Lucky Girl

by Amanda Maciel

  I open a new message to Maddie and stare at the empty white box. I can’t think of a single thing to say. I even scroll through the emojis, wondering if there’s a tornado one. There is. It’s too small, though. It doesn’t say anything I’m trying to say. Even if I knew what that was.

  Experimentally, I click on the funnel cloud, a football, and a crying face.

  Delete, delete, delete.

  “The movie’s starting!” Ayla shouts.

  “O-kay,” I yell back. I send Ryan a So glad yr ok I got home fine slept all day such a fk-up, then toss the phone into my room. It lands safely on my bed, and I leave it there, hurrying downstairs to watch whatever horrible British rom-com my sister picked out this time.

  LOLOLL go home tree yr drunk!

  Donating just $1 to the Red Cross saves so many lives and homes, you guys. Follow this link, seriously.

  Look at this FCKIN CAR HAHAHAHA

  I can’t stop crying today. Some people lost EVERYTHING.

  No lights on at school yasssss

  We’re going to Emery after church tomorrow if anyone wants to join. So much work to do!!

  I blink and yawn, but I can’t sleep. This is what I get for staying in bed all day—a night full of everyone’s Saturday updates. There are photos from the party, though I’m not in any after the storm got going. I mean, you can see my elbow in one, probably lifting a shot. But I’m not tagged. I’d be offended if I weren’t so zonked out.

  Cory Callahan smiles at me from his pictures, his eyes extra blue in the camera flash. He’s in Gabe’s kitchen, in the basement. His profile photo is a soft-focus shot of him looking out over the football field, his face serious. Majestic, sort of. Or HAWTTT, as some girl I don’t know posted a month ago.

  At the party there’s a photo of Cory and Maddie—she took it. She’s laughing so hard her nose is wrinkled, which I know she won’t like, even though I always tell her it’s cute. It is cute. She looks beautiful.

  And there’s one of me and Cory. I’m making a face at him, my mouth dropped open. It’s extremely flirty.

  I stare at it, at my stupid face, the way you pick at a zit. Like I can make it better by making it worse first.

  Then I open up chat and send him a note: Have u talked to Maddie? Did u explain?

  I don’t know what I expect him to say to that, but I send it anyway. Then, quickly, I add, We shld talk 2??

  My fingers twitch, wanting to write something to Maddie, but I still don’t know what to say. Her page is full of charity links and the volunteering stuff she’s doing tomorrow. She and Charlotte already have a whole action plan for any Midcity juniors who want to help out. I could do that—I could show her that I’m not just a useless party girl. But on one of the posts about it I see Cory say, See you tmrw! and I know I should stay away. I should let them be alone, or at least let them see each other without seeing me.

  That moment last night when I saw him holding her, watching the storm from Gabe’s front windows, keeps coming back to me. It’s easier to see than anything that happened after that. I wasn’t as drunk then. I wasn’t in the dark shadow of his body as it loomed over me.

  Nope. Thinking about something else.

  I click on Alex’s page. Other people from St. John’s tagged him in photos from today, and I stare at them. He never smiles—not that it was such a smiley day, I guess. But that face he had on at the football game, that joy that radiated off him, it’s like that was a different person.

  Finally I scootch down and let my eyes flutter closed. I can feel the white, blank light of the laptop staring back at me, but I leave it on my stomach. The heat from the battery burns through my sweatshirt, and I wonder if I’ll get cancer or something. Electronics are bad for you, right? Maybe I’ll get some really painful bone cancer in my hips and everyone will stop being mad at me because it’ll be so sad. I’ll lose my hair and get a bright blue wig because I’m so edgy, and I’ll get really good at art class and make some devastating tribute to everyone who ever loved me, and everyone will sob and sob at my funeral. . . .

  My breathing slows and the light from the computer darkens into screen-saver mode, but I’m still awake when I hear Mom get home from her shift. There are the usual sounds in the kitchen of keys dropping into the bowl on the counter, the fridge opening and closing. I hear the beep of the coffeemaker being set for tomorrow morning. The click of lamps being turned off.

  I keep my eyes closed and my breath steady, just like when I was a little kid pretending to sleep. Mom’s footsteps climb the stairs slowly and I realize I’m expecting her to stop at my room, check on me. But of course she’s not, I’m not a kid anymore. Maybe she’ll check on Ayla, but she won’t—

  My door opens. I can feel the cooler air from the hallway and smell Mom’s perfume. She sneaks across the floor so quietly that it almost surprises me to feel the laptop move away, the sudden chill on my stomach, the even-darker dark behind my eyelids when she closes the screen.

  I wonder what she thinks happened to me last night. Usually she wouldn’t let me sleep all day, but maybe she felt sorry for me, getting caught in the storm. Maybe she’s just glad I got home safe.

  I can tell she’s looking down at me, and for a second I think I’ll reach out, ask her to stay. Ask her for one of those stories where I’m a princess and I convince a dragon to stop being mean, give me his jewels, and be my pet. Those were good stories.

  I don’t move. She tiptoes out as quietly as she came in.

  “I’m sorry, I said I’d bring this stuff. She’s just—whatever. You should talk to her.”

  Ryan holds out a bag and looks like he’d rather die than be here. It’s one of those reusable bags they sell at Whole Foods. The kind the Costellos have twelve thousand of.

  I take it and look inside. My jeans, my purse. My stuff from Friday.

  “What is she, breaking up with me?” I try to smile.

  Ryan just shrugs. Which seems like a bad sign.

  “Do you want to come in?”

  We’re standing on my front porch, the noise of a thousand leaf blowers and chainsaws making it hard to talk. Dave’s working on the gutters, and I’m pretty sure if we stay out here any longer he’ll ask us to help him.

  But Ryan hesitates, looking over his shoulder. I follow his gaze, suddenly worried I’ll see Maddie waiting in his car, but there’s no one.

  “I’m going to that clean-up thing,” he says. “Do you want to come? You look like you could maybe get out of the house a little bit. No offense.” He’s looking at me again, clearly concerned by my shapeless sweatshirt and unbrushed hair. He’s still in his church clothes, a crisp plaid button-down tucked into dark-wash jeans, and I do feel pretty grubby standing next to him.

  “Won’t everyone . . . be there?” I say slowly.

  He shrugs again. “Rosie, you know they’ll all be at school, too.” His voice has this heavy weariness to it. Like we’ve had this conversation too many times. Like I’ve always been some kind of shut-in that he’s had to reason with.

  I open my mouth, but stop when I realize I’m about to say, Will Alex be there? because Ryan won’t understand why I want to know. I don’t even understand until the thought pops into my head:

  Alex won’t make me talk.

  Suddenly the thing that was driving me crazy about that guy sounds like the best thing ever. All morning I’ve been avoiding Mom, Dave—even Ayla wants to chatter on and on about the storm, the damage, the various clean-up efforts she should be driven to around town.

  “I don’t know,” I finally say to Ryan. It hurts that he’s not trying to talk me into it. Or I’m glad he’s not? I seriously can’t even tell.

  “Okay. Listen, I’ve been meaning to ask you. I need tech people, and Mrs. Walsh said you still have open elective credits. So you should do it.”

  I blink at him. “You mean theater stuff? Stage . . . things?”

  Finally, finally, Ryan smiles. He almost laughs, in fact. “Yes, stage things. You’ll report to me. Ha
ng on my every word, fulfill my every whim. You know, like always.”

  I smile, too, and it feels weird. Maybe I’ve been frowning. “Do I have to?”

  Ryan sighs. “No, you don’t have to. I just figured we could hang out. You’re always saying how Maddie and me—how we’re more involved at school than you are.”

  That’s true, I guess. “Sorry, you’re right. That sounds good. Thanks for asking me.”

  We stand there in silence for a minute. I stare down at his fancy wing-tip sneakers, and he shoves his hands in his pockets. Isn’t this what I wanted? To feel closer to Ryan again, to not be the last to hear about what’s going on in his life? To know who that football player was he hooked up with at halftime on Friday?

  I slump against the doorframe. That game feels like a different life. I have way bigger problems now.

  “It’s okay,” Ryan says finally. “I’m just worried about you.”

  “I could come by at lunch. Is that okay?”

  “Only if you bring the good Doritos this time.”

  I try to shrug, but I end up just tipping forward until my head is resting against his shoulder.

  “Oh, you poor, confused girl.”

  He wraps his arms around me. No one’s touched me since Friday and my body does this involuntary shuddering thing. The way you convulse before you start crying, except I’m not crying. It’s super weird but Ryan squeezes me closer for a second, then steps back and says, “For srsly, though, maybe some real clothes? Your pjs are cute and all, but no one’s hangover lasts this long.”

  I choke out a small laugh. “Thanks for coming over.”

  “Shower. Then call her.”

  I stare at my feet and nod. And for some reason I wait until I hear Ryan’s car door slam before I look up again, watching him drive away. The bag is heavy in my hands, and I wish I could just throw it all in the trash at the side of the house.

  I don’t, of course. I haul it inside and dump it on my bed. Then, because my stuff is taking up all the room, I lie down on the floor and open my laptop. It’ll just make me feel worse, but I need to see what everyone else’s post-storm life looks like today.

  12

  “ARE YOU OKAY?” Steph keeps her eyes on the floor she’s mopping. “You seem a little . . . off.”

  I’m standing behind the counter, mindlessly staring at the rainbow sprinkles, the dull silver spoon handle sticking out, perfectly still. I blink a few times and force myself to shift my gaze to Steph. It’s sort of amazing how much you notice without having to actually pay attention—the way her head was angled down, the fact that her hair is in a ponytail that seems particularly bouncy today. I knew all that, and I haven’t actually looked at her since we started our shift half an hour ago.

  “I don’t feel great.”

  “Still?”

  “What?”

  “You were sick yesterday, right?”

  I open my mouth and move my hands to—I don’t know. I don’t really know what to do with them right now. Letting them fall back to my sides, I nod at Steph. “Yeah. It’s probably still whatever that was.”

  “I could handle this, tonight,” she tells me. Behind her, the night sky has turned the windows into mirrors. Steph’s mom-like khaki shorts are reflected back at every angle, but I’m just a shadow behind the cash register. I forgot my hat, and I’m wearing the red polo shirt today, so only the faint glow of my pale face floats in the glass.

  “Nah,” I say. “I’m fine.”

  It’s not so bad, being here. I needed to get out. Ryan was right. After he left and I showered, I felt better. Was feeling better for a little while, anyway.

  “Is your house okay? You’re over on this side of school, aren’t you?” Steph hoists the mop into its old, yellow bucket and starts wheeling it behind the counter.

  “Yeah, we were good. Trees got beat up, but my sister said no one on our block lost power or anything.”

  Steph shoves everything into the storage room and comes back out to wash her hands. It’s so quiet tonight that the radio feels louder than necessary. I turn the volume down until we can just barely hear Shania Twain singing about being a woman.

  “You weren’t with your sister?” Steph asks. “There was a huge outage at like two in the morning, pretty sure most of the city went dark.”

  “Oh, right. No, I was—out.”

  Steph nods and something passes over her face. Like she feels dumb for not knowing that already, for not assuming I’d be somewhere, doing something in the wee hours between Friday and Saturday.

  I think about all the places where my smiling face is posted, photo after photo at party after party. All summer, all last year. Maybe Steph thinks I’m the dumb one.

  “Ryan and Maddie and a bunch of us were hanging out after the game,” I say. I don’t know why it makes me feel better, to try to convince her that my night wasn’t that kind of party, but it does. For a second, it does.

  But Steph just nods, and my stomach goes hollow. She’s already heard where I was on Friday. God knows who told her or what they said, but she heard something.

  I’m tempted to ask her, but it would be mean to put her on the spot like that. And whatever, I’ll find out soon enough, anyway.

  “What about you guys?” I ask instead. “Is your house okay?”

  Steph takes a big inhale. “The one here is. But my grandma is over in Council Bluffs, and her power still isn’t back on. And my parents have a lake house they’re worried about. None of the neighbors checked in with them about it yet, so I think my mom’s driving out there tomorrow.”

  She sounds so grown-up and responsible, and all I can do is nod. I mean, we don’t have a lake house. But I didn’t even help Dave rake the yard.

  My Friday night was messed up because I messed it up. I might have bigger problems now than I did last week, but they’re my fault—everyone else got blindsided.

  Especially Maddie.

  “That sucks,” I say to Steph. “I’ve never seen a storm like that before.”

  “It was really scary,” she agrees. “I heard the hail broke some kind of record.”

  “It was so huge! And the lightning was crazy bright.”

  Steph nods, her eyes wide. “I went to volunteer yesterday, and I kept crying. I was afraid they were going to send me home.” She bites her lip, obviously wondering if she should have confessed that to me.

  But suddenly I want Steph to trust me. Whatever she might’ve heard about Gabe’s party, this right now is so easy, so normal—like I’m normal. Like I know how to just have a regular conversation with someone, with a girl.

  “I do that on a regular day,” I tell her. “I cry at commercials and stuff all the time. It’s so embarrassing.”

  She nods again and looks surprised, but relieved, too.

  “Were you with the St. John’s group?” I ask.

  “Yeah. We went over to the Emery streets for a while, but parts of it are still too dangerous, gas lines and stuff, so there wasn’t much we could do. There’s gonna be a clothes drive this week at school, though, if you have anything.” She glances down at my shorts. They’re at least three inches shorter than hers.

  “I have way too many clothes,” I say, trying to skip past any discussion of our wildly different tastes in attire. “And my sister grew like a foot this summer, so I bet she could just give you her whole closet.”

  Steph smiles. “We’re trying to use the gym to organize everything, but I don’t think they’ll let us. Student council says there are too many other things going on in there.”

  “I could talk to Maddie,” I say. “I know she’d want to help.”

  But you can’t talk to Maddie.

  The voice is back. Terrific.

  “Yeah—oh.” Steph nods quickly, then turns to smile at the people who’ve just opened the door, making the little bell ding-ding. “That would be great,” she adds quickly before practically shouting, “Welcome to Dairy Queen!”

  It’s a dad and a girl, about nine, obvi
ously getting out of the house after dinner. DQ isn’t the only business that’s been able to maintain normal operations since the storm, but I’ve still been surprised to not have more customers tonight. You’d think people would be craving comfort foods.

  The dad looks tired as he puts a hand on his daughter’s shoulder. “What do you want, honey?” She squints up at the board, then comes closer to the glass cases to look at our hard-serve flavors.

  “You guys seem to be holding up fine,” the dad says to us. His eyes flick over to me, away, and back again, and I feel my chest get tight. I know that look.

  “We were spared,” Steph says with a little laugh. “Even Mother Nature loves ice cream, right?” She’s smiling at the girl, who’s too old for the joke but smiles back anyway. Steph is really good at this job.

  But the dad looks right at me when he says, “You know what, I’ll get a cone.” He’s grinning and standing up straighter, trying to show off how tall he is. You can tell he was good-looking, back in the day, but no one looks good when they’re trying that hard. “Swirl in a sugar cone.” And then he winks.

  I turn around fast so he can’t see me cringing. There’s no good option here, though—as I grab the cone and start filling it from the machine, I can feel the guy staring at my ass. The girl orders something, too, and thank God Steph starts making her order, because all I can hear is the blood rushing in my ears. I just want to be invisible right now. It’s a truly shitty feeling.

  Besides, it’s extra gross when older guys look at me. This isn’t the first married or married-with-kids man I’ve noticed trying to flirt, but it always makes me feel vomit-y. The first time it happened I’d just kissed a boy—one my own age—the day before. Tom Mueller, at a sixth-grade party, playing a totally juvenile game of seven minutes in heaven. The kiss was awful and way too public, but I loved it. I was so happy when my name came out of the bowl of little paper slips and Tom’s eyes lit up. I was so happy to be the girl he wanted to be “forced” to kiss.

  And then the next day at the pool, some man I’d never seen before kept staring at me. And it felt like—it felt like he knew, somehow. Knew I liked attention. Which made me wonder if maybe I liked it too much. And I couldn’t explain to him, or anyone, that I didn’t like his attention. He wasn’t Tom Mueller. He was a creep.