betsy in the throne room, the pig did not. He looked on with avid curiosity, only settling down when I was once again back in bed.

  “Sorry, buddy,” I whisper to him as I reach for the phone with one limp hand.

  I don’t have to say anything when I answer. It’s a Skype call from Beebee. She gets one look at my face and her expression crumples into one of concern. Just seeing her makes me feel a little better, though. It’s one of the few times I’m not actively regretting teaching her how to Skype. Normally, her timing is the worst.

  “Are you sick, chère?”

  I nod. “Yeah. Been up all night running to the bathroom.”

  She raises her hand and touches her own forehead. I know if she were here, she’d be testing mine for a fever. Just the thought of that wrinkled old hand makes me feel warm on the inside.

  “Are you hot?”

  “No, I’m not that kind of sick. I was testing a weight loss product. This is how you lose weight. Intractable diarrhea.”

  “Land sakes alive, why would you take something like that?”

  “Well, they didn’t exactly say it like that. They used a bunch of big words and technical terms ‘intestinal metabolism’ and ‘colonic elimination’.”

  “Sneaky devils,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “Oughta sue the pants off ’em. Every single one.”

  “I can’t really do that since this is my job. The disclaimer I signed when I started working for Consumer Global covers so much, I probably couldn’t even sue if I was drawn and quartered.”

  “You kids and your fearlessness…” Beebee shakes her head.

  “It’ll all work out. You know it will. Since you blessed me, when hasn’t it worked out?”

  “I know, chère, but this wasn’t what I intended.”

  “It’s perfect for me, though, Beebee. I have a job that I love most of the time, and things just…work out. I’m not complaining. I’d just like to stop pooping sometime this century.”

  “Eat some cheese. That’ll stop you right up.” She nods as if she just gave me the soundest medical advice in the world.

  “I might try that. Thanks, Beebee. How are you?”

  “Plugging along. When you comin’ home to see me?”

  �
�Regina and I were talking about making the trip next month. Sometime around Halloween. How does that sound?”

  Beebee’s dark, round face lights up under her shock of solid white hair. “That’ll be just fine. Just fine, I say.”

  Beebee has always loved Halloween. She hands out candy to all the kids in Gator Cove, and for the ones who can’t come, she delivers a bag of goodies the next day. She’s like the Queen of Halloween where I grew up.

  “It’s a plan then.”

  There’s a knock at my door, and not a particularly angry one, which means it’s not Liam, so I say my goodbyes to Beebee and drag myself out of bed.

  I peek out the crack in the blinds as I head for the door. I see an old hearse parked in the driveway and a skeletal Scotsman dozing behind the wheel. That would be Malcolm Douglas driving Miss Haddy’s hearse, which tells me exactly who’s at the door.

  I swing it open to find not one, but two women on my porch.

  “Good morning, Miss Haddy,” I say to the heavier of the two women. With her curly white hair, rosy cheeks, and sweet smile, she looks like Mrs. Claus. I happen to know that while she is that sweet, she’s definitely not as saintly. Miss Haddy is the Salty Springs equivalent of the Godfather. In green velour. I would call her Godmother, but that conjures images of fairies and wands. This woman is miles away from either.

  “Good morning, sugarplum. We brought you some monkey bread.” Miss Haddy holds out a platter of gooey goodness wrapped in plastic film.

  “I didn’t make it, so it’s probably good,” says Mrs. Stephanopoulos as she stands at Miss Haddy’s right. It’s sort of fitting that she’d be on that side since she’s the Godmother’s right-hand woman. Mrs. S. is the town snitch for Miss Haddy. She seems to know everything about everyone.

  I muster up a smile even as my belly gives a sick, wobbly groan. “Thank you. I love monkey bread.” I take the platter and step back to motion them inside. “Would you like to come in? I’ll make coffee.”

  Miss Haddy glances down at my stomach, her eyes wide. “Was that your stomach?”

  I put one hand on it, wishing that would settle it down. “Yeah. It’s been a little angry.”

  She looks over at Mrs. Snuffleupagus. “You were right.”

  Mrs. S. scrunches up her trunk-like nose into a look of disgust. “Told you the bathroom light was on and off half the night.” She turns her small, sharp eyes on me, suspicious. “Are you contagious? I’m not coming in there if you’re contagious.”

  Miss Haddy elbows her. “Don’t be rude.”

  “That’s not rude. It’s honest.”

  “For you it’s the same thing.” Miss Haddy smiles at me. “It’s why we brought you breakfast. Bready things are good for an upset stomach.”

  “This isn’t a normal upset stomach. It’s because of a product I was testing. It gave me, uh…”

  “The squirts?” Mrs. S. offers.

  Miss Haddy elbows her again. “Don’t be crude.”

  “It’s not crude. It’s honest.”

  “For you it’s the same thing.”

  I have to grin. It’s like watching Laurel and Hardy. If they were women. Funny old women.

  “Bottom line is I’m not contagious, so you’re both free to come in if you have time.”

  “No, sugar bottom, we just wanted to stop by. We have a few other things to tend to today. We’ll be at your performance tonight, though, if you’re still up to it.” Miss Haddy’s eyes sparkle with mischief.

  “I guess I’ll have to be, won’t I?”

  She reaches out to pat my hand. “The monkey bread will help. It’s an old family recipe. Trust me.” She winks one blue eye and then turns to my landlady. “Let’s get going, Marge.”

  I watch the two women totter off. They don’t look like much trouble, but I know for a fact looks can be deceiving. Behind those frumpy rumps and orthopedic shoes are two sharp, industrious minds.

  “Thanks again for the bread,” I call before Miss Haddy ducks into the hearse. She smiles, Mrs. S. throws up a hand like always. I shut the door, still shaking my head.

  I take the monkey bread into the kitchen and set it on the counter. My belly gurgles again, but my stomach growls with a little bit of hunger, so I peel back the plastic wrap just out of curiosity. The scent of cinnamon and sugar and something I can’t quite identify wafts up and hits my nose, and my mouth instantly starts to water. I pinch off a piece and plop it on my tongue. It begins to dissolve right away. It’s a decadent confection of the highest order. I pinch off another bite. And another. And within ten minutes, I’ve eaten half the platter and downed a glass of milk. But ten minutes after that, miraculously, I’m feeling quite a bit better.

  I make a mental note to ask Miss Haddy what’s in the bread, even though part of me wonders if I really want to know. Knowing those two old ladies, it’s probably an ingredient I’d rather not be aware of eating.

  I shower and dress, and head for the Spring Water Inn. My only two goals for the day are to talk to Trenton Gibb and to nail the lift on my performance tonight.

  And not to poop my pants at any given time, of course.

  That’s a given.

  When I get to Main Street, my stomach flips over, but not because of those pills I tested. One-Legged Jack mentioned Felonious was taking care of all the promotion and flyers, so I knew this was coming. But knowing it and actually seeing it are two completely different things.

  Every tree, lamppost, storefront, parking meter, and blue mailbox along Main Street boasts a flyer announcing the date and time of my little task tonight. Sadly, that’s not even the worst part. Felonious, the heartless teenaged prankster that she is, got a photo of me (illegally, no doubt) and superimposed my face on a scantily clad dancer with her limbs wrapped around Cruz DiSpirito. She probably just had to Google for his likeness.

  I pull open the Spring Water Inn front door, groaning when I see there’s a flyer on both sides of it, too. Staring at me. Mocking me.

  When I swing through, Paul is sitting behind the desk watching me. I don’t know the guy at all, but it’s easy to see he’s holding back a smile. His eyes are alight with it, and his lips are quivering with the effort to contain it.

  I walk over to the long counter and lean up against it. “Go head. Get it out.”

  He doesn’t even have to ask what I mean. He just starts laughing. “Looks like you met Felonious,” he finally says through his mirth.

  “How did you know?”

  “I can spot her work from twenty paces.”

  I nod in understanding. “Ah, so you’ve had your run-in with her, too.”

  “Twice. And those were enough.”

  I tap my hand on the wood before I turn toward the stairs. “I feel your pain, Paul. I feel your pain.”

  “Welcome to the club,” he says lightly just before I disappear. I pull a Mrs. S. and throw up a hand in acknowledgement. Sometimes that’s all that needs to be said.

  When I stop in front of Trenton Gibb’s room and raise my hand to knock, I see that he’s got the safety latch flipped over to keep the door from shutting completely. I don’t have to wonder why when I hear the squeak of wheels and look left to see a room service cart coming down the hall. It’s probably for Trenton.

  I step back, figuring I’ll let the boy deliver the food before I start with my questions, but I get distracted by a voice—Trenton’s voice—and the words it’s forming.

  It’s one end of a conversation. Trenton must be on the phone.

  “It’ll look bad if I replace her with you right now. The public doesn’t even know she’s dead.”

  Trenton isn’t talking very loudly. His back might even be facing the door, but it’s quiet except for the squeak of the wheels, and he probably thinks he’s alone.

  “But the fact that you’re my girlfriend is exactly why it will look so bad.” A pause. “I told you if I’d had another choice, I’d have given you the spot a long time ago, but her contract was ironclad.” Another pause. “I swear we weren�
��t. I haven’t been with Serena in months.”

  Haven’t been with Serena in months?

  This is just confirmation. Although Trenton denied being involved with Serena that way, my gut told me he was lying. The way Cruz reacted was very telling. This just confirms that my gut was right, and that I’d read Cruz right.

  Lucky gut to the rescue!

  Trenton and Serena were having an affair. That alone could be motive. Evidently, several things could. He’s seeing another ballerina, one obviously interested in Serena’s spot. Serena had a contract Trenton couldn’t get out of. Separately, they could each be a motive, but together?

  It doesn’t paint a pretty picture for ol’ Trent.

  I step aside when the room service cart finally arrives at the door. The kid is probably not a day over sixteen, has a face covered in zits, and gives me the shyest smile I’ve seen since grade school.

  He knocks on the door a couple times and pushes it open. Obviously, Trenton told him the door would be open. He might’ve been planning to get in the shower or something.

  I follow the room service cart in, and see that I was right. Trenton is standing in the center of the room facing the window. He’s in a robe with a towel draped around his neck and his cell phone pressed to his ear.

  The delivery kid clears his throat and sets the tray onto the desk by the door.

  Trenton starts finishing up, so he must’ve heard the knock. “We’ll talk about this later. I’m sure I’ll be able to leave here in a day or two.”

  He gets off the phone and turns to address the room service boy. His brows rise when he sees me standing here, too.

  “Ms. Boucher. What a nice surprise.”

  Not really, I’m sure.

  “Have I come at a bad time?”

  “Not at all. You can keep me company while I eat.”

  He tips the young guy, who nods and thanks him, then gives me another shy smile as he leaves. He’ll be cute one day. When he outgrows his unpredictable skin and fills out those lanky limbs.

  “Would you like something? I’d be glad to order a plate for you.”

  “No, thanks. I already ate.”

  “To what do I owe the pleasure then?”

  I watch him calmly butter his toast and sprinkle salt and pepper onto his scrambled eggs. “I just had a couple of follow-up questions for you.” He nods, chewing and paying me little attention. “I think it was Cruz that mentioned Serena had a lot of enemies because of the cutthroat business. Do you happen to know which ballerinas might’ve benefited most from her death?”