Just My Luck

by Jeff Anderson

  “She’s got this real crystal ball and she’s dressed in this shiny coat that sparkles and she uses this deep voice to tell your future. Get this.” José looked around. “She predicted I would have many slices of pizza in my life very soon, and as soon as I walked out of her booth, guess what I found on the ground?”

  “Pizza?”

  “No, better. I found some tickets on the ground.”

  “Oh,” I said, nodding.

  José leaned in. “And guess what I bought with the tickets?”

  “Pizza?”

  “Exactly.” José pointed his finger at me. “She’s like a for-real fortune-teller and everything. Everybody says she tells you something true.”

  It wasn’t exactly a miracle that she’d predicted José would be eating pizza soon. But finding the tickets on the ground right after he left the booth—that was pretty cool, I had to admit. And it was miracle he talked to me like I was a human being. That was a good sign.

  “Well, laters.” José handed two tickets to Blythe’s dad and climbed into the last train car. “I’M THE CABOOOOOOSE!” José screamed, shaking his caboose as well as the train’s as he boarded.

  “Enjoy the ride, José,” I said. You have to say this for El Pollo Loco: he really enjoys himself.

  He waved back from the train, grinning.

  I turned and walked toward Janie’s booth, wondering if Janie really could predict the future. Did she really have a vision? Did I have any better ideas?

  The answer to the last question was a definite no, so I trudged toward Janie’s fortune-telling booth, hoping.

  CHAPTER 25

  NOT A FORTUNE FOR YOUR FORTUNE

  A black posterboard with white chalk letters was taped to Janie’s fortune-telling booth: “Not a Fortune for Your Fortune by Madame Bustamante” was written in fancy letters. Two tickets for your fortune. I dug in my pocket, and I pulled out exactly one piece of lint and two orange tickets. Was it a coincidence or fate?

  I got in line behind Cliché, who was next, so I’d make it to the dunking booth on time. I counted six people waiting in line.

  “Madame Bustamante” sat behind a long table covered in a brown paisley bedsheet. Her hands floated above the crystal ball from Mama Lupita’s, which lay in between Janie and her client.

  Beneath the cheetah-print scarf swirled around her head, Janie wore a headband made of an old bike chain spray-painted gold.

  I squinted to see Madame Bustamante’s hoop earrings. They looked like she’d cut them off the end of cardboard paper towel roll. At least I hoped it was a paper towel roll and not a toilet paper one.

  Mrs. Darling caught me staring at Janie. “Madame Bustamante’s costume is perfectly divine, is it not?”

  Mrs. Darling’s book-shaped earrings gleamed in the noon sun. But they were nothing compared to the blinding glow of Janie’s gold overcoat. It had pointy shoulders and was covered with red glistening jewels sewn all over like chicken pox. Watching her jacket shimmer in the sun was worth the price of two tickets alone.

  Mrs. Darling cupped her hand, like she was telling me a secret. “You know, that jacket Janie’s wearing is from the Mrs. Darling collection. I am quite handy with a sewing machine and gold lamé, don’t you think? I only wear it for special occasions.”

  “Oh, do you tell fortunes too?” I asked. If she were a fortune-teller, it might explain a lot about her wardrobe.

  “Why no, my dear.” She adjusted her fluorescent orange poncho. “Janie is helping me raise funds for the library.” Then Mrs. Darling struck a pose, tossed her scarf around her neck, and like a circus ringleader announced, “The one and only Madame Bustamante!”

  I dropped the tickets and the piece of lint in Mrs. Darling’s hand.

  “Thank you for your support as always, Mr. Delacruz.” She picked out the lint, letting it drop to the grass.

  As soon as Mrs. Darling skittered away, Cliché turned to me. “What are you here for, Zack?”

  “Answers.”

  “Same here.” Cliché crossed her arms as if she were giving herself a hug. “I hope Janie can tell me if I’ll be able to date Marquis in eighth grade.”

  “Why eighth grade?”

  “Because that’s how long my mom said I had to wait to have a boyfriend.”

  I nodded.

  She sighed and watched the festivities.

  The roar of the lawn-mower–oil-drum train rattled the fortune-telling booth as it passed. It was definitely going faster than when we rode it.

  “Blythe’s driving the train!” Cliché gasped, putting her hand to her chest.

  “What?” I whipped my head around. I couldn’t see over the people in the next booth, so I stood on my toes, squinting. It was true. Blythe was behind the wheel in her conductor hat and sweater, driving the train solo.

  “I can’t believe it! Her dad’s not even with her.” Cliché put her hands on her hips. “No fair! I bet he’ll let that Bossy Blythe have a boyfriend in sixth grade too.”

  “Huh?” I tilted my head.

  “Never mind.”

  Blythe waved her sweater stump as she rode by.

  Jealous, Cliché and I smiled through gritted teeth, waving backwards like we were in her realm.

  Chewy Johnson yelled as he passed. “Let me off this crazy thing.” I guess the train didn’t take bathroom breaks.

  “Blythe was telling the truth the whole time,” I said.

  “I know.” Cliché shook her head. “I never believed her when she rattled on and on about it.”

  “I bet it’d be fun to do something you’re not supposed to do yet.” I watched the train circle around the festival.

  “Like what?” Cliché asked.

  “I don’t know,” I stammered. “Like drive a train, I guess.”

  “Or do something your mom tells you not to.” Cliché got a faraway look in her eyes.

  “Huh?” I twisted up my face.

  “Oh, nothing.” Cliché reached down and fidgeted with her little white lace socks. “This is all Blythe will talk about for the rest of the year.”

  “I know, right?” I gasped. Oh, no! Things were taking an ugly turn: I was starting to sound like the blue-eye-shadow gang.

  “Zack, what are you going to get Janie to predict?”

  I looked down at the worn grass beneath my feet. “It’s personal.”

  “Well, excuse me, Zack.” Cliché turned away. “I thought we were friends.”

  “You did?” My jaw dropped.

  “Um, I was talking to you, wasn’t I?” Cliché didn’t turn back around.

  CHAPTER 26

  TRUTH BE TOLD

  Cliché had a point.

  She had been talking to me. I stared at the back of Cliché’s pigtails. One barrette was purple, the other pink. I wondered if she had worn two different barrettes on purpose.

  I’m like Cliché’s barrettes in a way, I thought.

  I’m two different Zacks: one who does stupid things and the other who does great things. One who believes in bad luck and one who believes in good luck. And probably, nothing I’ll ever do will change how people see me. Some people might pay more attention to the purple, but the pink is still there, always.

  “Cliché,” Mrs. Darling interrupted my wondering mind, “would you be a dear and collect the tickets for the fortune-telling booth?” Mrs. Darling put her hand on her head as if she had a splitting headache. “It seems the parent in charge of the cascarrrone booth (she rolled her R’s too much like Blythe) is dropping them off in the parking lot and can’t come in for medical reasons.”

  “That’s super important!” I said way too loud. “I was afraid the cascarones might not make it.”

  “Never fear, Mrs. Darling is here.” She handed the white zipper bag of collected tickets to Cliché.

  “Okay.” Cliché took the bag. “Then, can I get my fortune for free?”

  “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that, Cliché, because you know this is raising money for our library.” Mrs. Darling said
over her shoulder as she raced off to pick up the casca-rones. “For the good of the many!”

  I stood in line behind Cliché, thinking about Abhi and luck and how I really needed to know what Janie had to say about it all. The festival would be ending soon, and I was running out of time.

  “It’s about Abhi.” I mumbled to Cliché’s shoulder.

  “What?” Cliché turned back.

  “It’s about …” I looked up. “Abhi.”

  “What’s about Abhi?”

  “The fortune,” I said.

  “What do you need a fortune about Abhi for?” She rubbed her arms and tilted her head.

  “I want to get to know her.”

  “Why?”

  That was a really good question. “I don’t know really.” I shrugged. “I just do. Plus, I need to apologize.”

  “For the dodgeball incident?”

  “Um, yeah.” Why did everyone call it an incident? An accident, yes. An incident, no. “And I also have to thank her for the cinnamon roll day incident.” I had to admit the word incident does come in handy.

  “You like her, don’t you?” Cliché broke through my racing thoughts.

  “I just want to talk to her.” I said. “Every time I try to talk to her she acts like she doesn’t even hear me.”

  “Yeah, Zack.” Cliché’s voice changed. “That happens when someone can’t hear very well.”

  “What?” My face scrunched up.

  “Remember she told us on her first day you need to look her in the eye when you’re talking to her.” Cliché leaned in.

  “Abhi?”

  “Who are we talking about, Zack?” Cliché threw up her hands.

  “What do you mean Abhi can’t hear very well?” Now I leaned in, interested.

  “On her first day here, in science class with Mr. Stankowitz.” She crossed her arms. “Oh my God, Zack! You don’t know how to listen.”

  I turned away. Cliché sounded like Mom scolding me.

  “Just pay attention to what happens in front of your face, and your life will be much easier.”

  Okay, Mom must have paid her to say that.

  “You really have no idea, do you?” Cliché asked, realizing I was serious.

  “I guess I wasn’t in the room yet or something,” I put my hand up. “I came in late.”

  “You were too in the room,” Cliché bobbed her head as if she were a talk show guest and I her brother who pawned her Barbie collection for video game money.

  “Sometimes I get all up in my head thinking about stuff and I sort of zone out.”

  “You missed a lot, Zack.” Cliché said. “For example, Blythe blabbed to everyone that Abhi wears a hearing aid.”

  “But I’ve never seen one.” My eyes widened.

  “Duh, she doesn’t want you to.” Cliché said.

  “How come nobody else said anything to me?” I scowled.

  “Because anybody who listened could tell Blabber Mouth Blythe had embarrassed Abhi.” Cliché got all Mom-like again. “How would you like it if everybody talked about how short you are?”

  “But they do.” I shrugged.

  “Then you should understand more than anyone else. She didn’t want to be the girl with a hearing problem.” Cliché sat in a chair and folded her arms, resting her case like a lawyer on TV. “She just wants to be treated like everyone else.”

  I remembered that Marquis hadn’t been in Mr. Stankowitz’s class that day either. He was at the doctor. “Marquis doesn’t know either.”

  “So what? Why are you making such a big deal about all this?” Cliché turned and collected two tickets from a kid who got in line. “No wonder she doesn’t want anyone to know. This is what she didn’t want: everybody talking about her hearing problem instead of who she is as a person.”

  “Next!” Janie bellowed in low voice. How’d she make her voice go that low?

  “Here, take this.” Cliché handed me the white bag of tickets. “It’s my turn.”

  I clutched the ticket bag and looked out across the Fall Fiesta-val. Marquis threw a rubber chicken toward a line of mop buckets. I searched for Abhi too. Maybe all those times she just didn’t hear me.

  Maybe I didn’t listen.

  And maybe all I had to do was look her in the eyes and tell the truth.

  At that moment my eyes landed on the most interesting girl—Abhi, all by herself on the field, eating cotton candy. I waved, but she didn’t see me.

  This was my chance.

  I should leave the line.

  Except I was next.

  And I was the ticket taker.

  But maybe I didn’t need my fortune told. Maybe it’s like attraction water and Rapido Luck cologne. They never worked.

  Or did they?

  The attraction water worked a little bit on Cliché. And José. They usually aren’t that nice to me, but today they were. Really nice. If that’s not good luck, what is? Cliché even called me a friend. And she gave me advice—like a friend.

  Pay attention to what’s going on in front of you. Cliché’s voice tumbled though my head, getting louder and louder.

  I decided then to start paying more attention to what was in front of me instead of what was going on in my head.

  And it was a good thing I did, because I couldn’t believe what I saw next.

  CHAPTER 27

  SERIOUSLY, HOW FAST IS THAT TRAIN SUPPOSED TO GO?

  The train raced by the booth again. Why was it going so fast?

  “Something’s wrong,” I said to no one in particular.

  The train rumbled along, going way faster than before. Blythe yanked at her sweater sleeve, which seemed to be caught on the side of the riding mower engine

  “It’s stuck on the throttle thingie!” Blythe pulled and pulled her too-long sweater sleeve, stretching it out, longer and longer. The more she pulled, the faster the engine roared.

  “Stop pulling on the throttle, Honey!” Mr. Balboa yelled, trying to catch up to the runaway train.

  “But my sweater’s caught,” Bossy Blythe wasn’t going to listen when her beloved cardigan was at stake.

  The terrified passengers let out a long scream as they rounded the corner, tipping to the side and landing upright.

  Blythe gripped the steering wheel of the racing mower, yanking and pulling at her sweater sleeve, rocking her shoulders from side to side, almost losing her balance a few times.

  “Please!” Mr. Balboa panted. “Just take off your sweater!” He leapt for the riding mower, just missing it. Instead, he knocked over the fishbowl game table, lined with twenty glass bowls that people were tossing ping-pong balls into to win a goldfish. Water and ping-pong balls and shattering fishbowls spilled to the ground. Mr. Balboa landed on top, apologizing as he tried to get up, slipping on wet ping-pong balls.

  “What’s going on here?” Mrs. Gage, who was in charge of the fishbowl game, stood over Blythe’s dad as if she were going to give him lunch detention.

  A few parents jogged alongside the train.

  Blythe gave one last jerk to her sweater as the train passed the cotton candy booth and started to head around again. The sleeve finally ripped free, wrenching off the speed lever. The suped-up mower roared, now thundering at top speed. The lever dragged and bounced and clanked on the ground along with Blythe’s stretched-out sweater sleeve, which got longer and longer as it unraveled. Somehow the sweater was still connected to Blythe.

  “Take off your sweater, Blythe!” Her father yelled, pulling a goldfish from the neck of his shirt.

  “But it’s my absolute favorite!” Blythe screamed back, gripping the wheel with both hands. The unraveling sweater pulled her to the side.

  “Do it now, Blythe!”

  She took her hands off the wheel just long enough to roll her sweater off her shoulder. The sweater swept under the train and exploded into a puff of blue shreds.

  The final yank burst the mower into a full-on Harley sound: rrrrrumm gggrrrrrrrrrrrumm neeuurrrrm! The train was more like a motorcy
cle on the highway than a passenger train at a school fair. Mr. Balboa wasn’t exaggerating about his riding mower having the speed to win races.

  Mr. Akins jogged to catch up to the train. “Ms. Balboa—squeaaaaal—please seek to slow down that train at this very instant!” he yelled into his white bullhorn.

  “I CAN’T!” Blythe screeched.

  From the back car of the train, El Pollo Loco, the only passenger enjoying the runaway ride, held his hands up in the air. “Look, Ma, no hands.”

  Moms and dads and teachers stood, frozen like me, not knowing what to do. Most of the kids were at the dunking booth, cheering so loudly to dunk Coach Ostraticki, they had no idea about the out-of-control train careening around the festival borders.

  Out of the corner of my eye, coming from the parking lot, I saw what looked like a pizza deliveryman with a giant stack of pizzas. But when I saw the hot pink sandals moving along the ground beneath them, I knew it was actually Mrs. Darling, and the pizzas weren’t pizzas at all. They were the cascarones! The way she wobbled made me think she needed a hand. I looked at the train, I looked at the cascarones, I looked at the dunking booth. I looked back at the train. I wasn’t sure what to pay attention to.

  Then, Abhi caught my attention again. She smiled, looking so happy. And for one second I forgot all about Blythe Balboaconstrictor’s oil-barrel train disaster and Mrs. Darling, the human cascarone tower.

  Suddenly the train passengers screamed a roller-coaster scream, jolting me back. Blythe had swerved to avoid the duck-pond races and Mrs. Harrington. That turn put her on a straight path for Abhi. And the worst part was, Abhi couldn’t see what was coming up behind her, fast.

  Just like the dunking booth crowd around her, Abhi watched, hoping the tormentor of our days, Coach Ostraticki, would get dunked. Yelling, screaming, laughing, and facing the wrong direction, none of them saw the train coming.

  “Studens!” Mr. Akins bellowed through his bullhorn, still trying to catch up to the train. “Please seek to remain calm.”

  Abhi tore away pink cotton candy fuzz and ate it, watching the excitement at the dunking tank, oblivious to the disaster headed straight for her.