A Whole Lot of Lucky

by Danette Haworth

I glance over. Emily DeCamp’s handwriting is a perfect rhythm of cursive loops and dips that flow from side to side in unwavering margins. I am impressed. “Let me see that.”

  She clutches it close.

  The March breeze envelops us both in the perfume of the orange blossoms, and Emily DeCamp and I take in a deep breath at the same time. We walk on the correct side of the road, which is the side facing the cars, so you can see them when they hit you, as my dad likes to say. My bike rasps as we go, but Emily doesn’t mention it. I hadn’t planned where I was going, but this is where I seem to have ended up.

  “Your mother was at my school today again.”

  I shrug my shoulders.

  Emily DeCamp sneaks another look at her notebook.

  Why does she always have that thing? “Why do you always have that thing?”

  “I’m going to be a writer.” She sticks a finger through her hair and pushes her glasses up. “I’m on the yearbook staff.”

  We stop directly across from her house.

  “I have to practice my flute now,” she says. “Are you getting a new bike?”

  So she did notice the rusty hacking of my old boy bike.

  “Since you won the lottery, you could get a new bike like Amanda’s.”

  Is she a mind reader? That’s the first thing on my list. “How did you know?”

  A sliver of eyeball considers me through the hair. “I am observant,” she says. “But don’t worry, you won’t need to ride your bike to Magnolia.” Her head swivels left, then right, then left again.

  “I’m not going to Magnolia,” I yell to her back as she crosses the street. She hops up the curb and over the stepping stones to her porch. “I go to Palm Middle!” Up the porch steps, through the screen door. “Scratch that part out of your notebook—my mom was just visiting. I’m not going to school there.”

  Weeds wind around my ankle, prickling my skin. I trample them. Emily DeCamp is wrong. I’m not going to her school. I get on my bike and pedal home.

  Rrish! Rish! I rish people would listen to me.

  Chapter 8

  The stone, impenetrable towers of Magnolia Academy for Girls stab the downtown sky; I can see them through the trees as Mom drives over the brick roads. My teeth rattle in my head, but I don’t think the bricks are doing it. “Is this good on the van?” I ask as if it’s the van I’m thinking about.

  “Don’t worry, honey, this van is a tank.” She gives me a reassuring smile as if I actually want to get to Magnolia. “Green light,” she says. We move with the other cars like a string of beads being pulled forward.

  When you’re eager to get somewhere, say someone’s birthday party or an ice cream place, it takes forever. When you don’t want to get somewhere, green lights smile their permission to fly through intersections. There are no trucks to get stuck behind, no squirrels to hit the brakes for, and even Libby falls into a cozy sleep.

  I pull a finger around the stiff collar of my white top, part of my uniform for Magnolia Academy for Girls, which we got at JC Penney, along with the blue skirt and blue shorts. Kind of expensive, aren’t they? I asked when I showed Mom the price tags at the store. The principal said three of each, I reminded her as we searched for my size through the clothing racks, three times each price tag. I squished my round feet into pointy black shoes. These hurt, I said. My feet don’t end in a point.

  Quit whining, Mom said.

  As the van passes my favorite house, the yellow one with white pillars, a woman dressed like she could never be someone’s mom steps out from the front door; it’s the tennis lady, with a girl right behind her. Blue skirt, white blouse. My heart flips a beat. Could this girl be going to my school? I sink down in my seat so she can’t see me, but I can see her. Tan legs move like a gazelle’s as she prances down the steps. She’s not wearing knee socks like I have to—she must be an eighth grader. They’re required to wear stockings. Her mom, if she is her mom, says something to the girl, but the girl doesn’t like it because she rolls her eyes, jerks her head, and saunters back into the house.

  She doesn’t want to go, either!

  I bet the teachers are mean and hit kids with rulers. Bars slam down over the classroom windows when the bell rings—no one can escape—and when the teacher asks a question, the girls answer in one voice like androids. At lunch, they file in robotically and sit on hard benches, staring forward while the headmistress watches, her boots clomping ominously as she paces in front of them. Mom didn’t mention any of this, but that’s because they probably put on a big act when visitors are there.

  The woman who doesn’t look like a mom gets out of her shiny car and crosses her arms. If I were an owl, I would turn my head backward and keep watching, but Mom has cleared the stop sign and we’re creeping forward. Suddenly, I ram my door open, tear around the corner, and run full speed ahead to Palm Middle, my butt hitting the seat just as the tardy bell rings. That’s what I wish I could do anyway, and maybe I would if I had my sneakers on because I’m faster than light with those on my feet. But what I’ve got on now—these black flats—pinch my toes and have slippery soles.

  “This sure is a long drive,” I say.

  “I don’t mind,” Mom says. “I kind of miss my morning drives.”

  Does she have to be so cheerful about it? It’s easy for her—she’s not the one facing a world of strangers. Not only did she wear her best dress when she went on the tour, she also wore makeup. Blackened eyelashes, creamy foundation, pink pearly lips—she’d done more for Magnolia than she does for God every Sunday. I even smelled her perfume.

  The Lake Eola fountain shimmers in the morning sunlight. Little kids swirl down the curly slides of the playground. I wish I could join them. Tall buildings flank us as we come up to the corner. People in business clothes walk quickly on the sidewalks, wearing earpieces and talking into the air. Mom turns, and then the downtown Orange County Public Library is on our left. The best library ever. It’s probably as big as the Library of Congress and has just as many books. Plus, it has elevators, a snack bar, and a basement, which is rare in Florida.

  Mom frowns at the library. “I don’t remember passing that before.”

  “Are we lost?” Because if we are, just park so I can run past the scary people who hang outside the library and dash to the children’s section for the latest Margaret Peterson Haddix book.

  “No, we’re not lost. I have to figure out the side streets.” She pulls up to a metered space and unfolds a map. By the way she squints at it, I can tell the words are playing musical chairs with her eyes. Leaning over, I spot the street we’re on and the address she’s got circled.

  “Just go straight,” I say, “then go right, right, left.”

  “Right, right, left.”

  “Right,” I answer.

  “I thought you said left.”

  “No, I—”

  She breaks into a smile. “Just kidding. Right, right, left.”

  “Har, har,” I say. Normally, I would think of something funny to say back, but my stomach’s upset and my fingers feel twitchy.

  We’re heading into the heart of downtown. We pass houses with wraparound porches and second-story balconies. Antique tea roses sit in groups, pale pink and cream, like old ladies at church. They bow their heads as a light breeze snuffles over them.

  As Mom makes the turns, I see the wrought-iron fence that surrounds the grounds of Magnolia. My heart starts beating for real. Only a few short minutes separate me from my fate.

  A huge magnolia tree anchors one corner of the lawn. Under it, a girl about my age sits prettily with a set of paints and a sketchbook. The breeze flutters her paper, then tickles the top of the grass, leaving the velvety green tips to settle in an entirely different direction than before.

  Mom glances through my window. “She might be one of your classmates.”

  True. I consider the girl, so entranced in her work that she takes no notice of our van as we pass. Two more girls come out from the side door of a nearby building, a
nd the three of them twitter like birds, their wings fluttering as they arrange themselves in a circle on the grass. They don’t look like they’re in school; they look like they’re having a picnic. I almost think, They’re so lucky, before I remember I hate Magnolia.

  “Should they be out here by themselves, Mom? It doesn’t seem safe,” I comment innocently.

  “They’re okay—they’re fenced in. Besides, the building’s right there.”

  We’re here. Drums beat in my chest and echo in my arms and head. Heat flashes in my face. Sweat pops out of my skin even though the rest of me feels cold. Mom pulls up to the main entrance gate. All my brain cells scream, NO! NO! NO!

  The Bible says there’s a season and a time for everything, including a time to weep and mourn. Casting my eyes upon Magnolia Academy, my heart decides it’s time to weep and mourn. My cheery red maple has lost its leaves. It will grow new ones, but they’ll be plain and green and look like every other tree. When I glance through my bedroom window, I’ll see something ordinary, and soon it will be hard to remember the exact watermelon hue of the leaves. No matter what happens today, I will never forget Palm Hill Middle School.

  The man at Magnolia’s security gate can’t find our name. Maybe God has intervened, erased us from this list, and Mom will have to drive me straight to my real middle school.

  Tears bubble up for the end of the maple. Why does it have to change? Why? Why? Why? I liked it the way it was—happy and energetic—the shock of those red leaves against the starkness of the white trunk. If it has to wear green leaves, it’ll lose its mapleness. Tears spew from my eyes. Why can’t things ever stay the same?

  Mom hands over her ID. The security guard inspects it, studies Mom’s face, then talks into a headpiece.

  My eyes are thunderclouds swollen with tears. My mouth sucks in the last few breaths of freedom. My throat lumps up as I choke down my destiny.

  “Hailee?”

  I try to say “What?” but it comes out all gurgled, more like, “Wharg?”

  “Hailee!” Mom brushes my hair off my forehead and that’s all it takes. Tears wash down my face, drip off the edges, and soak into my white Magnolia Academy for Girls blouse.

  “Ma’am?” The security guy hands Mom a clipboard.

  Taking it, she says to me, “I’m sorry, honey,” and then she works on a form while I silently cry.

  I pull down the visor and check myself in the mirror.

  Yes, I am miserable. Look how red my eyes are, my cheeks. Everything is wet or running, and strands of hair stick to the sides of my face. I watch myself sob, which makes me cry even harder because I see how forlorn I am.

  I wonder how the Magnolia girls will see me.

  I stop all the weeping, wipe my face, and stare at my reflection. My mouth pulls into a frown, but I force those muscles to relax because frowning’s the ugliest part of crying. My eyebrows squinch, giving off just the right degree of despair. Tears sparkle in my eyes and glide down my face in crystal drops. I could be a girl in a movie who was taken by robbers but escaped and now must find her way back home through a huge black city with skyscrapers and dark alleys. I look at this girl in the mirror. She doesn’t let tears stop her from getting home. She is noble and strong. I watch as another tear slides down her cheek. This is how I will cry from now on.

  “Here we go,” Mom says after collecting her ID from the guard. She fishes a used tissue from her purse, but the new me waves it away. Bravely, I fix my face forward, watching Magnolia appear before me as Mom pulls the van up the drive and parks in a visitor’s spot.

  I’m no longer in my body as it steps out of the van and hoists the official school backpack onto burdened shoulders. Another magnolia tree stands in front of the office building. The sweet scent of a goblet-sized blossom rides on a gentle breeze that encircles me, but I breathe out of my mouth to show that tree I’m not having any of it.

  The office is in a small, yellow, steepled building. There’s no cross on it, but it used to be a church when Orlando was nothing but orange groves; that’s what it says in the brochure Mom brought home. She tugs the handle on one of the arched, honey-colored wooden doors, but it doesn’t budge. “Oh, that’s right,” she says and presses an intercom button on the side. She squishes me in a side hug.

  A disembodied voice asks if it can help us.

  “I’m Kristen Richardson?” she tells it. “My daughter is starting school today?”

  I wish she wouldn’t talk in question marks—it makes her sound nervous. The voice tells her how wonderful it is that we’re here and to open the door when we hear the buzzer.

  I would like to tell you that the buzzer sounds like a chain saw going through green wood or the dentist’s drill breaking your teeth, but I can’t. The buzzer sounds like an electric organ holding a note.

  Mom heaves the old door open with a big whoosh as the inside air gets sucked into the outside air and for a moment I think we could still change our minds because our feet have not yet crossed the threshold.

  Mom presses her hand against the small of my back and pushes me toward my future.

  Chapter 9

  The first time I ever went inside Palm Middle was on a field trip in fifth grade. They loaded us up in buses and drove us across the back roads, and we got to see what it was going to be like to be middle schoolers. The tour started outside the office area, where a red-shouldered hawk stares out from a mural. The teachers gathered us in front of it and gave a speech about the red-shouldered hawk being Palm Middle’s mascot and about school spirit and pride. When we walked away, I felt the hawk’s eyes following me wherever I went.

  I don’t know what Magnolia’s mascot is, probably a magnolia. The red-shouldered hawk would rip off its leaves, tear its bark, and strip the branches, carrying the scraps somewhere high and safe to make a nest. Kee-aah! Kee-aah! Take that! it would screech.

  “Everything you need is in this folder: schedule, map, and student ID,” the lady behind the counter says. She has a wrinkle for every year she’s been here—I figure about a hundred.

  “Well,” Mom says. If she could go with me to every class, I know she would.

  “Well,” I say back. I love her, but the longer she stays, the more anxious I’ll get. I kiss her on the cheek to make her feel better and then watch her shadow follow her out, slipping through those double doors right before they close on its neck.

  My first class is math, which is room 221. I hoist my backpack up, a ridiculous effort because in it is only one binder with loose-leaf paper and dividers, a composition book, and a brown lunch bag, which, if I’m correct and I know I am, has a peanut butter and marshmallow sandwich, a banana, a juice box, and a note from Mom that probably says I love you! or You can do it!

  Wrinkles stares at me from the counter. “Do you need some help with the map?”

  I come from Palm Middle. I am a red-shouldered hawk. “I can find my way.”

  Wrinkles smiles at me. “Good luck. You’re going to love it here.”

  I have to admit I do kind of like this building. The pine floor is poured like syrup on a waffle, and its sweet, knotty smell brings a peace to my heart. As I walk over it, I see the scuffs and dents left by a history of girls, maybe even Wrinkles herself. I wonder what mark I will leave here. If I even stay here, I mean.

  Once I’m outside, the buildings look the same as one another, but definitely not like a regular school. The two-story buildings are stuccoed with pale gold and accented with white. Cobblestone paths cut through lawns so green, if you tried to draw it, you’d have to press hard with your green crayon to make sure you didn’t leave any white spaces. Girls stroll in pairs or hang in groups under the trees.

  The red-shouldered hawk is solitary.

  I’m about to unfold my map when I see a number 1 on the building to my left. The building behind it must be number 2, so I start down the path while tucking the map into the side of my backpack. Bam! The red-shouldered hawk smashes into a Magnolia and causes her to stumble.
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br />   Everything happens fast, but my hawk eyes take it all in like a computer scan. Magnolia girl: golden brown hair; tall; no knee socks; and her blouse is filled out in a way that embarrasses me for noticing. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to knock you down.” Oh, great—way to go, Hailee. My legs lock as I wait for her to turn around.

  When she does, her face is furi-endly. I thought she would be furious, which is why I started to say furious, but she smiles and pretends to wipe her brow. “Whew! No runs.” She’s talking about her stockings. “You know how Mrs. Novey is about that!” Then she lopes off, joins some other girls in the grass, and they raise a chant about Magnolia.

  Cheerleaders! That nice girl is a cheerleader. It makes perfect sense and none at all. Tall and pretty—of course she’s a cheerleader; but then add nice and friendly. Nice, friendly cheerleader. See what I mean? This is what’s known as an oxymoron, like jumbo shrimp—words that are put together but are opposites. Jumbo shrimp. Nice cheerleader. Think about it.

  Knock, knock.

  Who’s there?

  Ox.

  Ox who?

  Ox, you moron.

  You can use that joke if you want to. I just made it up.

  The bell rings and all across the grounds girls lift up their backpacks, straighten their white shirts, and flock to the cobblestones. I go with the flow, easing around building 1 to building 2, only it’s not 2, it’s 4. A little square building sits in the shadow—that must be 2—but as I hurry across the path, slinking through obstacles as if I’m at a skating rink, I discover this is building 3.

  I spin around. I see 1, 4, and 3. Where’s 2? I swing my backpack off for the map, but it’s not there. It must have fallen out when I bumped into that girl. Blinking wide, I take in quick breaths heavy with the scent of magnolia trees.

  “Do you know where building two is?” I ask a girl rushing by.

  She points without stopping. “That way, past four.” Past 4 is 5, and past 5 is 6. The tardy bell rings and I am alone in the yard, about to cry.