A Whole Lot of Lucky

by Danette Haworth

  “Wow,” I say. If Emily went on one of those TV talent shows, she’d win.

  “You play so well!” Amanda says.

  Emily murmurs her thanks and brings the flute to a whisper before her mouth. The silvery sounds of wind and waterfalls cascade from the instrument. I am in a forest, the mist rising, and goldfinches calling from the treetops. It is beautiful.

  When she finishes the melody, I clap and Amanda joins me.

  “How do you make that little hole with your mouth?” I ask. “Do you whistle into the flute? How long have you been playing?”

  Emily unscrews the flute. “Three years.”

  Amanda and I say all sorts of nice things about Emily’s flute playing. Emily angles her head slightly aside and down, as if she can’t face the compliments straight on.

  Changing the topic, Emily says, “Did you text that one person back?”

  “You mean Nikki?” Amanda yells at my monitor, examining her own face from side to side.

  Emily pops when she realizes Amanda knows what she’s talking about. She goggles from behind her lenses. Emily asks Amanda, “Did she tell you?”

  She. She! Like I’m outside the circle, which is wrong, because I am the center of it. “Yes, I told her,” I say, even though the question wasn’t directed at me. “She—”

  Amanda butts in. “I don’t think she should do it.”

  “I don’t, either,” agrees Emily.

  They hardly know each other and they’re ganging up on me.

  “It’s just a quiz.” I stick up for myself.

  “It’s cheating!” they say in unison, then they laugh together.

  My fingertips fidget on the edges of the touch pad.

  For one thing, neither of them is in Fuller’s class; they don’t see how she acts toward Nikki. Also, and I can hardly blame Emily for this because she’s been brainwashed by Magnolia, but Amanda should know how unfair teachers can be. You saw how I was practically expelled from school for helping Amanda out of a crack just so she wouldn’t get laughed at. Sometimes you have what happened, and then you have what really happened right behind it.

  Emily’s voice crackles. Her head tilts up. Her eyes are shy but hopeful. “I’m having a sleepover this Friday,” she says. “Do you want to come? You can come, too, Amanda.” Then she freezes.

  I tap the keyboard. “Are you still there?”

  “No, I’m not here.”

  Her voice is so deadpan, I don’t get it for a second, but Amanda laughs immediately.

  We agree to ask our moms, and even though I can’t see her, I know Emily’s got that surprised little smile on her face like she did when I first said I would have lunch with her.

  “I always thought she was stuck-up,” Amanda says after I log off, “but she’s actually nice.”

  “I just thought she was weird, never coming outside or anything.” It’s true; in all the years I can remember, I’ve never seen Emily playing outside. From tricycle to bicycle—no Emily. No tag, no chalk drawing, no skating. I wonder why. “But she is nice.”

  “And funny,” Amanda adds.

  “Yeah,” I say. Not to brag or anything, but I’m pretty funny, too. For instance:

  Man: The dog ran away.

  Lady: Doggone it.

  See how quickly I made that joke up? That’s how funny I am. Sometimes even your own best friend can take you for granted.

  Amanda and I go downstairs, where Mom is folding clothes and Libby is working hard at unfolding them.

  Amanda swoops Libby off her feet. “Happy Hannah Hearts!” She picks up the doll and makes it talk to my baby sister. “Hi, Libby!” Then she pushes Hannah into Libby’s belly, making her giggle.

  Mom watches them and smiles. “Amanda, would you like to babysit this Thursday?”

  “Babysit? Sure,” she says at the same time I ask where Mom’s going.

  Mom runs her hand down a towel before folding it in neat little squares. “Just errands. Maybe you could get one practice diaper change in before you girls do something else?” Mom brightens her eyes and aims a smile at us.

  I groan, but Amanda hitches Libby on her hip. Well, it’s fun to do stuff when it’s not your regular chore and you’re getting paid for it. I never get paid to watch Libby. I make a mental note to add nanny to my list of Things I Need because neither Dad nor Mom is going to come up with it.

  Amanda’s all excited about babysitting when she gets up on her still shiny pink bike and rides home. March flutters by me in windy scarves scented with magnolia. The beads on the crape myrtle rattle to each other, stirred by the breeze. A little chill ripples up my arm as cottony, purple-blue clouds mushroom across the sky. I head in, grab my phone, and rush upstairs.

  Me: I forget some of them, but here are the quiz questions I remember.

  * * *

  The next morning, I walk straight to Nikki’s bathroom. When I push the door open, a girl I’ve seen before, Alexis, I think, bounces off the wall and throws something white into the toilet.

  I hear a flush, then Nikki emerges from the stall, smiling when she sees it’s me.

  “She’s cool,” Nikki tells Alexis.

  Alexis doesn’t seem so sure of it. She picks up her backpack, says good-bye to Nikki, and walks past me out the door.

  I keep my voice casual. “I didn’t hear back from you. Did you get my text?”

  “Oops! I meant to text you!” And here she touches my arm. “You’re a lifesaver!”

  I was right! She really needed those quiz answers. I’m so glad I could help.

  Nikki goes on. “Fuller will rearrange the questions on the retake, but they’ll still be the same ones. My parents said I’d be grounded if I get another C on my report card, and I would die if I got stuck with Mimi.” Rolls her eyes.

  “Who’s Mimi?”

  Nikki assumes a haughty face. “Mimi—Miranda Simms—my mother.” The thin, tan lady I saw outside Nikki’s house my first day at Magnolia. Nikki lifts her backpack to the sink and rummages around. “You want a smoke?”

  My face has a heart attack.

  Nikki laughs, but not meanly. “Just kidding. You’re too young to smoke.” She sticks a cigarette into the corner of her mouth, tilting her head. A lighter comes out of nowhere, and when she pulls on the cigarette, I inhale at the same time.

  A song plays from inside her backpack. “Mine,” she says. She leans her head so the smoke doesn’t go into her eyes as she roots around for her phone. Silently, she reads whatever’s on the screen, then scrolls and reads other messages. Occasionally, she taps her cigarette into the sink.

  I stand by like a dolt. I don’t know why I came here. I don’t have anything to say and I don’t know what to do with myself. In fact, I’m gearing up to make some kind of excuse to leave when she clicks her screen a few times, puts her phone away, and washes her cigarette butt down the drain. She hefts her backpack on and gestures me to the door.

  As we walk into the bright, sunny morning, Nikki Simms says, “I just accepted your friendship.”

  Chapter 20

  So I’m on my bed later that night checking statuses of all my friends and discover in Nikki’s photos the girl who left the bathroom when I came in. Her name is Alexis. Almost all the photos of Nikki are pictures other people have taken and tagged her in. I’m looking through them on my laptop when Megan likes a photo I posted of Libby. Why would she do that? You can’t like my sister if you don’t like me—that’s not how it works. I go to her profile, sort through her pictures, and spot one of her and her family hugging Mickey Mouse at the Magic Kingdom. I like it. See how she likes that!

  Pleased with myself, I move on to Tanner Law. Tanner on his skateboard. Tanner catching a fly ball. Tanner and Amanda sitting at lunch. I click on this one, making it larger. I can tell by the angle that Tanner took this one himself. Me and Mandy, the caption reads. Mandy? I’ve never called her that. I narrow suspicious eyes, examine the slit of space between them, and notice that Tanner and Mandy are leaning toward each othe
r. Just a little—you might not notice it unless you study it like I’m doing, but there it is.

  Keeping that photo up on my laptop, I grab my phone and text Amanda.

  Me: I saw a picture of you and Tanner on Facebook.

  Her response comes back in seconds.

  Amanda: Yeah, we sit at the same table.

  I stare at the picture. The space between them is shaped like a triangle. My thumbs create more words.

  Me: Does he still like me?

  Moments pass. My phone doesn’t tweedle with her reply. Electronic minutes are worse than dog years or grown-up time, because when someone is online and doesn’t respond right away, time melts you like an ice cube on the sidewalk and your molecules change from one form of matter to another. My molecules change from curious to impatient. I examine the Amanda and Tanner picture on my laptop. Tweedle!

  Amanda: Don’t be mad at me, but …

  “What are you doing still up?”

  “Mom!” I slam down the lid of my laptop. “You should knock!”

  She gives me the eyebrow and crosses her arms.

  “Sorry!” I say immediately. My hand creeps like a daddy longlegs, covering my phone.

  Tweedle!

  Amanda: I think I like Tanner.

  I whip the phone under my covers.

  Nothing escapes Mom, not even the red-shouldered hawk. She takes the laptop off my bed and sneaks her hand under my blanket for the phone. Her movements are as crisp as the corners of my sheets. “I’m sorry, too, but you’re supposed to be sleeping, not …” She shakes the phone in the air.

  I rise like a puppet drawn up by strings. “Where’re you going with my stuff?”

  “I’m keeping it in our room so you can sleep.” Her voice walks down the hall with my phone and laptop. “You’ll get it back in the morning.”

  Leaping out of bed, I zing down the hallway after her. “I said I was sorry.” No response. “Can I at least text Amanda back? Could I just let her know I have to get off the phone? You don’t want me to be rude, do you?”

  Mom stops so suddenly, I almost bump into her. Slowly, she turns.

  Mom:

  Me:

  My shadow dives into bed before I do. It’s barely midnight. My cheery maple scritches its leaves against each other, throwing sharp patterns of moonlight and shade against my wall. Crickets warble short blasts that sound like my coach’s gym whistle. Frogs bleat from the woods. It’s weird how they suddenly stop, all at the same time. Then one frog solos a few bars and the rest join in again. A tiny little freeway with froggy drivers, all blaring their horns—that’s what they sound like. They don’t sound like ribbit.

  Speaking of which, Amanda and Tanner. I purse my lips. I lie flat on my stomach with one leg hooked up. I try my side, my back, and my other side, but I can’t get comfortable. Alexis tagging Nikki. Megan likes my photo. Amanda likes Tanner. Why? “Ugh! Science.” “Got new shoes—like them if you like them.” “My new skimboard!” “Chocolate or strawberry?” “‘Dr. Who’ is my new favorite show.” All this stuff is happening without me.

  I think I like Tanner.

  I need my phone.

  Chapter 21

  Emily DeCamp lives in a converted attic. Once you open the door, you have to climb a short flight of stairs, and the space opens up to the best room ever in the world. Pine floors shine their honey gleam, and thick, furry throw rugs—purple and pink—beg your feet to come and bury your toes in them. A white rocking chair with a quilted pillow sits in the corner in front of shelves loaded with books. New item for my list: convert the attic into a super-huge bedroom and call it Hailee’s Kingdom.

  Amanda’s come with me. I wasn’t sure if she’d be comfortable, since we’re all Magnolia girls and she’s a public school girl, but she called Emily back that same night and said she wanted to come. I’m wearing a new denim skirt and a yellow tank with a rainbow-colored peace sign on it. Amanda’s outfit, I’ve seen it before, but Emily hasn’t so I guess it will pass. I just hope nobody looks too closely at Amanda’s knit top—it’s pilling.

  I creak across the floor. Emily DeCamp has the entire Dr. Seuss collection, including The 500 Hats of Bartholomew Cubbins, which is so old no one even thinks about it anymore except for me. And Emily DeCamp. I finger classic editions of Nancy Drew, Hardy Boys, and The Baby-sitters Club. Margaret Peterson Haddix fills half a shelf. This is what I call living.

  The ceiling slants at odd angles, and dormer windows make hidden cubbies. One of them has a small door. For monsters. Ha-ha, just kidding.

  “Your room is so pretty!” Amanda squeals.

  “Pipe down!” I order out of the side of my mouth. I glance around like I’m used to this kind of stuff. “Is anyone else coming?”

  Emily thrusts her glasses up. “Marna.”

  “Who’s that?” I peer out one of the dormers. Emily has a perfect view of the road and the front yard.

  “She plays the oboe.”

  “The elbow?”

  “No, the—”

  “Don’t mind her!” Amanda says. Her eyes kaleidoscope over the whole room like a tourist at Disney. “I love your room! I always wanted a canopy bed!”

  Amanda’s acting like a fangirl. It’s sort of embarrassing. I’m not saying I don’t like Emily’s four-poster bed with a neon green canopy and matching daisy bedspread; I’m just saying you don’t have to gush all over it.

  Every room in Emily’s house has been torn from the pages of Amanda’s mom’s magazines, from the tongue-in-groove wood floors to the cool tile under our feet in the kitchen. Mrs. DeCamp serves us pizza and root beer. Mr. DeCamp takes pictures. “Smile,” he says. Flash! You’d think Emily never had friends over before.

  When Marna finally gets here, we rush upstairs, and for the first time ever, I hear Emily giggle. “What do you guys want to do first?” she says, shutting the door.

  A small media center holds a TV, a DVD player, and a laptop. “Check Facebook!” I say. “Watch a movie! What do you have?” Leaping up, I riffle through her DVDs and spot ten right off the bat I’m dying to see.

  “We could do that any old time,” Emily says. Of course she can—she owns the movies. Some of us aren’t that lucky.

  Majority votes we play Monopoly. Each one of us gets a fuzzy rug to sit on and I choose the wheelbarrow because I think it’s fun to push a real one. I own one property by the time my ringtone goes off. Someone has commented on a Facebook post I’ve commented on. I check my News Feed to see what else is going on.

  “Hailee!”

  The iron, the dog, and the top hat are all looking at me. Amanda goes, “Put your phone down, silly. I swear!”

  I take my turn, then scroll through different comments on my phone.

  “Hailee,” Amanda says in a half-scolding, half-serious voice.

  “Wait a sec.” I finish reading the sentence I’m on.

  “Yeah?”

  She almost pulls off a Mom eyebrow. “It’s your turn.”

  Monopoly is the longest, most boringest game ever invented. Amanda keeps prodding me when it’s my turn, and later when we change into our pajamas, she whispers to me, “You can’t be texting all the time! It’s so rude.”

  “I wasn’t texting,” I hiss back. “I was checking Facebook.” She has no idea. You have to keep up with it or you’ll be behind what everyone else has heard. “You’re the only one here who isn’t on it.”

  Since I didn’t know who else was coming to the sleepover, I brought my fancy pajama set Mom bought me from Macy’s. I tried once to wear it at home, but the lace edges picked at my skin. Marna wears a peasant nightgown, and Emily emerges from the bathroom in a hot-pink tank with print bottoms.

  Amanda is so out of place in her old PE shorts and graying T-shirt.

  I pretend not to notice, but Amanda’s my best friend, so whatever they think of her is going to spread to me. Time for diversionary tactics. I jump on Emily’s bed and almost tear the canopy. “Truth or Dare!” I yell.

  “No, L
ight as a Feather, Light as a Feather!” Marna shoots back. “We played it at the last party I went to and the girl actually levitated!”

  We are amazed. Somehow it’s decided I will be the girl they try to lift. Marna says we need at least four lifters, so Emily goes downstairs and comes back with her mom.

  Mrs. DeCamp has toodley-doo hair like Emily’s, but she holds hers back with a headband. Perfectly shaped eyebrows frame dark brown eyes, and freckles sprinkle her nose, which is Emily’s nose. She sits crisscross next to me. Mom would probably call her Lady DeCamp, but I like sitting by her. She’s nice.

  “Do you wear contacts?” I ask.

  She smiles—a perfect row of white teeth, but not too white like some people who get carried away and practically strip the enamel off theirs. No, hers are natural looking, just like her makeup and her manicured nails.

  “How did you know? Are my eyes red?”

  “No, no! I figured maybe you did, since Emily wears glasses.”

  “I just started wearing contacts,” she says, talking like she’s one of us. My mom is always too busy with Libby to sit with my friends. “But when I was you girls’ age, I looked just like Emily, glasses and all.”

  “Mo-om!” Emily’s nose pokes out from her hair.

  “It’s true.” She reaches over and smooths Emily’s mop from her face. “Except you’re prettier than I was.”

  “Mom!”

  Mrs. DeCamp gently laughs. “You girls are so easy to embarrass! Okay, what are we doing here?”

  Marna explains the game. I am to lie still as a statue. Each lifter will stick the first two fingers of each hand under my body: Marna at my head (since she’s in charge); Mrs. DeCamp on one side, Emily on the other; and Amanda at my feet.

  “Thanks a lot!” Amanda pinches her nose as if my feet actually stink.

  “Smell the roses!” I wiggle my toes in her face.

  Marna lowers the light and settles us down. “This only works if everyone believes,” she intones. “Hailee, you are light as a feather and stiff as a board.”