A Whole Lot of Lucky

by Danette Haworth

  I shake my head. Mom read the manual on student conduct, not me.

  She nods her head. A decision has been made.

  “Are you going to call my parents?” Tears wet my eyes.

  Taking a moment to consider my question, Mrs. Weston speaks with a softer voice. “I don’t believe I need to. You know right from wrong.” She crouches and snags books out of the drop box. “And you didn’t skip.”

  Relief floods my body.

  “But I’m going to have to report what I read.”

  Volts of electricity slam from the top of my hair to the tips of my toes. My mind flashes with a bright light, a bright blank light. I am zombified.

  My brain is a sluggish battery starting a car. A plan I can’t read yet forms in the back of my mind. My body obeys, strapping on my backpack, smoothing down my hair. I hear myself telling Mrs. Weston I just remembered my mom is picking me up early. I’m aware of Emily bending over the rail, her loopy masses hanging in spirals.

  My feet know where they’re going even if the back of my head hasn’t told the front. I text Mom and tell her we’re doing something special in Library Club today and that I’ll text her when she has to pick me up. Mom doesn’t like to text. Takes too long, she says, so the phone rings, and it’s her telling me to have fun and be careful and all that kind of mom stuff.

  I’ve seen these streets and houses flying by from the van windows, but everything is different on foot. For one thing: it’s hotter. My toes itch with sweat from Magnolia socks and shoes. My backpack feels like a turtle hanging on. I unbutton the very top button of my shirt and tug at the already moist collar.

  The roots of old grandpa oaks turn up the plates of the sidewalk. I walk through the peaks and valleys. Lizards scurry away from my feet. The April sun is doing its best to make this the most miserable walk I’ve ever taken. Cars pass me, bumping down the brick road. The last of the azaleas stretch their pale pink flowers through white picket fences like an offering. They brush me gently as I pass, but I can’t stop for them because I’m on a mission.

  The yellow house with white columns is even bigger when you’re standing on the sidewalk in front of it. The circular driveway is long enough to hold three or four limos, maybe five, but right now, not a single car is parked in it. Live oaks grace the side yard with their old and twisting branches, forming a leafy canopy and deep dark shade. Italian cypresses, erect as nutcracker soldiers, flank the huge wooden double front doors. Flower boxes hang from the second-story windows, spilling over with every color in the crayon box.

  This is Nikki Simms’s house.

  I take measured steps across the drive, working up my courage, wondering what I’ll say, how she’ll react. Sweeping, polished steps take me to the door before I’m ready. Bracts of bougainvillea drape from a trellis in a large clay pot. The vines are tight, controlled, close-clipped. I wish Dad could see them. When I lean in to inspect, one of the vines pinches the pad of my thumb. I snatch my hand away, suck on the pain.

  Raising my uninjured hand, I make a fist and rap on the door. The wood is so thick, I’m not sure my knock has made it through to the other side. I should leave right now. If Nikki gets in trouble, she wouldn’t know I had anything to do with it. Why didn’t I think this through? My heart beats double-time. I’ve got to get out of here, get back to the library. If I hurry, Emily will still be there, and I can slide in next to her and pretend none of this happened.

  Relieved, I pirouette on the steps.

  Then I hear locks being turned, a creak, and a whoosh.

  “Hailee Richardson,” Nikki says. “What are you doing here?”

  Chapter 23

  Nikki leans against the front doorway. A gust of cold air-conditioned air rolls out from the inside. Behind me are the empty driveway and street. Nikki asks, “Did you walk here?”

  I swallow and nod. My skin steams inside my sweaty Magnolia blouse. I wore the shorts today, but since they go down to the tops of my knees, and the socks come up to the bottoms of my knees, it’s not like the outfit lets you cool off.

  A voice shouts from inside. “Shut the door!”

  Nikki lowers her eyelids in response. “Come on,” she says and swings the door more open for me.

  Usually, I have to ask before I go to a new person’s house, but there’s no way I’m going to be a Goody Two-shoes with Nikki waiting on me. Besides, I’ve always wondered what it would be like inside this place.

  The tiled foyer holds a baby grand piano. I wonder if anyone plays it.

  “Who’s here?” Jordan’s voice scrapes against the high ceilings from another room. “You’re not supposed to let any of your little friends in.”

  “Shut up,” Nikki responds.

  I follow her over tile floors so pretty they put my mom’s countertops to shame. Statues of women—one naked!—stand in arched niches throughout the hallway that takes us to the kitchen.

  “Oh, my gosh!” I can’t help it. “My mom would love this kitchen!”

  Jordan’s dark head whips around from the couch in the family room. “I said you’re not allowed to have anyone over.”

  I freeze. My last footstep echoes.

  Jordan’s words have no effect on Nikki. “Just watch your dumb vampire show, okay?”

  Behind Jordan, pale teenagers live their lives on a huge flat-screen TV. A stone fireplace takes up another side, and the third wall is floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking gardens with cobblestone paths leading you deeper and deeper into the shade. This is how I thought we would live after winning the lottery.

  Jordan puffs on a cigarette and gazes at me. “Chain gang.”

  “Her name’s Hailee.” Nikki pulls a frosty mug out of the freezer, fills it with lemonade, and hands it to me. “Let’s sit on the veranda.”

  “No company in the house while Mom’s gone.”

  Nikki shoots her a look as we cut by the couch.

  Jordan groans with irritation and whirls back into position in front of the vampires. She seems to forget us as she puts the cigarette to her lips and inhales.

  Nikki flips her off.

  My eyeballs sproing out of my head. I steal a glance at Jordan, who has seen nothing except really white-skinned girls brooding.

  The veranda is a screened patio bigger than my living room and dining room put together. The patio furniture is set to overlook the gardens, and a stone path on the opposite side leads to a pool. Nikki motions for me to sit on a glider with her and I obey, glancing around to take it all in. The veranda is like the Garden of Eden. Braided ficus trees show off their teardrop leaves. Plumbago rambles over its pots, tumbling in soft blue cascades. A fountain murmurs with water so prettily, I could lie on this glider and listen to it all day and be happy.

  “I love your house.” In the movie of my life, this will be my home.

  Nikki taps out a cigarette from a pack lying on the wrought-iron cocktail table. Lighting it, she invites me to have one by holding hers out.

  I shake my head.

  She grins, takes a drag. “Sorry, I keep forgetting. So what’s up?”

  Holding my lemonade with both hands, I take three big gulps before I can speak. Then I tell her about showing the e-mails to Emily and how Emily had to check out books and that’s when Mrs. Weston saw my phone and read the messages.

  Shadows cross Nikki’s face, like when vultures or fast-moving clouds block out the sun, and the earth flickers from light to darkness, causing squirrels and rabbits to hide from what could be a bald eagle plunging from the sky to break their necks and carry them off. Even a red-shouldered hawk can’t fend off an eagle.

  When I’m done, Nikki blows a thick stream of smoke straight into my face. I’m scared to turn away. I don’t want to look afraid, but wispy fingers of smoke scratch my throat, and I gulp down more lemonade to stifle my urge to cough.

  Her ice-blue eyes pierce me as she fires off questions. “Why did you show Emily my e-mail? What else have you told her? Did you know she would tell Mrs. Weston?”

&
nbsp; I reach out but stop short of touching her. “No! I didn’t know she would tell! I mean, she didn’t really tell—she left the phone out, but I don’t think she did it on purpose.”

  “Emily DeCamp.”

  “Yes.” But when Nikki relaxes with satisfaction, I say, “I mean, no! It wasn’t her fault.”

  Nikki cocks her head. “So it’s your fault.”

  “No, no … it’s not my fault, either. It—it—”

  “It’s somebody’s fault. Maybe it is your fault. Maybe you did it on purpose because you were mad we left without you.”

  “That’s not why! I did wish I’d gone with you, but I wasn’t mad at you. After you guys left, I felt like—I felt like—” And then I say a four-letter word that even my parents don’t use.

  I say it for Nikki.

  A part of me feels guilty for swearing, but I stuff that part into a closet I’d just discovered in my heart. Words are just sounds, right, and I offered up that word because I knew she’d understand exactly what I meant by giving it to her.

  Nikki’s pupils constrict. She scans me like one of those X-ray machines at the airport. I’m as still as a rabbit and ready to be flayed. Scan complete, Nikki whumps against the back of the glider and we move. Only, if you’ve ever sat on a glider before you know it doesn’t sway up and down like a swing; it moves back and forth, back and forth. Nikki speeds it up by pushing against the terrazzo floor.

  Leaning into her cigarette, she takes a long, slow drag and releases it to the side. She turns on her lopsided grin. “So you wished you’d come?”

  Her words form a life preserver and I grab on to it. Nodding, I say, “I kept thinking about how much fun you guys were having and how I was stuck in school.”

  “You didn’t really have a test, did you.” See how I used a period there instead of a question mark—that’s because she didn’t ask me if I had a test; she was telling me she knew I didn’t. It was a statement, a declaration, something I could not deny.

  I lower my head. My voice is tiny and my words are small. “I was afraid to say no.”

  I feel her hunch closer. “Are you afraid of me?” she asks.

  My throat closes up. I’m afraid of her the same way I’m afraid of tall roller coasters and upside-down rides. I’m afraid the ride will be too fast and too high and even though someone who works there sits at the top of the first hill, you can’t really get off once you get on. And yet, if I walk by the ride enough times and hear the people screaming and watch them smile and shake their heads when they unload—That was awesome!—I know if I leave without riding that ride, that’ll be the sorriest day of my life.

  “No.” My voice comes out garbled. I clear my throat and repeat, “No, I’m not afraid.”

  I lift my eyes and meet hers. My stomach feels sick. I put my foot down and stop the glider.

  Nikki gives it one more push, watches my face, then stops. “Mimi isn’t going to be happy tonight. But it wasn’t your fault.” She crosses her arms. “It was Emily’s.”

  Before I can protest, Jordan slides the door open and snatches the cigarette pack from the table. “Buy your own,” she snaps. “Get the roast in.”

  Nikki straightens her posture. “You’re supposed to take care of that.”

  “I’m busy. Do it or I’ll tell Mom.”

  The two sisters stare at each other, a battle of the wills, wills so stubborn, there’s no telling who might win or how long it could take.

  Finally, Nikki blinks and says, “Whatever,” which Jordan takes as victory and flounces back into the house. Carefully, Nikki presses the lit end of the cigarette into the ashtray, putting it out. “I hate sisters. Do you have one?”

  A video of Libby pops up. Libby laughing with me over the Cheerios on her tray. Libby kicking her legs for joy because I’ve come into the kitchen. Libby and her fuzzy baby hair. Libby throwing tantrums. It reminds me of Beezus and Ramona—Libby is sometimes a pain like Ramona, but mostly, I love her.

  I set my lemonade on the table. “Want to trade?” I ask, not because I’d ever want to, but because saying it makes me sound cool.

  It works. Nikki gives a reluctant laugh, a laugh that says, We’re in the same boat, and I try to look like someone who might really be in the same boat as Nikki Simms.

  As I hurry back to school before it gets too late, I whip out my phone and post on Nikki’s Facebook wall.

  Me: Dude, thanks for the lemonade.

  She’s not mad at me. She’s not mad at me at all. Something bothers me, itching my mind like a no-see-um, those bugs that are so tiny you can’t even see them; the only way you know they’re on you is because you feel them biting, which doesn’t hurt like a dog bite or a bunch of piranhas, but it makes you scratch your shoulder and then your knee and you look for a mosquito but you don’t see one. That’s how you know it’s a no-see-um. It’s one of the few words that means exactly what it says.

  So that’s how I’m feeling as I walk back to school, like being bothered by a no-see-um, or in this case, a no-remember-um—when you know there’s something you forgot but when you search your brain, it’s nowhere to be found and then you think maybe you didn’t forget anything at all, maybe you just drank too much root beer or something. You ever get that feeling? It buzzes through my head halfway back to Magnolia. Only halfway though, because then I realize that bothersome feeling is probably left over from the way I felt on my way to Nikki’s house. Now I’m coming from Nikki’s house and it’s okay. She’s not mad at me.

  I scratch my arms. Stupid no-see-ums. They bite your skin, suck your blood, and fly into your ears straight to your brain. I take off running all the way back to school.

  Chapter 24

  Later, zooming through my neighborhood on the Silver Flash, I ponder about Mrs. Weston telling our principal, and how Nikki’s mom will act if she gets a phone call. Probably whack the heads off some broccoli. I’m on my way to fill in Amanda to see what she thinks, and I want to tell her about going into Nikki’s house. She is going to be so impressed!

  I zip past the other houses, past the orange trees, which are done blooming. They’re done with oranges and done with flowers. Time to concentrate on growing. I smile when I hear the hummingbird notes of Emily’s flute as I pass her house.

  When I get to Amanda’s, I bang on the door. My knock is as distinctive as a ringtone. As I wait, I check out the unfamiliar skateboard resting nearby. My pulse quickens. Maybe Matthew bought a new board. I study it so I can make a casual comment about it, like, Cool board. What kind of wheels are those? Or—and this is even better—Can you ollie? I heard that word on a stunt show and filed it in my mental notes under M, for Matthew.

  I’m daydreaming about how impressed Matthew will be with me knowing the word “ollie” that I startle when Amanda opens the door.

  “Hey, Amanda,” I say and barrel in, almost bumping straight into Tanner Law. “Oh!”

  “Hi, Hailee.” Tanner Law has shot up a foot since I last saw him. Blond hair glints off his arms, and his eyes, which I’ve never noticed before, are gray.

  Amanda looks bashful. “We were just hanging out.”

  Then I go all the way into the kitchen and see Matthew and Shana sitting, their fingers entwined on top of the table.

  Awkward moments are so awkward.

  “Hailee! We haven’t seen you in a while.” Mrs. Burns ducks from the fridge with a bottled water.

  I rush to her side. “Well, you know, I’ve been busy at school and with homework and the Library Club”—I sneak a peek at Amanda and Tanner—Amanda and Tanner!—“and have you been looking at any decorating magazines lately, because I’ve been thinking about redoing my room”—that’s true; I said it before, remember?—“and maybe you have some good ideas. My favorite color is green.” I can’t seem to remember why I rode my bike over here.

  Mrs. Burns sips her water.

  “Your favorite colors are pink and purple,” Amanda says.

  “I just changed it.” I cross my arms, drop th
em, and recross them. “People do change, you know.”

  Amanda gives me a quizzical look.

  “Actually, I might have a couple of new magazines.” Mrs. Burns starts toward the hallway.

  “Oh,” Shana says, “would you please finish your story about Matthew first?” Her face and Matthew’s face blush in unison.

  Remember that game “Which one of these things doesn’t belong?” I am living it right now.

  As we take seats around the table, Mrs. Burns says, “Hailee didn’t hear the first part, so I’ll catch her up.” I shrink at my name. I don’t want anyone singling me out—get it?—because I am already singled out. Anyway, Mrs. Burns picks up the story. “When Matthew was in about third grade or so, he’d come home and cry about this bully who wouldn’t leave him alone at recess.”

  Shana murmurs a soft “Aww,” and she and Matthew exchange a glance.

  “I tried talking to the teacher, but this kid just wouldn’t stop. Finally, one night, Matthew was not himself at the supper table, so Mr. Burns laid down his fork and knife, wiped his mouth, and said, ‘Matthew, the next time he bothers you, kick him in the shin.’”

  All around the table, we burst into laughter.

  “I didn’t like the idea,” Mrs. Burns said, “but after supper, Mr. Burns showed Matthew where the shin was and told him the only way to do it was to kick hard, then run!” She starts cracking up. “So the next day, Matthew comes home happy, saying he did just what his dad told him to do, and we were glad because we thought that was the end of it.

  “But it wasn’t. Matthew liked the idea so much that he started looking for that kid just so he could kick him in the shins.” Now we’re all laughing. Matthew looks embarrassed, but pleased, too. “We had to order him to stop. But that boy never did bother Matthew after that!”

  “I shut him down,” Matthew says, a sheepish grin lighting up his face.