A Whole Lot of Lucky

by Danette Haworth

  “What’s that?” Dad asks.

  OMG! I would ROFL, but I’d probably get into trouble or hit a table leg. Instead, I stay in my seat and explain Facebook. Dad and Mom exchange I-don’t-think-so glances. Before they can say anything, I point out the benefits—Emily’s on Facebook, and probably lots of other people—but the word “no” radiates from their faces. “And some of my teachers have Facebook class pages.”

  Something changes in Mom’s expression.

  Knowing I’ve hit on the right tactic, I press on. “I can use it to keep up with assignments and group projects.” Silence. I look from one parent to the other. “I wouldn’t do anything wrong on it; I’d set my account to private.”

  Dad says, “How do you know about all this?”

  I shrug. I really don’t know. It’s like you absorb it from the atmosphere.

  Sighing, Dad says, “We’re willing to give it a try.”

  “But be careful,” Mom says. “We’ll be checking your computer.” Then a flood of don’t do this and don’t do that crashes over me. She drowns me in rules and batters me with regulations. The black hole of parental guidance tries to suck me into its vortex, but I hold on to my chair and keep my mouth closed until it’s over and finally the words subside, the table stops lurching, and Libby sticks a green bean in her mouth.

  I take a deep breath. Mom sits up; Dad cocks his head. They stretch their spines forward, their bodies asking, What do you have to say about all this?

  I look at both of them and consider my answer. “Pass the potatoes, please.”

  * * *

  I’ve been in bed for only an hour and already I’ve got fifty-seven friends on Facebook. Amanda isn’t allowed on Facebook, but Emily is and she becomes my first friend. Nikki Simms’s posts are private. I visit other pages and websites but I keep coming back to Nikki’s page. Are we friends? She says hi to me. She took me in the car with her. But she hasn’t texted me back about my new phone; I don’t know if I should bother her on Facebook.

  I won’t do it. Instead, I play a hangman game. I look at YouTube. I go back to Facebook.

  I discover one of my teachers from Palm Middle. Her wall is private, too, but she left her pictures open. I go into an album called “Beach.” She wears a one-piece suit like my mom does. OMG—teachers don’t wear bathing suits! They probably have rules against that. In another picture, two little kids bury her in the sand and she’s smiling even though there’s sand in her hair and on her face. Then she’s raising her glass in a restaurant and laughing as if she’s a regular person and not a teacher. You’d think she has this whole other life outside of school. I can’t wait to show Amanda.

  I lurk through some other pages and finally go back to Nikki’s. She was the second nice person to me at Magnolia. I tap into her photos. The “Neighborhood” album contains close-ups and strange angles of old buildings and houses. Some of the photos could be ads for jeans or skateboards, they’re that good. She must walk around for hours, there are so many pictures.

  I click into “Mobile Uploads.” The first one is a Magnolia girl, Alexis, I think. I swipe her picture off. Next is Jordan, Jordan and Nikki, Nikki and—ohmygosh—Nikki and me! “Riding around with Hailee,” reads the caption. Our hair whips in the wind and our eyes are brilliant. You can tell we’re going fast because the only thing in focus is us.

  We are friends.

  I click the request. Then I type in every name I can think of and blast friend requests into cyberspace. Some of the people I hardly know, but I know of them and they must know of me, because they accept my friend request. I LOL at some of their posts, and I like some of their photos. As I read every story and every comment, I can’t help but marvel at this new world I am now part of. It’s a parallel universe. People are cooler here, and they look better, too. I upload the new mysterious photo of me as my profile picture.

  Someone mentions an app that makes people look older. First, I try it on my own photo, but it doesn’t work because my face is angled. I laugh at how it makes Libby bald and toothless. I apply it to Mom’s photo. It lays equators across her forehead and creases her skin like a pie crust. It scalps her hair. I feel like I did when I forgot to water my African violets for a long time, and the leaves became crackly and brown. I stare at the fake photo of Mom, then press delete.

  Later, my phone vibrates in my hand. I startle under the covers, not knowing what time it is or how long I’ve been asleep. The screen casts a pale blue light in the tent of my sheet.

  Nikki Simms: Cool.

  I scramble upright. Cool. What is cool? My sleepy mental notes can’t remember. Then I realize she’s replying to my text from today—yesterday, actually. It’s 3:05 a.m. and Nikki Simms thinks it’s cool I got a phone.

  “OMG,” my brain texts to me.

  My thumbs type a paragraph about shopping for the phone, but before I press send, I press delete because what I just wrote is boring. Then I write about riding in the car, but that was two days ago and old news. If I talk about history class, I’ll sound like a dork.

  I rock on my bed in the dark and think.

  Think.

  Think.

  Think.

  Me: Nikki, this is my new phone. Just got it.

  Nikki Simms: Cool.

  I bite the sides of my cheek, something I do only when locked in serious concentration. Finally, I come up with something to say back.

  Me: def

  It seems just right. It matches her response. I send it, wait for a second, then put my phone on the nightstand. My clock reads 3:31 a.m. It has taken me twenty-seven minutes to type three letters. I hope she likes my reply.

  Chapter 18

  The whole way to school the next morning, I check my messages. Lots of them, but not one from Nikki. I wonder if we are friends or not. Of course, this would be the morning a car accident holds us up. The red lights of an ambulance swirl while I click around on my phone.

  I bounce my legs up and down. I bend to the left and then to the right of the headrest in front of me. “Can you go around?” I ask Mom. I’ve planned to accidentally run into Nikki to see if she got my request and my text.

  “Nope, we’re stuck.” Then her lips move silently in a whispered prayer for the people in the accident.

  When we finally pull up to Magnolia, I have just enough time to get to my first class before the tardy bell rings. Emily panics when I hold my phone under the desk to show her my photos.

  “Turn it off! Turn it off!” she whispers.

  She keeps herself focused on Ms. Reilly, even when I nudge her and try to pass my phone over. I send her a quick e-mail, but she shakes her head and doesn’t reply. My phone vibrates. I bend my head and scroll through my News Feed: a girl from Palm Middle is home sick today. She is eating chocolate ice cream and watching TV.

  Ms. Reilly calls out my name. I jerk my head up. I click off my phone and slide it under my thigh. Ms. Reilly asks, “Do I have your attention?”

  “Yes.” I hope she doesn’t ask me what she’s been saying.

  She goes on with the lesson, and I hold my head in a way that looks like I’m listening. I wonder what TV show that girl is watching. My fingers itch to find out.

  After class, Emily apologizes for not taking my phone. “I didn’t want to get in trouble.”

  I check my messages as we walk down the hall. Some are Facebook notifications and some are junk mail. None are from Nikki. When I finally see her in history class, I say, “I’ve been having trouble with my phone. Did you get my message last night?”

  “Yeah, you were up late, too,” she says.

  I don’t know what to say next. “Okay, just checking.” I want to ask about the friend request, but I don’t know how.

  “Okay, dude.”

  “Okay.” I stand by her chair until I realize she’s waiting for more. “Okay,” I say again and shove off to my own desk.

  Mrs. Fuller announces a pop quiz. Everyone groans until silenced by Mrs. Fuller’s evil glare.

 
; Nikki raises her hand. “Do I have to take the quiz?” she asks. “I was absent a couple of days last week.” She folds her hands on her lap, straightens her posture.

  Mrs. Fuller turns flat eyes on her. If they were having a no-smiling contest, she’d win. “Miss Simms, this is a pop quiz. Your attendance, or lack of it, is not my problem.”

  “But I wasn’t here. Don’t we get the same number of days to catch up? That would mean I have until tomorrow.” I can’t see Nikki’s face, but her voice is extra polite.

  Pinched-faced Mrs. Fuller passes out the quizzes. Grabbing a marker, she writes on the dry-erase board, “N. Simms—Quiz Tues.” When the papers reach Nikki, she turns to pass them and catches my eye. She mouths “Ha!” and flashes a tiny thumbs-up, and then sits quietly while the rest of us are tested.

  * * *

  Emily moves in stop-animation across my laptop. We are video chatting as we work on our assignments. Emily splits the screen to show me what she’s done on the yearbook so far. The eighth graders are the senior editors and get to make all the decisions about page design and which candid photos to use. Sixth graders are called contributors. Emily is contributing a description of the Book Fair Family Night.

  Reading her words, I feel as though I am there, the buttery smell of popcorn pulling me through the crowd. I hear the little kids shriek as they jump in the inflatables. Neon purple and fluorescent green lightsticks dangle from necklaces.

  “This is good,” I say to her face on my screen. Video chatting is weird because you’re looking at the other person and they’re looking at you, but neither one of you glances up at the camera, so you never actually make eye contact.

  “Really?” She rereads the words, then I watch as whole phrases are sucked into the screen, replaced with new words that pop in one letter at a time. “What about that?” Emily asks. “Does that sound better?”

  Both ways sound good to me. My phone chirps—text message.

  Nikki Simms: Hey.

  “Nikki Simms is texting me.” I hold the phone up to the camera.

  Emily’s eyes widen behind her glasses. “What does she want?”

  “I don’t know.” But I am thrilled.

  Me: Hey.

  Hardly a second passes and I get another text from her.

  Nikki Simms: Can you believe Fuller today?

  She’s a royal pain in the—

  “Oh, my gosh!” I blurt. Nikki has spelled the word properly, in all its swearing glory.

  Emily pipes up from the other side. “What does it say?” Enlarging the text with my fingers, I turn the display so Emily can read it for herself. She giggles on the last word. Neither of us says the curse out loud, but even reading it silently feels daring. Emily wants to know what happened with Mrs. Fuller, and I tell her about the pop quiz and how Nikki should have been allowed more time.

  Emily doesn’t agree. “Pop quizzes are different,” she says. “That’s why they’re pop quizzes.”

  “But you can’t be quizzed on stuff you weren’t even in class for. It’s not fair.”

  The digital version of Emily freezes in a shrug while her voice goes, “What are you going to say back?”

  I can’t top that swear word, but I want to show Nikki that I’m on her side.

  Me: Royal!

  Emily is still frozen. I could examine every single pixel on her face and she’d never even know. I jump when my phone sounds off again.

  Nikki Simms: Fuller’s evil. All I’ve done since I got home is work on assignments for her class. It’s taking sooooo long. Would you send me the quiz questions? I need to get an A, but I don’t have time to study because I’ve also got a paper due in a different class.

  The corners of my mouth drop. I hold the phone up to the computer camera.

  “She wants you to cheat!” Emily unfreezes. She’s moved in so close to read Nikki’s text, all that shows is the top of her head. Coils of her hair spring up against the camera.

  I pull my phone away and reread the text. I am aware of Emily moving around on her side of the screen, but I’m more aware of Nikki on the other end of the phone, waiting for my answer.

  Emily goes, “Tell her you can’t.” As if it were that simple.

  Reviewing my mental notes, I pull up the video of Mrs. Fuller bragging about flying to Rome, and you know that’s exactly what she was doing. That’s why it was funny when Nikki said, I believe the Pantheon is to your left. Whenever Nikki talks to her, Mrs. Fuller wears a sour expression, like she’s tasting something she does not like and never will.

  “It’s only ten questions,” I say out loud.

  Emily shakes her head.

  “She doesn’t have time—”

  “No!”

  “But she’s got other homework!”

  “I wouldn’t do it,” Emily says, all judge, jury, and secret witnesslike. Boingy-boing ropes of hair doodle in front of her face.

  Nikki Simms: ?

  Emily is frozen on my screen again. Her voice cuts up in dashes and dots. None of her words make it through.

  Would it hurt to help Nikki? No one would even know.

  “If you’re still there,” I say to frozen Emily, “I have to log off.”

  I pick up my phone.

  Chapter 19

  I bet you want to know what I did next.

  I called Amanda, who’s on her first day of spring break. All she did today was nothing, which is always better than going to school. Thanks to Mom and Dad, I don’t get a spring break this year. Magnolia had theirs before I started and Palm Middle is just now having theirs. As usual, I get the short end of the stick.

  “How about I come over?” Amanda asks. She was so bored today that she cleaned her room for something to do.

  I whisk her upstairs as soon as she gets here. She smells like coconuts and sweat. “Did you lay out today?”

  She inspects her arms and asks, “Do I look darker?”

  Of course she does. My freckles are jealous.

  We sit on the floor. Outside the window, my maple catches most of the sun in its spread-out leaves, flickering patterns of sunlight on my rug. Our backs against my bed, I scroll to the texts between Nikki and me and hand my phone to Amanda.

  “You shouldn’t give her the quiz questions,” Amanda says. Even after I describe Nikki’s side of it, Amanda doesn’t change her mind. “It’s cheating.”

  “But I’m not trying to cheat; I’m trying to help. She’s got all that other stuff to do at the same time. Plus, Mrs. Fuller doesn’t like her.”

  Amanda shrugs as if that doesn’t matter.

  I’m offended on Nikki’s behalf. “Mrs. Fuller is a windbag.” I tell Amanda about the Pantheon and Mrs. Fuller’s sour face every time she talks to Nikki.

  Rrring! Amanda startles at the sound of my laptop’s alert.

  “It’s Emily!” I shriek and pull the laptop from the top of my dresser. “Hi, Emily! Amanda’s here.”

  Amanda leans way over and sees herself in the little square that shows you what the camera is seeing. “Oh, my gosh! This is so cool. Is this video chatting?”

  Embarrassment melts my face. “Sorry,” I say to Emily. “Amanda’s not allowed to Skype.”

  Amanda scrunches her mouth and asks, “What did you tell her that for?” at the same time Emily says, “I can call back if you’re busy.”

  I press mute, hold a finger up to Emily, and say to Amanda, “How about I call Emily back?”

  “Why?” Amanda asks. Her voice sounds like crossed arms. “She’s my neighbor, too. Or do you have something private to talk about?”

  “No!” Yes! Private school stuff. If only Amanda’s parents could send her to Magnolia. We could join the same sports, and I’d go over to Amanda’s house every day so Matthew could coach us, even though he’s never played lacrosse, but I bet he’s good at it.

  Emily texts in the chat box: I will call back later.

  “Look!” Amanda gestures toward the screen. “You’re being rude!”

  I gasp at Di
gital Emily and scramble to click the sound back on. “Sorry!” I say for the second time. I guess the three of us are going to talk now, because I can’t ask either one of them to leave—someone’s feelings would be hurt.

  “So,” I say, “did you practice your flute?” I’m asking to be polite, but also because I don’t know what else to say, since I’m friends with Amanda, and I’m friends with Emily, but I’ve never been friends with Amanda and Emily.

  Amanda leans so close to the laptop, I bet Emily is counting her pores. “Can you play something?” Amanda asks. Gently, I push her back so we can both see the monitor. Amanda peers at the little video of herself and fixes her hair.

  Emily’s mouth says, “I don’t know,” but her eyes say, Yes, yes! Please ask me again.

  I want Amanda to hear how good Emily is. “Play something—something we know!”

  We watch as Emily moves away from the screen, pulls out a case, screws her flute together, and returns. I do believe I see a little sparkle behind her glasses. She says, “Do you know Vivaldi?”

  “ViBaldy?” Oh, good one!

  Amanda elbows me.

  “No,” Emily says, not getting it. She pronounces the name slowly, in an overly exaggerated manner, her top teeth setting on top of her bottom lip to show me the vee sound. “Vi-valdi,” she says.

  I move my features into confusion. “ViSalty?”

  Emily shakes her head. “Vi—”

  Amanda pushes in front of me. “Hailee’s trying to be funny. I don’t think we know that group.”

  “Vivaldi was a composer,” Emily says, but she says it nicely.

  I whisper to Amanda, “A composer, not a band.” “Well, you didn’t know either!”

  “But I didn’t say anything!”

  A couple of flute notes trill from the laptop. The song is so familiar; it’s … it’s—

  “Star Trek!” Amanda yells.

  I was just about to say that.

  Emily’s fingers move like centipede legs over the keys, making spaceships zoom through my head. The flute has an actual voice—not Emily’s; it’s a flute, not a kazoo—clear and pure at times, and wiggly like a singer at others. It’s amazing, really. When she’s done, she lowers her flute and her eyes.