Chasing Lucky

by Jenn Bennett

  “Magazine?” His brow lowers. “You mean … Coast Life?”

  “You know it?”

  “Only magazine in town. Started up a few years ago.”

  Oh.

  “Had no idea they offered an internship,” he says.

  “Shadowing the photographer who’s shooting Regatta Week at the end of summer,” I confirm. “I think it’s the only photography internship in the area, so getting it would be a huge deal for me. My dad would really respect it,” I tell him, feeling a little despondent but unable to admit that I lost the internship already. Because I’m too young.

  “Hey, Regatta Week is a big deal for everyone with status in Beauty. More money is blown in one pointless weekend than on entire wars, and nearly no one gets killed, so hey. Good luck with snagging that, if that’s the kind of thing your dad will respect.”

  I think he’s looking down on the internship. Pretty sure. Al-l-lmost positive.

  “And I guess it confirms what I suspected,” he adds.

  “What’s that?” I say.

  “It’s just how it was before,” he says, eyes darkening. “Don’t get too attached to Josie Saint-Martin because she’s just passing through.”

  Okay, fair …

  But it also feels a little bit like a punch to the gut.

  A shout snaps our attention to the French doors of the pool house. Someone’s fighting. Not the kind with fists and punching. The kind with name-calling and crying. Normally, that would be exactly the sort of drama I would try to avoid, but I recognize the tenor of one of the muffled voices beyond the paned doors, and my pulse goes wild.

  “Oh no,” I whisper.

  I push out of my seat, rush to the pool house, and swing open the doors. A crowd of gawkers cranes their necks away from a big-screen TV to see what’s transpiring across the open room. A couple is arguing near the kitchenette area. Half of that couple is my cousin.

  “Just leave me alone!” Evie’s shouting across a granite kitchen counter littered with plastic party cups and half-eaten plates of catered food. Tear tracks stain her cheeks. She’s not crying now, but she has been recently. Now she’s just angry.

  And the object of her anger is a very tall, very muscular guy with cropped blond hair and intense eyes. His crimson Harvard Crew T-shirt stretches over shoulders broad enough to hold up the world. “You’re the one who showed up at my cousin’s house after breaking up with me,” he shouts back, aggressively pointing at her over the counter. “You’re sending me a lot of mixed signals, Evie.”

  Jesus. This is Adrian Summers?

  “Here’s a signal for you,” she says, holding up her middle finger. “Leave me alone.”

  As she stomps around the counter, he drunkenly calls to her, “So typical. You Saint-Martins are a three-ring circus, you know that? Diedre’s the world’s greatest hypocrite. Your mom’s a sociopath. You’re an emotional seesaw. And now Wild Winona, the Whore of Babylon, is back in town, along with her little mistake, the amateur photographer.”

  I make a noise, and his attention slides from Evie to me.

  “There she is. And who doesn’t love a good amateur, am I right? Word on the street is that all your best pics are behind a paid subscription wall online. Twenty bucks and you get access to all your nudes.”

  “What?” I say, but it comes out as a whisper.

  “Isn’t that how your mom met your famous photographer dad, posing in the buff for him? Like mother, like daughter, huh?” Adrian whips out his phone. “We were just enjoying one tonight, weren’t we boys? Where was that? Oh, here we go.”

  He turns his phone around to show me the screen. It’s a nude, all right. One I’ve seen before by accident, when I was younger. It’s my mother, photographed by my father when she was nineteen. It’s in black and white, and the top of her head is cropped off, so it’s hard to identify that it’s her. In fact, it would be easy to mistake the girl in the picture for me.

  Except that I know for a fact it’s not. But that doesn’t matter to anyone here.

  Adrian puckers his lips and makes a kissy face at me.

  Dark laughter swirls around the pool house.

  An earthquake starts in my belly and spreads up into my chest. I feel sick. Humiliated. And completely unable to do a damn thing about it. So I just stand there, staring at a naked picture of my mother. Hating her a little for ruining my life once again. Hating all of these people for objectifying her. Wanting to rip the phone away from Adrian and beat his smug face with it.

  Adrian just clicks off the screen, turns away from me, and finishes his grand speech to Evie, saying, “Your family’s cursed, all right. You’re all a blight on Beauty!”

  “And you’re an asshole,” a smoky voice says over my shoulder.

  I glance behind me to see Lucky glaring at Adrian.

  “Stay out of this, grease monkey,” Adrian says. “This is above your pay grade.”

  One of Adrian’s friends pulls on his shoulder. “Come on, man. You’re wasted. You’ll regret this tomorrow.”

  Adrian shoves his buddy away. “The only thing I regret is coming back home this summer. I should have stayed in Cambridge. All of you are losers. All of you!” And with that, he stumbles around the counter and out the door, heading toward the lights and music of the pool outside, where the main party is oblivious to what’s happened in here.

  Evie pushes through the crowd and grabs my arm. “I’m so sorry,” she says near my ear. “Are you okay?”

  No. I’m not. How did Adrian, some rich fool I’ve never even met, get a nude photograph of my mom? And how did he know about my Photo Funder subscription service and get the two things mixed up together? That’s a complete and utter lie. I’ve never taken a nude selfie in my life. I don’t even take clothed selfies. It’s rare that I even take photos of people at all.

  I suddenly remember Big Dave at school, asking about private photo sessions … blowing me a kiss in the hallway like Adrian just did. Now I realize that’s truly what people think I do. Not just the dimwits in my school like Big Dave, but the Goldens. I wonder how far this photo has spread. Does everyone in town believe they’ve seen me in the buff?

  I don’t know whether I want to punch something or cry.

  “I’m fine,” I tell Evie, even though I’m not. “Are you?”

  “Just typical drama.” She glances around at everyone staring at us and calls out to the pool house: “Nothing to see here. That photo is a fake. Adrian’s just drunk and spouting off because his feelings are hurt. What else is new? Enjoy your evening, folks.”

  Um, this is not typical for me, thankyouverymuch. I want to ask her more. I want to tell her that I’m ready to leave and get away from these people. She can tell me everything on the walk home and, and—

  “I’m so sorry I dragged you into this shit. Don’t listen to what he said or worry about the photo.”

  “Evie,” I whisper. “You know that wasn’t me, right?”

  “Hush. I know. I’m going to see if I can find out where he got it.” She looks toward her friends who are saying something to her. “Can you hang on for a while? It’s just, I need to … I’ll be right back, I promise.”

  Before I can protest, she’s striding away, being comforted by Vanessa from Barcelona.

  And now I’m alone. Stunned. Confused. Enduring stares and whispers.

  And very angry.

  I see Lucky though the crowd, but I can’t handle him right now. I can’t handle any of this. I’m completely overwhelmed, and I can’t “hang on.” I just need to get out of here. Away from all of it. I could call Mom to come pick me up, but honestly, she’s the last person I want to see right now. So I don’t call her. I just stride out of the pool house, around the pool, and across the perfectly manicured lawn, listening to the sounds of the party fade as I trudge around a curving gravel driveway filled with parked cars. In a few minutes, I’m out of the gate and walking down the dark sidewalk into town.

  It’s not midnight yet, and Beauty prides itself
on being safe, so I’m not all that worried about walking home alone—it’s not far. Still, I try to stay aware and stick to the gas streetlamps, following the main road through the historic district.

  Adrian Summers. Who the hell does he think he is? God only knows who heard him say all that stuff tonight and saw that photo. Probably a bunch of sons and daughters of other rich families around town … people who will gossip about this tomorrow over brunch at the Lighthouse Café and cocktails at the Yacht Club. I suppose this means I can now look forward to customers coming into the shop and snickering behind the bookshelves.

  The more I think about it, the madder I get. The madder I get, the faster I walk. Moonlight shines on Georgian-style roofs as I stride down the block, past a marble statue of one of the town elders—probably someone who drowned the so-called witch buried in our graveyard. Every white fence is perfectly painted. Every shop window gleams. But when I turn the corner and head toward the grassy quad in our historic town common, I slow my pace in front of a multistory brick building.

  Summers & Co Department Store.

  Angry aftershocks rumble through me. I ball up my hands into fists to keep them from shaking as I stare up at the art deco letters that curve around the side of the old building. I mean, why does this even exist? It looks like a movie set through which Cary Grant might stroll. A dinosaur that should have died out decades ago. But no. Here in Beauty, it’s still going strong. Enormous pane glass window displays from the 1920s, mannequins wearing pastel boating shorts and bright yellow sundresses. And all of it lining the Summers family’s pockets.

  For a moment, the rumble in my chest seems to have a real-life echo somewhere around me that I can’t find. Then I see a single headlight and hear the insect-like buzz of a vintage motorcycle engine. A red Superhawk glides up to the curb.

  “Are you following me?” I shout at Lucky over the vibration of his bike.

  He shuts off the engine. “It’s late, and we’re going in the same direction. You shouldn’t be walking alone. I can drop you off on my way home.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “I’m not a creeper. Seriously. Someone was mugged out here last week.”

  “I appreciate your concern,” I say. “But I can take care of myself. You know, seeing how I’m an entrepreneur who makes my own porn to sell online, apparently. Even though it wasn’t—goddammit!” Great. Now I’m crying.

  “Hey—” He pops his kickstand, stands up from his bike.

  I brush away angry tears—Temper Tears, Mom calls them, and they are the absolute worst—and turn away from him, walking in a circle.

  “That wasn’t my picture,” I say. To him. To myself. To the empty, dark town common.

  “It doesn’t matter if it was. He’s an asshole, and if you had a lawyer, you could sue him.”

  “But it wasn’t! Lucky. Don’t you get it? It was my mom’s photos from college.”

  He stills. “Oh shit.”

  “Yes, shit!” I say, watching realization dawn over his face. He knows all about my origin story. At least he used to. I guess he remembers, or he’s heard gossip, because he looks mighty uncomfortable right now. “As far as the other thing Adrian said, I mean, I do have an online non-nude—I can’t stress that enough—subscription service. But I don’t even know how anyone here would know about it. We haven’t lived anywhere close to here in years. I know it’s not Evie spreading gossip about me.”

  “It’s not Evie,” he confirms, taking off his helmet—the one with the Lucky 13 design.

  “Can’t be Evie’s mom. Aunt Franny is kind of uptight, but she’s not mean. She’s more of a mind-my-own-business kind of person.”

  “She makes good carrot cake,” he says.

  She does. “Maybe my grandmother told people about my subscription service and it got distorted through gossip … ?” I make a frustrated sound at the night sky.

  I’m so tired. I’m tired of gossip. And Beauty. And my mom. And defending my mom. And our terrible, broken communication. I’m tired of moving around. I’m tired of trying to prove myself to my father. I’m tired of feeling both too young to start my life and too old to cling to the way things were, and I’m tired of feeling so damn unstable and unsure about the future.

  I’m tired of losing everything that’s important to me.

  But most of all, right at this moment, I’m tired of looking at those polished steel letters of the Summers & Co sign, because why does this family get to be on top of the food chain?

  His father cost me my internship.

  And now Adrian’s blond, stupid I-row-at-Harvard head gets to humiliate me and hurt my cousin while I have to scurry into the shadows and hide.

  The Summers family. I hate all of them.

  And I hate Beauty.

  Furious, I pick up a rock near my feet. It fills my palm with a delicious weight.

  “Uh, Josie?”

  I pull back my arm, use all my strength, and lob the rock at the shiny steel letters of the Summers & Co sign.

  “Wait, wait, wait!” Lucky says, holding out his hands to stop me. But it’s too late.

  Funny thing about rage. It makes you think you have more power than you do. My pipsqueak-size arm sends the rock sailing through the night air, sure enough, but it fails to reach the art deco sign. Instead, it lands smack in the middle of the giant display window.

  It shatters violently. Glass tumbles like a waterfall. Everywhere, a horrendous sound that echoes around the town common. Mannequins fall. Stubborn shards stuck to the top of the casing fall a few seconds later like an afterthought, as if they’re melting icicles of death.

  “Ho-ly shit … ,” Lucky mumbles.

  What.

  Have.

  I.

  Done?

  My chest hardens like cooling lava as shock floods my limbs. This isn’t just any old window. It’s a local legend. People come from miles to see the live models who pose in it every fall and the lavish orchid displays at Easter. Every December for almost a hundred years, people have gathered around this sidewalk to see the unveiling of the annual holiday display.

  OH MY GOD. I RUINED CHRISTMAS.

  I don’t have time to wallow in this realization, because when the last big shard of glass falls, shattering on the concrete with a terrible crash, an even worse sound follows on its heels:

  The store’s security alarm.

  It roars to life, a sleeping bear that’s been poked, emitting a harpy-like screech that sounds as if it’s a civil defense siren warning the entire town that an atom bomb is incoming.

  Panic roots me to the sidewalk. RUN! I tell my legs. FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THINGS HOLY, RUN. But all I can do is stare in a stupor at the broken window.

  “Josie!” Lucky shouts, pulling my arm. “Get out of here. Come on. On my bike.”

  But it’s too late. A security guard appears from nowhere, beaming a flashlight over the broken glass … and then into our faces.

  I’m toast.

  BEAUTY POLICE, ALWAYS ALERT: A no-frills carved wooden sign with a giant open eye guards the lone law enforcement station. Six double jail cells can accommodate up to twelve prisoners comfortably—but rarely is more than one cell in use on any night. (Personal photo/Josephine Saint-Martin)

  Chapter 4

  The Beauty Police Department is a model of small-town efficiency. An hour after my shortsighted moment of rage went sideways and fell on its ass, I’ve already been scared straight, given a Breathalyzer test, and hauled off in the back of a cruiser to await my fate here. Any moment, I’m sure I’ll be mugshot-ed like a badly behaving popstar after a drunken weekend of strippers and fast cars in Miami.

  But I’m not alone. They hauled both of us into the station.

  Me and Lucky.

  Now that we’re here, we’ve been shepherded into a holding room together. I don’t think the door’s locked; guess they believe we’re no flight risk. But hey, joke’s on them, because that’s exactly what I’m thinking about right now—running right the h
ell out of here the moment I get a chance. Run and never look back. Forget high school, the Nook, and my family. It’s too late to salvage any of that now. I’ll have to change identities and sneak aboard a ship bound for Iceland. Josie Saint-Martin is dead; long live Jamie San-Miguel.

  Even the fluffy-haired woman running the front desk, Miss Bing, looked me over when the officer brought us in and shook her head slowly, as if to say: Oh … It’s the Saint-Martin girl. Can’t say I didn’t expect this. And you know, with my family’s track record and all the rumors swirling around town, in a way, can’t say I didn’t either.

  I just didn’t think it would be me doing the screwing-up.

  Being both seventeen and very much minors, Lucky and I aren’t being straight-up arrested and charged with a crime—at least, not yet. It’s all very confusing. The security guard back at the department store couldn’t get in touch with anyone higher up in management, what with it being a weekend and so late, so we’ll have to wait to find out what’s going to happen … I think? It’s been a blur, and they aren’t exactly keeping us in the loop.

  All I know is that for the moment, we have to sit tight until our parents arrive. Lucky was able to reach his folks on the first try. Of course my mom didn’t answer. Where is Winona Saint-Martin at midnight? Good question, and despite all her promises to cool it with the online dating, I’m pretty sure that’s what she’s doing right now. But, hey. It’s hard for me to be righteous in the middle of a police station.

  And wherever she is, I finally got Evie to answer, and she tracked Mom down, so I guess I won’t be locked up in the slammer all night. Small miracles.

  Right now, I’m sitting next to Lucky in an uncomfortably hard blue plastic chair at a table that smells nauseatingly of stale cigarette smoke. We haven’t said much to each other. Haven’t had the chance. Now that we’re alone, I feel sick to my stomach that he’s even here.

  After all, Lucky didn’t throw the rock.

  “I tried to tell the security guard it was me … ,” I say quietly. My voice is hoarse.

  “I know,” he says. “It looked bad for both of us.”