Just Lucky

by Melanie Florence

  CHAPTER ONE

  Just the Three of Us

  My mother named me Lucky. I swear. It’s on my birth certificate and everything.

  My grandma used to tell me that my mom would go to the casino when she was pregnant and rub her belly for luck. Apparently she won a jackpot and decided then and there that I was her good-luck charm. At least until I was born and she discovered she couldn’t bring a newborn to the casino for hours at a time. Or forget about her entirely and leave her beside a slot machine while she smoked crack in the parking lot.

  “That fool girl,” as Grandma called her, got herself arrested, and I was left with grandparents who were long done with their own parenting but took over the care and feeding of another kid without a second thought.

  So for the past fifteen years, it has just been the three of us: Grandma, Grandpa, and me. Lucky Robinson. I’ve only seen my mother a handful of times since she gave me up. She calls every couple of years or so when she’s desperate for money, but it’s been ages since I saw her last. I’m not even sure I could pick her out of a police lineup at this point. To be honest, I secretly believe that I’ll be asked to do that someday.

  I watched the cursor flashing on the screen and then deleted everything I had just written. I was pretty sure Mr. Alexander hadn’t had this in mind when he asked us to write a My Story essay for language arts. Maybe I should just make up something a little more PG-rated and get an easy A. Something like: I was born into a happy family with 2.5 kids, a white picket fence, and a golden retriever named Billy the Kid. Or Henry. Or Finn. I don’t know. I’ve always been bad at naming pets. I once had a stuffed bird named Princess Featherfingers. Don’t ask me why. I had a stuffed dog named Mr. Ages Sparklehead too. I was really big on formal titles for my animals apparently.

  God, I hate the look of a blank screen. That flashing cursor was definitely judging my lack of a normal family to write about.

  “Lucky?”

  “In here, Grandma.” I could hear the soft hush of her slippers shuffling toward me before I saw her.

  “Why are you studying in the dining room?” she asked, pulling gently on my ponytail, something she had been doing since I was a kid.

  “Because if I study in my room, I’ll fall asleep.”

  “Fair enough. Can you get your grandfather and tell him dinner will be ready soon?”

  “He’s not here.”

  “He’s not…where is he?”

  “He’s helping Mr. Tate move a couch or a chair or something. Actually, I think it’s a bed. I don’t know. I was only half listening when he told you.”

  “He didn’t tell me he was going out.” She frowned.

  “Yes, he did,” I said carefully. “Remember, Grandma? He told you he had to help move…something. And you said he’d better be back for dinner or you’d eat his dessert.”

  “Lemon merengue pie,” she finished. “His favorite.”

  “Right!”

  “Hmph. All right then. Could you set the table, please?”

  “Sure. I can finish this later.” I closed my laptop, ready to leave that judgy blank screen behind for a while. “Grandma?”

  “Mmhm?” She was gathering up my notebooks in a pile and wiping the table under them.

  “Are you okay?”

  She snapped her dish towel at me in response.

  “Hurry up. Your grandfather will be back from the store any minute.”

  “He’s not…yeah, okay…” I trailed off, staring at her back as she headed toward the kitchen, humming something under her breath that sounded oddly like the theme song from Doctor Who.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Old, Not Stupid

  Grandma was still puttering around the kitchen when my grandfather wandered into the house.

  “Dinner ready?” he asked, hanging his flannel jacket up in the hall closet. “I could eat a horse.”

  “I never understood what that meant,” I mused. “Why would anyone want to eat a horse?”

  “Smartass.” He leaned down and gave me a kiss on the head. He smelled like aftershave and outdoors. And a faint, lingering hint of pipe tobacco.

  “If Grandma catches you smoking, you can forget about dinner,” I told him.

  “Cover for me. I’ll go jump in the shower.”

  “She thinks you went to the store,” I told him. “Her memory is getting worse, isn’t it?” He studied me for a long moment and then smiled gently.

  “She’s all right, Lucky. She’s just getting old.”

  “Are you sure that’s all it is? Because she left the water running in the shower again this morning. It was like a rain forest in there.”

  “You don’t have to worry. Grandma is fine. She’s just forgetful, I promise. It happens when you get old. You forget things. Like I forgot she doesn’t like me smoking and had a nice pipe and a coffee with Mr. Tate.” He winked.

  “Oh, that’s hilarious. I’m sure she’ll love that one. Why don’t we call her in here right now and tell her?” I teased. This was our routine. I’d worry and he’d diffuse it with a joke. It usually worked.

  “Don’t you dare! Just hold her off for five minutes while I shower.”

  He tousled my hair and dashed from the room. Even at his age—which I was constantly reminding him was too advanced to be up on ladders or carrying furniture—he still moved at a pace faster than most teenagers.

  I tried to ignore it like I always did, but something about Grandma was off, and I couldn’t help but wonder if maybe she needed to see her doctor. I had said as much to him before, but he always brushed me off. Grandma had been afraid of doctors since she was a kid, and no matter how you prepared her or promised it was just an exam, she was convinced one was going to randomly pop out and jab her with a needle or something.

  “Did I hear your grandfather?” Grandma poked her head back into the living room, disheveled from the heat of the stove she had been standing over.

  “Yeah. He’ll be down in a second. He just wanted a quick shower.”

  She smiled. “Smoking that damned pipe again?”

  “You know about that?” I asked, flabbergasted.

  “I’m old. Not stupid, Lucky. Anyway, he probably needed it after helping Mr. Tate all day. Come grab the pot roast and put it out for me, would you?”

  All I could manage was a weak nod. Sometimes I worried about her until I made myself sick. Then she’d be her usual self again like nothing had happened. My friend Alex said her grandparents were the same, so maybe Grandpa was right, and I was worrying for no reason. Then I thought about the shower that had run for so long that the bathroom was engulfed in a haze so thick I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face.

  “Lucky!”

  “Right! Coming.” I’d think about it later, I decided, heading into the kitchen to grab the pot roast.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Comfort

  After dinner, Grandma retired to the living room with her remote and a cup of tea.

  “Jeopardy time!” she said happily to no one in particular.

  Grandma loved her game shows.

  Grandpa was elbows-deep in suds, sponging a glass before putting it on the draining board.

  “You know she’ll make you do them all over again if you don’t rinse,” I reminded him.

  “Not if you don’t tell her,” Grandpa flicked some bubbles at me. “Grab a towel.”

  I did, rinsing the dishes with exaggerated movements.

  “You’re awful!” Grandpa laughed. “Hurry up though.”

  “Why? Did you want to catch the thrilling second half of Jeopardy?” I asked, gesturing toward the living
room where we could hear Grandma shouting at the TV.

  “The Great Gatsby!” she yelled out.

  “For someone who can’t remember to turn the shower off, she has a pretty amazing memory for literature.” I giggled.

  “And world history,” Grandpa interjected.

  “And pop culture,” I added.

  “And completely random facts that no other human alive knows.” Grandpa smiled.

  “Yes! How does she know all those weird little facts?”

  “Your grandmother is a genius who reads everything she can get her hands on.”

  “She does love to read,” I grinned back.

  “That reminds me!” he said, drying his hands on a tea towel.

  “Of what?”

  “I got you something.” He dashed to the front door and came back holding a paper bag.

  “What’s that?” I asked, putting the last plate in the cupboard and hanging the dish towel on the towel rack.

  “Come sit down,” Grandpa called, patting the chair beside him. He dumped the contents of the bag onto the table.

  “Oh my god!” I squealed, picking the first book up, then another. Gone With the Wind! The Three Musketeers, The Hobbit, The Sonnets of William Shakespeare! I looked at Grandpa, who was grinning widely at me. “Grandpa! Where did you get these?”

  “I stopped at the used bookstore. They had a deal: fill a bag for a buck.”

  “You got all these books for a dollar?” I shuffled through the rest of the pile. “The Outsiders, A Wrinkle in Time, Sherlock Holmes? Grandpa, this is amazing! Thank you!” I abandoned the pile of books to throw my arms around him.

  “You’re welcome, Lucky.” He hugged me back fiercely like he always did, and I wondered for the millionth time what I’d done to deserve him and my grandmother. Just Lucky, I guess. “What are you going to read first?” he asked.

  I looked down at the table at the wealth of new reading material he had found for me.

  “Wow. Umm…I’m not sure. How about…The Hobbit?” I held it up for him to see.

  “Yes! Excellent choice. I’ll grab us some snacks, you find a good reading spot for us.”

  “Grandpa, listen to this…isn’t it the best opening of a book ever?

  “In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Boy Next Door

  The blast of a car horn signaled my ride to school had arrived.

  “Lucky! Ryan’s here!” Grandma called out.

  “I heard,” I grumbled, grabbing my lunch. I was in no way, shape, or form a morning person.

  “Give him this.” She stuck a piece of bannock smothered in maple butter wrapped in a paper towel into my hands. It was still warm and smelled absolutely heavenly.

  “Don’t I get any?” I asked.

  She handed me another piece and kissed my cheek.

  “Have a good day, sweetie.”

  “Thanks, Grandma. You too,” I called over my shoulder.

  “Whatcha got for me?” Ryan called before I had even made it to his car. His eyes were gray today. Stormy. He was one of those people whose eyes changed from blue to green to gray.

  I flopped into the passenger seat and handed him the bannock.

  “Awesome!” He had half of it in his mouth before we had even left my driveway.

  I laughed. Only Ryan could make me laugh before noon.

  Ryan was my first and best friend. We were both seven when he moved next door. He was, quite literally, the boy next door. I was sitting on the front porch, feeling sorry for myself and wishing I had a normal mom like all the other kids, when a little blond boy with his hair sticking up in spikes kicked a soccer ball into the steps at my feet.

  “Hey,” he said, studying me as he retrieved his ball.

  “Hey,” I sniffled, wiping my face on my sleeve.

  “Want to play?” he asked, nodding at the ball.

  I shrugged.

  “Come on. I’ll teach you.”

  He smiled widely, showing off two missing front teeth.

  I smiled back. I couldn’t help it. I still can’t.

  “Yeah, okay.” I climbed down from the porch and kicked the ball back toward him.

  By the end of the afternoon, Ryan was sitting at our kitchen table eating chocolate chip cookies still warm from the oven and promising to share his comic books with me. I had a pretty impressive collection myself, thanks to Grandpa, so I promised to do the same.

  Grandma placed a glass of ice-cold milk in front of each of us and tried to poke Ryan’s hair into submission.

  He grinned.

  “It just grows that way,” he said, stuffing another cookie into his mouth and chasing it with long gulps of milk. By the time he left, we had made plans to explore my basement together the next day and had already decided we were going to be best friends forever.

  Fast forward eight years and here we were. Some things hadn’t changed. Some had. He had discovered hair products so that crazy sticky-uppy hair of his had been tamed into some kind of submission. But he wasn’t the boy next door anymore.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Checkmate

  “How’s your grandma?” Ryan asked, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel along with the music.

  “Fine. You know. Same as always,” I told him, staring out the window.

  “Yeah? That’s good. I know she had you worried…forgetting stuff.” I could feel him glancing over at me.

  “Oh, that. She’s doing better.”

  “Really? Did she see a doctor?”

  “I don’t know. I guess. Listen, have you figured out how you’re going to ask Thomas to prom?”

  “Yes! I saw this guy on YouTube asking his boyfriend out, and it was so awesome!”

  Ryan kept babbling on about his crush and pulling off the perfect promposal. I nodded, tuning him out and thinking about my grandma. The truth was, she wasn’t any better. And it was hard to watch. She had been the strongest of us for as long as I could remember. When Ryan came out two years ago, she had been the one to stand up to his hyper-religious parents. I looked over at Ryan, smiling happily beside me. I had seen him fall out of trees, crash his bike spectacularly, and had stayed up with him an entire night when we were about eighty percent sure he had a concussion. But I never saw him cry until the night he came out to his parents.

  It was late. I was finishing up a game of chess with my grandfather using the pieces he had spent countless hours whittling when he was young. I was holding a knight that I had captured, running my fingers over it like a worry stone. It was worn smooth by years of use and had a patina from being held by so many hands. I loved those pieces. I made up stories with them when I was little and then played chess with them when Grandpa taught me. He was staring at the board now.

  “Are you ever going to make a move?” I asked him, turning the knight over and over in my fingers.

  “Give me a minute,” Grandpa said, reaching for one piece and then another.

  “I’ve given you thirty!”

  “You’re exaggerating.” Grandpa laughed, shifting a pawn forward, then back.

  “Just move it!” I yelled, giggling.

  There was a knock on the door but we ignored it. Grandma was in the kitchen beside the door.

  “Don’t rush me!” Grandpa said, reaching for his queen.

  “Henry!” Grandma called out from the kitchen.

  “Just a second, Daisy. I’m about to kick Lucky’s butt.”

  “As if!” I shrieked, throwing a handful of popcorn at him.

  “Henry!”

  There was something about the tone of Grandma’s
voice that made Grandpa stop laughing and lunge from his chair. My heart was beating too fast all of a sudden. I followed Grandpa into the kitchen, still clutching the chess piece tightly in my hand.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Ryan Comes Out

  I barely felt the knight fall from my fingers. I didn’t see it hit the floor or roll under the table. Ryan was standing in my kitchen where he had stood a million times before.

  And he was crying.

  Grandma was putting ice in a dish towel and talking in a low voice to Ryan.

  He was shaking.

  There was blood on his face.

  Grandpa grabbed a chair and guided him into it.

  “Ryan?” My voice cracked.

  I barely recognized it.

  I barely recognized him.

  “What happened?” I asked, falling onto my knees in front of him. “Were you in an accident?”

  Ryan’s head was in his hands.

  “Who did this?” Grandpa asked quietly as Grandma pressed the towel of ice to Ryan’s face.

  “I…told him…I…” I could barely make out what he was saying.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “My dad.” Ryan looked up.

  He looked terrible. His left eye was swollen, and there was a cut on his cheek that was oozing blood. He also looked furious.

  “You told him,” I breathed. I had never had a father, but I was pretty sure your dad wasn’t supposed to beat the shit out of you.

  “Told him what?” Grandpa asked.

  I looked at Ryan, who nodded slightly.

  “That he’s gay,” I said. Ryan had told me months ago. Truthfully, it had taken me completely by surprise. But once the shock had worn off, I was fine with it. He was still Ryan, after all. Nothing had changed. But his parents weren’t like me. Or you. Or anyone normal you’ve ever met. His parents were religious. But not like, go to church, say grace, love your neighbors religious. Ryan’s parents were more the speaking in tongues, condemn you to hell, snake-handling type of Christian.

  And I had heard them say more than once that “the gays” could be rehabilitated.