Lucky Girl

by Amanda Maciel

  “I’ll think about it,” I tell Maddie, and she seems satisfied.

  But I’m pretty sure I’m lying. Because all I really wanted was my friend back. I wanted a chance to explain, and I wanted things to go back to normal.

  And now I can just forget that anything happened. Because I’m fine.

  Yeah, sure. Totally fine.

  22

  DAVE RUNS HIS fingers along his nose, pushing his glasses out of the way. His elbows rest on the table on either side of his untouched chicken dinner.

  “I’m still not understanding what the hell you were thinking,” he says with a pained sigh.

  “I’m really sorry, ” I say to my plate. I can feel Mom’s eyes burning a hole in my head. “I didn’t know I was going to take the car, I just—it just happened.”

  “It just happened?” Mom sets her water glass down so hard that a few drops splash out.

  “Beth—”

  “No, Dave, let her talk.”

  Beside me I can feel Ayla smirking, eating her dinner daintily. She so loves being in the room for this. I want to burn the stupid book that convinced my parents to have important conversations at family mealtimes.

  “I’m sorry,” I say again. It’s the latest stop on the Rosie Fuller Apology Tour. Except tonight, no one is telling me to stop, like Maddie did this morning. This time I definitely need to be really, truly sorry.

  Even if I’m just a tiny bit not sorry. The truth is, I feel better than I did yesterday. Something about driving that far just made the world feel bigger. And having Maddie with me in the halls at school again almost made me forget that Alex wasn’t there.

  And then as I was getting into Mom’s car after the last bell, I got a text from Alex.

  I don’t have a girlfriend anymore. Can we talk later?

  I didn’t go out there to ask him to break up with anyone. And I feel a little guilty that he did, but my heart races just thinking about it. Plus, he said that it wasn’t just because of me. So the least I can do is believe him.

  He didn’t say when he’s coming back, though. I think I’m supposed to give him space and time, so I didn’t ask. It’s torture.

  Mom stabs a piece of chicken with her fork but doesn’t eat it.

  “Rosie,” says Dave, “we need you to get what we’re saying here. What you did was seven different kinds of dangerous—you could’ve gotten killed by the traffic, or the storm, or—”

  “I might still kill you,” Mom interrupts.

  I think I hear a tiny whisper-giggle escape my sister’s lips, but I don’t look over. Mom does, though. She points her fork at Ayla, even though there’s still a big chunk of chicken on it. Now even I sort of feel like laughing.

  “This isn’t funny. The car could’ve broken down. We don’t know Alex that well, he could’ve been living God knows where—so even when you got there,” she says, swinging the chicken over to me, “how did we know you were safe?”

  “Jill talked to you—”

  Dave shuts me up with a look. Somehow I can never remember that interrupting Mom is only going to make things worse.

  But she just sighs and throws the fork down on her plate again. “You showed a complete lack of judgment, I needed the car last night, and you’re not driving again until I say so. And by the way, can I just point out that you’re sending your sister a terrible message about how to act with boys.”

  And there it is. Of course Mom thinks I was just sneaking out to see Alex, because with her everything I do is about some guy. I take a breath and notice Dave’s mouth forming a thin line, like he can tell this fight has moved past his powers to negotiate. Right before I have a chance to throw some choice words in Mom’s face, though, Ayla speaks up.

  “Oh my God, she’s fine,” she snaps. “Can we please just remember she went to see Alex Goode? What is the big deal?”

  “Great, now neither of you is taking this seriously—” Mom starts to say, but Dave puts a hand on her arm.

  “Ayla, let us handle this,” he says in his calm voice.

  “Whatever. All anyone ever does around here is yell at Rosie, but fine, I’ll just be quiet like I always am!” Ayla’s voice gets louder with each word and the rest of us sit back a little. Normally I might glance at Mom and exchange a look—Ayla thinks she’s always quiet??—but we’re all too shocked to hear her defending me to do anything.

  My sister pushes her chair back and throws up her hands. “People like boys, okay? It’s a regular thing! Stop acting like it’s the end of the fucking world!”

  “Language!” Mom yelps. Dave looks back and forth among all of us, probably wondering why his male-feminist approach to life isn’t working out better.

  “I did mess up, though,” I say to Ayla. She looks at me, startled. “It’s not like there’s nothing to be mad about.”

  “Ugh, Rosie, you just have to make everything about you.”

  And in a spectacular huff—the kind I still couldn’t pull off, four years older than her—my little sister storms from the room. We listen to her pounding up the stairs and slamming her door, none of us daring to meet each other’s eyes.

  I stare at my chicken, rice, and broccoli, turning cold and gross. Mom takes a sip of water and Dave sighs again. Finally I break the silence.

  “I know I shouldn’t have done that. At all. I just—something bad happened, and I needed to talk to my friend. And I made a mistake, taking the car. I wasn’t trying to sneak out and see a boy, I swear. I was just . . . upset.”

  Mom takes a long breath through her nose.

  “What happened?” Dave says. “What bad thing?”

  Mom looks at him, then at me. I know she thinks I’m just being dramatic, but that’s fine. There’s no way I can get into the whole Cory thing with my parents—especially not Dave.

  “Can we talk about it tomorrow?” I finally say. “I didn’t sleep very well, and it’s been a really long day . . .”

  Mom rolls her eyes, and I know she wants to point out how my day was only long because I started it on the wrong side of the state line. Whenever she gets really mad it just keeps going and going—she can’t seem to calm down until every single terrible thing has been said. Ayla’s scorched-earth fighting techniques were learned from the best. Or the worst, I guess.

  Dave puts his hand on the back of Mom’s shoulders. “Tomorrow is fine,” he tells me.

  “It’s her turn to do the dishes.” Mom is still glaring down at her plate and her voice is quiet, like even she can see that she’s being petty.

  “I’ll do them,” Dave says quickly. Then, giving me a stern look, he adds, “Go to bed.”

  I don’t need to be told twice. I take the stairs two at a time, grateful to find all my own familiar bath products right where I left them, next to my favorite toothpaste and my own toothbrush. I finish cleaning up and am practically running to my room when I hear music coming through Ayla’s door. Sad music. Sad Sia music.

  I stop midstep and consider my options. All I want to do is crawl into bed and text Alex a hundred pointless thoughts. I want to talk to Maddie, too. She broke up with Cory right after homeroom, and I got to hear the whole story about how he just said, “Whatevs,” and she said, “You’re a violent asshole, and I hope they kick you out of school,” and everyone looked at her like she was nuts. She told me all this and then stared at me, like I should get excited about getting the star quarterback suspended.

  I don’t know if it’s exhaustion or what, but I’m feeling sort of numb about everything. I’m just wiped out, physically and emotionally. I’m not sure I can handle whatever’s making Ayla play Sia on repeat right now.

  But lately, it feels like she needs me. It’s a good feeling.

  I knock on her door.

  “What?”

  “It’s me,” I say, opening it a teeny tiny bit.

  “Whoop-de-do.”

  Her room is as neat as Maddie’s always is—always was, I guess—and she’s sitting up on her fluffy bed, holding her oldest, dearest
stuffed elephant to her chest. I lean against the doorjamb.

  “Thanks for sticking up for me back there.”

  She shrugs, still scowling.

  “I guess this means you have a boyfriend now?”

  Her eyes go wide and nervous, which makes me laugh. I step into the room and shut the door behind me, coming over to sit on the end of her bed. Any other night she’d probably kick me onto the floor, literally, but now she just tucks her knees up and stares at nothing.

  “That’s good news, right? Boyfriend?”

  “Until Mom finds out.” Ayla buries her face in the elephant’s lilac chenille trunk. “Then she’ll start yelling at me, too.”

  “Nah,” I say. “Well, maybe.”

  Sia is still wailing in the background, so I take a minute to get up and turn the volume down, then sit back on the bed.

  “Am I a bad influence?” I ask Ayla.

  “No,” she mutters.

  “Are you sure?”

  She picks up her head and glares at me, which I don’t understand at all. I guess I look surprised, too, because she says, “Figures. You don’t even know. The bad influence is having you and Mom around, looking like freaking supermodels all the time.”

  “But—how is that—?”

  “It’s impossible!” she cries, throwing her hands up. “Dad keeps telling me to have confidence and not read magazines so I don’t, like, die of unhealthy body image and he’s basically forbidden me from ever watching reality TV ever, but no one cares that my mom and my sister are completely impossible!”

  “Ayla, slow down. I have no idea what you’re talking about right now.”

  “Seriously? If you looked like me and had to see you every day, living in the same house, looking like you should be on one of those Bachelor shows, it wouldn’t make you feel just a tiny bit bad about how you look? I mean, for example, boobs! I don’t have any!” She points at her chest with a grim triumph in her eyes. “I have no waist, I can’t tan, my hair is, like . . .” She holds out her ponytail. “What color is that?”

  It takes all of my remaining energy to not laugh. And it’s not that I don’t empathize, because I do—it’s just that she’s kind of funny when she’s being indignant.

  “You’re twelve, dude.”

  “I’m thirteen in two weeks!”

  “Yeah, exactly. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen—the worst. Everyone looks like a freak in junior high. And most of high school.”

  She’s staring at me with an unreadable expression, and I realize what I’ve just said.

  “Not that you look like a freak! At all. Just the other day I was thinking about how gorgeous you are! Really!”

  “No, you weren’t,” she grumbles. And that’s when I really feel bad, because it’s just burning off her—the need for someone to tell her she’s pretty. She’s trying so hard not to believe me, but I can tell how much she really, really wants to anyway.

  So maybe I’m a bad influence, after all. But for once I also know what to say.

  I grab both of Ayla’s hands and lean closer, forcing her to look me in the eye. “When we were at church over the weekend, and I was watching you working, I thought, That girl is beautiful, and she’s going to get more beautiful every single year.”

  Ayla pinches her lips between her teeth.

  “And it wasn’t just because of your face, which, by the way, is amaze. It was your spirit—and hang on, I know that sounds like bullshit, but I swear it’s true. And it’s important. Your spirit is ridiculously pretty, okay? Like, Cara Delevingne–pretty. You are a really good person, especially when you aren’t being crazy moody.” I sit back again, still holding her hands, and stick my chest out a little. “And trust, you will get these. Mom has boobs and so do I, and have you gotten a load of Grandma Fuller lately? If you get those genes from Dave’s side of the family, you are set.”

  Finally, this makes Ayla laugh. “Gross,” she says, but she’s smiling, and she hasn’t squirmed away from me holding her hands yet.

  “Now tell me about the boy,” I say, stifling a yawn. I squeeze her fingers one last time, then take my hands away and use them to prop myself sideways on her bed.

  “Ugh, no, it’s too embarrassing.”

  “Sounds good already.” I keep grinning at her until she grabs the elephant again and squeals into it. “His name is . . . ,” I prompt.

  “Henry.”

  “Good. I approve. He’s in your class?” She nods. “Age appropriate, awesome. See, you’re already way ahead of me, especially with Mom. She’s going to be thrilled.”

  “He’s kind of a science nerd.”

  I pick up one of her throw pillows and smack her with it. “Are you kidding me? Not fair! You were already the favorite daughter, and now you have a science-nerd boyfriend?”

  She’s giggling now, flinching away from my pillow attack. I smack her one last time and then launch myself up and off the bed.

  “That’s it, I’m going to sleep. You are fine. Put on some less mopey music and go Gchat Dr. Henry, okay? Sheesh.”

  She’s still laughing when I get to the door and stop, turning back for a minute.

  “And Ayla, seriously. I love you. I’m sorry if I’ve screwed you up or been a bad example of, you know, womanhood or whatever. But don’t be screwed up. You are a very cool person, and Henry or whoever is lucky just to get to know you. And try to be nicer to Mom, okay? Just try.”

  She rolls her eyes at me, and I know I sound like Dave, or even Mom. But now I kind of understand all those self-esteem talks they’ve been giving us over the years. I still don’t think they necessarily apply to me, but . . . maybe.

  “I love you, too,” Ayla says. “I hope whatever happened to you wasn’t that bad.”

  I nod and slip out of the room fast. Somehow I managed to make that whole conversation go well, and I don’t need to ruin it now.

  In my own room I flop onto my bed and groan. Everything with Cory and being grounded and trying to get close to Maddie again—it’ll all be there in the morning. I grab my phone and open up a text to Alex.

  Want to talk but soooooo sleeeeeepy zzzz. Tmrw?

  I don’t even wait to hear back before I fall asleep, safe at home at last.

  23

  RYAN HANDS ME a hammer and raises one eyebrow. “So Cory’s on Senior Court.”

  “Of course he is.” I pull my hair into a ponytail, then take the tool.

  “What if he and Maddie both get crowned?”

  “Maddie will be fine, since she’ll be Junior Queen and obviously you’re going to win Junior King. So you’ll be there to shield her.”

  Ryan rolls his eyes, but his cheeks get so pink that I can see the color even in the low light of backstage. It’s just the two of us, a bucket of nails, some backdrops that need to be attached to wooden frames, and plenty of time to discuss the Homecoming Court announcements that were made this morning.

  “I’m not gonna win,” Ryan says.

  “Dude, people love you. I voted for you already.”

  “You did?”

  Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes. “And for Maddie.”

  He gasps. “I can’t believe you didn’t vote for Olivia!”

  I smirk. “Yeah, it was a tough call. You know how close she and I have always been.”

  We both laugh, and then we’re quiet for a minute, and I wonder if he’s feeling weird that the third Junior Queen nominee was Ashley Russo. And not me.

  I don’t know why I feel disappointed about the whole thing; it’s a big school and I’m not a cheerleader or anything.

  It’s just another school thing that Ryan and Maddie are doing and I’m not.

  But Alex is nominated, too. So basically there’s no way to not feel left out. Maddie and Charlotte Lewis made the announcements during homeroom, and for a second, it felt like that day at the airport. Or the party where Maddie and Cory fell in love or like or whatever it was. Or the walk home from Gabe’s party.

  I guess feeling left out is getting pretty f
amiliar. But not easier.

  “I’m never gonna beat Mr. Better-than Goode, anyway,” Ryan says.

  “If he doesn’t come back in time, though, you could win by default.” I guess I sound as depressed as I feel, and Ryan swats me on the arm.

  “He’s not gonna stay away that long. Default, deschmalt.” He gives me a look. “Maybe next time you go out to Iowa, you can stuff him in the trunk of your car. Like a balloon.”

  This makes me smile, finally, but I shake my head. “You know I’m so grounded I’m barely allowed to be at school right now.”

  He snorts. “Everyone thinks you’re some kind of crazed groupie.”

  “Yeah.” Skipping school to drive across state lines added an interesting wrinkle to my reputation. “I just needed to talk.” I look up, realizing what I’ve said. “Not that—it’s just, I know you hate picking sides . . .”

  Ryan shrugs one shoulder, still concentrating on his edge of canvas. I don’t know what else to say, and for a while we just work silently. I wish I’d noticed sooner that Ryan and I were turning into the kind of friends who just joke about stuff. I thought we were having real, important conversations. But maybe I never had anything important to say before. So maybe he doesn’t think of me that way—like the friend he can talk to about his love life, or the things that might really be bothering him.

  Alex talks to me, even from far away. About everything—except when, exactly, he’s coming back. When I get the nerve to ask, he just says Soon.

  This morning right after homeroom, I texted him to say You got nominated for Junior Homecoming King!!!

  It took a while to hear back, and all he said was Crazy! Not Go buy a dress, girl, so we can go to the dance together!

  I wish I could ask Ryan what he thinks that means. Or Maddie—if only she could talk about something besides going to the administration about Cory. She thought it was weird I went to Iowa, and even though we’re friends again, she’s still too busy to hang out very much.

  If only Alex would just come back, everything would be fine. I hate so much, for so many reasons, that all the bad things that happened to him last year happened—and I hate that sometimes I’m glad that they did, since that’s the only reason I met him in the first place.