Lucky Girl

by Amanda Maciel

  A long time goes by. We don’t move—in fact, Alex gets calmer, more still, his chest rising and falling in a smoother and smoother rhythm. He sits up, but we keep our shoulders together, leaning equally so you can’t tell who’s holding who up.

  I’ve never sat with someone like this, just being sad together. I’ve only even been to one funeral, for the little brother of a girl I didn’t know very well in junior high. And I guess there’s a lot of silence at church, but it’s different. Everyone at church is thinking about their own thing—their own problems, their own prayers.

  Alex and I, on the other hand, just sit in the awful truth of what happened to him that day in March, and we don’t talk, and we don’t move, and the stars above us are beautiful and useless but at least they’re silent, too.

  Finally it starts to feel like maybe we’re actually getting close to curfew, so I take a deep breath and look for something to say.

  All I come up with is “I’m really sorry that happened to you.”

  “Yeah,” Alex says. “I’m sorry it happened at all.”

  “That, too. It sounds like he really did have a lot of problems.”

  Our shoulders move as Alex nods.

  “Thank you for telling me everything,” I add. “I didn’t—I don’t know, I guess I never would’ve thought it was that complicated.”

  He lets out a little half laugh, half snort. “Isn’t everything?”

  It’s not the same at all, and I’m ashamed when the thought comes, but immediately I think of Cory and Gabe’s party and Maddie’s feelings. And my feelings.

  “I guess so, yeah.”

  “Anyway.” Alex leans away and stretches his arms over his head, then lets them fall back onto his knees. “I’m sorry I unloaded everything on you. It’s kind of nice, though. I mean, you’re easy to talk to.”

  No one has ever said that to me before, and I want to hold on to it, but I’m stuck on the part where he’s sorry he told me.

  “You can tell me anything,” I say, not at all sure that’s true. Not at all sure I could handle more than what he’s just said—but oh my God, I want to. I want to be the person he opens up to, about everything.

  He smiles, but it’s sad, and he turns away again. “Thanks. But it’s not really fair. I just haven’t talked to anyone in so long. . . . My mom had me seeing a therapist, but that’s not my dad’s thing at all, and it just seemed easier to skip it. But I guess I needed to get it all, you know. Out.”

  I feel our moment slipping away. I’m still on the roof, still almost touching him, and the night is still heavy over our heads, but it’s all coming loose—the one good thing I have right now, the one solid, exciting, interesting thing. I think about going home to my empty text messages and Maddie’s smiling face next to Cory’s smiling face on my social feeds, and I feel that yawning sense of nothingness creeping back in. It’s like I’m hungry, starving, but not in my stomach. Not for anything as simple as food.

  And even worse, I can hear the awful voice murmuring somewhere in the back of my mind. Mumbling about how I don’t deserve this rooftop, this boy. I’m not someone he can trust. I’m a cheater and a liar and a . . . well.

  Before the voice can call me names, I sit up straighter and turn to Alex.

  “I really am here, if you ever need to talk. About anything,” I say.

  And then I lean into him. I reach across and put my hand on his opposite shoulder. I drop my head close so my hair falls like a curtain around us, and I kiss him.

  17

  THE KISS IS long enough for me to think, I’ve never kissed a boy before.

  I mean. Obviously I’ve kissed boys. A lot of them. But I’ve never been the one to do it first—to move in first, to make it happen.

  It’s amazing.

  It’s nothing like Paul grabbing me at the game or like Cory last Friday—actually, it’s nothing like Cory on any night, in any situation. It’s nothing like I’ve ever had at all, and besides being so new and surprising, it’s good.

  Alex smells like a mix of pine and soap, and his lips are soft but not too soft, and when we touch he breathes in through his nose in this dramatic way that makes me breathe in and feel so full of air that I might just float away. Behind my eyes there’s a pure, white light, not fireworks like you read about, but light. The inside of my head is lit up. And every other part of my body is warm and desperate to get closer to him. I’d crawl into his lap except we’d probably slide down the roof. But maybe it would work, maybe I could just wrap my arms—

  He pulls away.

  He pulls all the way away, puts his hands on the roof, and moves back toward the ladder.

  “Rosie, I can’t. I can’t.”

  His feet are over the side and he turns, ready to climb down. My lips are still parted, one of my hands still hovering in the air, and he’s halfway to the ground.

  “Let me take you home. Please.”

  I don’t know what else to do, so I nod. I follow him down the ladder and walk as fast as I can to the car, though he practically runs, so he’s already starting the engine by the time I’m opening the door. The insect sounds are instantly muffled, and the lights from the dashboard feel too bright.

  You idiot. The voice sounds happy to be back. You can’t do anything right, can you?

  I think I hear Alex open his mouth to say something, but I’m too afraid to look at him. I’m too embarrassed. So I stare out the window, careful to not catch my reflection in the glass. Careful not to think too clearly. The voice keeps reminding me of what an insecure loser I am, how I can’t be happy unless I make out with every boy I see. But I stay very, very still, hoping it’ll leave me alone.

  Last Saturday morning comes rushing back—that need to hide under something, to get under all the leaves and just wait for the world to forget me—and I focus my thoughts on my bed at home. On the fact that everything I just did happened in the dark, so maybe Alex won’t remember. Maybe I can hide under my covers and it’ll all go away.

  There’s a thought hovering at the edge of my mind, just behind the voice, that I can’t quite focus on. Something about how hiding won’t help anything—

  Of course it won’t. Everyone knows what you are. Even the new guy! And he doesn’t even want you.

  Plus, it was dark when you let Cory kiss you, too.

  I go back to thinking about my room and force everything else out as much as I can.

  A lifetime later, Alex pulls up to my driveway. I start pulling on the door handle before he’s even stopped completely, and finally he says something.

  “Hey, hang on.”

  I wait, but I still can’t face him.

  There’s a sigh and the sound of him running his hands over his face.

  “Listen, I just—gahhh.” His voice is low and frustrated, and I want to scream a thousand apologies, but then I might cry, so I don’t say anything. “Listen,” he says again, more calmly. “I should have told you. This is my fault, it’s all—it’s my fault, okay?”

  I feel my head shaking, and I don’t even know what I’m arguing with.

  “Rosie, I have—I have a girlfriend. Back home. Selena.”

  My head slows down and I drop it, staring at my lap. Of course.

  I want to ask why the hell he took me out to a roof in the middle of nowhere on a dark night, but all I can think about is Maddie’s voice in the hall the other day. She was right about this, about everything.

  About the way I just am, without even trying. Slutty. Desperate.

  “I should have told you,” Alex says again. “I’m sorry.”

  I realize that my chance to scrape up some of my dignity—if I have any left—is right now. So even though it kills me, I raise my head and turn back, looking right at Alex.

  God, how did I ever not think he was handsome? He’s beautiful.

  “Don’t apologize,” I say. “I shouldn’t have—assumed. I’m the one who should be sorry.”

  I know I should say that I am sorry, but the words just won’t
come out. I wait for them, and they never come.

  Alex is shaking his head anyway, not accepting my taking responsibility, and I can feel us getting stuck in this awful loop that might not ever end if I don’t just get out of the car. It’s 12:52, so I point at the clock and say, “I should go.”

  “I’ll talk to you—?” He wants to say over the weekend or tomorrow or something, I can tell, and he stops when he remembers we’re not that kind of friends.

  Thanks to me, we might not be any kind of friends at all anymore.

  “Yeah,” I say simply, and open my door. The dome light is blinding for a second, just long enough that tears spring to my eyes, but I’m safe now. I’m out of the car, hurrying up the driveway. I pull my keys out of my bag and wave a hand over my head without looking back. Alex’s car is silent, waiting. He’s watching to make sure I get inside safely.

  I remember the last time Cory brought me home, one of the only times actually, and how he drove away while I was still standing on the sidewalk. I was laughing, watching him go. It was funny and fun and meaningless.

  I twist the key in the lock and wonder how my life suddenly became this thing that is the total, worst opposite of fun and meaningless.

  And then the door is closed, and I slide down the wood, leaning over my knees, and let myself cry.

  My eyes pop open so early on Saturday morning that I can’t remember what day it is. I stare at the clock on my nightstand—7:33—and let the week come crashing back over me. I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck, but at least I’m not late for school.

  Normally I’d try to go back to sleep, but for some reason I get up and take a shower. I take a long time with my hair, and I’m extra careful with my mascara. All the dumb rituals of getting ready are sort of soothing. It’s like when you’re sick and taking a shower fools you into thinking you feel better, at least for a little while.

  Downstairs I get a yogurt out of the fridge and lean against the counter, eating, wondering what exactly I think I’m going to do today. I don’t have a shift, and I’m not sure I want to see Ryan, even if he’s free.

  So when Ayla comes down and gives me a suspicious look, I actually smile back at her. She’s dressed, too.

  “What are you up to?” I ask, trying not to sound too eager.

  “Um . . .” I can tell she’s looking for something sarcastic to say, but finally she just opens the fridge, gets out the milk, and says, “Volunteering.”

  “Where?”

  “St. John’s. All the sorting I told you about—we’re supposed to get started today.”

  I nod and throw my empty yogurt container in the recycling. “Is Mom taking you?”

  “I think so—”

  “Maybe she’ll let me.” I start to leave the kitchen, but Ayla’s yelp stops me.

  “You want to go? Why?” Her suspicious look is back.

  “Am I not allowed to volunteer?”

  Her eyes stay narrowed, and she doesn’t say anything. Finally, though, she turns back to the fridge, and I run upstairs. Of course Ayla’s right—I’m acting weird—but suddenly I have this urgent, choking need to get out of the house.

  But I swear to God, I am not posting a volunteering photo online.

  Ten minutes later we’re driving to church, the windows down and the radio probably too loud for the early hour. Ayla doesn’t object. And when she fiddles with my iPod until a Band of Horses song comes on, I don’t say anything mean about her liking Dave’s music. Sometimes I like Dave’s music, too.

  The St. John’s parking lot is mostly empty, which gives me a little bit of hope. There’s definitely no silver car, so that’s good.

  “Did you say the football team is coming?” I ask carefully, switching off the engine.

  “Tomorrow, I think. If anyone from Midcity shows up today, I don’t think they’ll get here this early.” Ayla doesn’t look back at me as she hurries to the side door that leads to the big church basement.

  My resolve to be cheerful today is shaken when I see the rows and rows of tables covered in plastic bags of stuff. Clothes, housewares. Along the far wall are boxes that seem to be full of nonperishable food.

  “Holy—crap,” I say, remembering just in time not to say something worse.

  “I know, right?” Ayla says, surprising me. “It’s going to take forever.”

  I look at my sister, and it’s crazy, but I feel like I’ve never really seen her before. Her light brown hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and she has on just a hint of lip gloss but no other makeup. Her nose is just like Mom’s, but her blue eyes have gotten darker over the years, and around her mouth you can see Dave’s features. Not that she looks like a boy at all—more that she looks like someday she’ll grow up to be one of those people who smiles all the time.

  Not yet, though. Right now she’s scowling with a determination that I don’t think I’ve ever felt about anything. She’s glaring at all the work sitting in front of us, and there’s this intensity, this willingness to dive in and do the hard thing . . . and in that moment, I can really see that my sister is beautiful.

  She turns and finds me staring at her.

  “What? Are you going to bail?”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Is that an option?”

  She sighs. “No.”

  “I was just kidding. I’m totally gonna help. How long are we here for?” Now she’s glaring at me, and I hold up my hands. “I’m just asking because we could have a race.”

  Racing was our favorite thing when Ayla was little. When we had to do chores, I’d challenge her to see who could finish first. It was easy when she was really small. All I had to put up as a reward was, like, a single cookie, and I almost always won. As she got older, the stakes got higher—borrowing each other’s toys, picking the movie on movie night, that kind of thing. I don’t know when we stopped, exactly. I guess when we both got too busy with the rest of our lives to ever be home at the same time.

  For a second, I’m not sure Ayla even remembers what I’m talking about, but then I realize she’s just trying to decide if she’s too cool for racing now. Like anyone is actually too cool for hardcore competition.

  “I told Father Matt I’d stay until lunch,” she says slowly.

  “So, about three hours?”

  She nods.

  “I can get five whole tables done in that time,” I say. When her eyebrows go up, I smirk.

  “No, you can’t . . .” she starts, but I’ve already run to a pile of garbage bags a few rows away. “Hey!” she yells after me. “I haven’t told you what to do!”

  “I’m beating you!” I singsong back.

  That’s all it takes—she goes running, tearing open a box. Father Matt walks in and sees us both frantically folding clothes, and without a word he goes over to the food boxes and starts methodically unloading them.

  Time starts moving pretty quickly, and I’m sort of feeling like a genius, except that new people keep showing up, taking over the tables I want to work on next. I stay in the zone, though. I don’t look up except when I get something gross—don’t people know you can’t donate old underwear?—and need to hold it up for Ayla to see. It doesn’t embarrass her like I thought it would. Instead she just sticks out her tongue or yells, “Ew!” across the room.

  It’s fun. Actually, honestly fun.

  But as lunch gets closer, the room is a lot more crowded, and I know I’m annoying the older women at the end of my row. They keep glancing over at me and shaking their heads, like they’ve never seen someone sort sweaters into piles on the floor, then attack them like a sweater-folding machine. I’m tempted to invite them to the race game. They definitely wouldn’t get it.

  Around ten thirty, Ayla yells, “Bathroom!” and we both sprint off, practically side-tackling each other to get to the one free stall first. I let Ayla win, but I’m not happy about it. While she pees, I look back at her latest stack of folded shirts and wonder if I could knock it over. . . .

  But we play fair, and by eleven thirty I’
ve made it through a solid four tables of old clothes, shoes, books, and toys. Ayla’s done three tables, though she would’ve gotten closer to four if a few other volunteers hadn’t accidentally started helping her. I’ve been so focused, I’ve barely had time to wonder if Alex is going to show up. And even less time to think how messed up it is that I want him to see me here, doing something worthwhile.

  “I beat you!” I cry, holding my hands up in victory until I realize I’m sweating. I put my arms down quickly and do a little dance instead.

  Everyone looks up from their work to see the jerk who’s celebrating a local tragedy, but Ayla just rolls her eyes.

  “Barely,” she argues.

  “That was some impressive work by both of you,” Father Matt says, striding over to us on what Mom always calls his long beanpole legs. “I don’t think we can match that enthusiasm, but I hope everyone will try.”

  Ayla flushes with the compliment. “We didn’t mean to be disrespectful,” she says.

  “Not at all,” he tells her. “I mean it—I wish everyone would find their own motivation. It’s hard work, and getting out of your own sadness is a great way to lighten the load.”

  He smiles down at us, and I feel that familiar mixture of pride and creeping shame that I always get at church. There’s just something about a priest—it’s like a cop. Even when you know they’re supposed to care about you, you’re wondering if they can read your mind. If you’ve done something wrong that you just can’t remember.

  And I have done something wrong. Quite a few somethings.

  “I’ll be back after Mass tomorrow,” Ayla says. She cuts her eyes to me, but I ignore her. I might not have the energy for any more of this. Maybe I’d see Alex at church, but I’d almost definitely see Maddie and Cory and everyone else, too.

  Back in the car, I turn the stereo back on. Ayla doesn’t touch the iPod. An old Jay Z song comes on, and I start to sing, but she’s staring out the window at the sparkling blue sky. It’s one of those days that pretends to be autumn—right before it either goes back to eighty degrees and humid or just skips ahead to winter and we get an ice storm.