Kind of Cursed

by Stephanie Fournet

  Not to mention having to listen to the boys gripe about why we aren’t getting Cane’s.

  Like I said, no one’s going to get exactly what they want here. Emmett’s not going to get to skip school. Mattie’s not going to get to come home right after school. And Harry’s not going to get the dinner he wants when he wants it. He’ll have to wait another hour—after a full day of school and a soccer game—to get the dinner he doesn’t want.

  But they’ll get what they need.

  And, bottom line, that’s what I need. Forget what you want. I know I have. Getting what you want is overrated.

  Chapter Two

  MILLIE

  “Can I get a Coke and a popcorn?” Emmett asks, slamming the car door before catching up with me. The soccer game is just minutes from starting and I want to be in the stands when it does. “I’ll share it with you.”

  I glance down at my red-headed little brother and his manufactured look of wide-eyed innocence. “I’m not falling for that again.” The last time I did, Emmett drank all but the last two swallows of Coke and zipped around the soccer field like a bumblebee on Vyvanse. “How about we get a popcorn and two waters?”

  His whole body sags. “I hate water.”

  “You’re made of mostly water.”

  Emmett screws up his face and looks at me through his long bangs. The kid needs a haircut. When was the last time he had one? How often should he get one? It’s shit like this I haven’t figured out yet.

  “I’m mostly made of water?” His look of bewilderment is priceless, and I wish he’d hold it long enough for me to snap a picture with my phone. But he doesn't. And who would I show it to anyway?

  “All humans are,” I say, tucking my self-pitying thoughts away. We make our way to the concession stand.

  “What about dogs?” he asks a moment later.

  “Dogs too.”

  He giggles. “Even Clarence?”

  I grin. “Even Clarence.”

  “I figured he was mostly gas.”

  I try not to laugh because laughing at Emmett’s fart jokes only encourages him, but he sees me struggling and beams with pride.

  “Get it?” he asks, digging in.

  I roll my eyes. “Yeah, I get it. You’re too much.” We move to the front of the line and get our snacks. I lead him away from the concession crowd and scan the bleachers. “I wonder where Mattie is.”

  “Probably hiding with her homework somewhere,” Emmett mutters.

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” I find us a spot in the stands with enough room for Mattie to join us and dig out my phone.

  “It is a bad thing,” Emmett says with conviction. He takes the popcorn from me and plants the bag on his lap. “A boring thing.”

  If he’s ready to talk about school, I’m ready to listen. I just have to find Mattie first. I tap out a message on my phone.

  Me: At the soccer field. Where are you?

  I grab a handful of popcorn and scan the field for Harry, making my question come out as casual as possible. “Is your homework boring?”

  Emmett snorts like I’ve just said something ludicrous. “No. It’s dumb.”

  My little brother gets his homework done—at least on the days he goes to school—because I make him. He sits at the kitchen table while I fix dinner, and it never takes him long. But if I didn’t drag it out of his book sack, he’d ignore it and probably fail. He may fail anyway, his counselor has warned me, if he misses too many more days.

  But if school is boring and dumb, maybe he needs more of a challenge. Maybe I should ask the counselor about having him tested for gifted. Mattie and Harry are in the gifted program here at Lafayette High. I did it too when I was in school. Maybe Emmett is ready for that now.

  “Do you think school is boring?” I ask, still not looking at him, but I’ve said the s word. Classic misstep. Even out of the corner of my eye, I watch his shoulders slump.

  “I don’t want to talk about school.”

  “Well, we probably should.” But even as I say it, the Lions kick off the game, and I know I’ve lost him.

  “Let’s watch,” he says. “That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”

  I sigh just as my phone chirps. I glance down.

  Mattie: In the library. Can I stay here and finish? Be done in about 20.

  I stifle another sigh. She’ll miss most of the first half. I know I shouldn’t complain. She’s in the library finishing her homework.

  But going to Harry’s games has always been a family thing. Just like Mattie’s recitals and Emmett’s T-ball. Mom and Dad thought it was important for us to do stuff like that together. Living in a different city while I was in school meant I didn’t share this the same way, but if I was home visiting, I was expected to go too. We all were.

  Maybe it’s silly to try to keep this part of their lives the same when so much else has changed. Still, when I text her, it feels like conceding failure.

  Me: Okay, but be here by 3:30.

  She replies with a thumbs up.

  I put my phone away, ignoring the too-familiar sinking feeling in my gut, and lift my gaze to the field. Harry is the starting goalie, and even from this distance, I can see the coiled readiness of his limbs, the way his eyes track the ball as it zig-zags across the grass.

  The season just started. The Lions are three home games in. Last season, back when everything was the way it was supposed to be, Harry and Mattie were still in middle school. He played, of course, but I was still in vet school, and I could only make it in town for one game. The same thing for the years before that. Before this year, I’d seen maybe three soccer games. This season I’ve figured out about half the flag signs, but I still don’t understand most of the offside calls.

  I’m trying to understand why one of the assistant refs has his flag in the air when four people—arguing in rapid-fire Spanish—approach and sit on the bleachers in front of us. I can’t help but notice them because, besides the arguing, out of the four, two of them walk with canes, an older man and a woman who looks adorably ancient.

  But it’s the man between them, steadying each with a supportive arm on either side, my eyes find. I swallow. Dark. Chiseled. Flawless… Oh, except for that scar that scores his left brow. It would make him look kind of scary if he didn’t have those long, curling eyelashes.

  This is what I’m thinking when the eyes behind those dark, curling lashes flit to mine—and I suck in a breath and choke on a piece of popcorn.

  The rogue kernel triggers an instant coughing fit, and I wrench open my Dasani bottle, trying to silence my struggle in a flood of water.

  “You okay?” Emmett asks, frowning up at me.

  Eyes streaming, bottle pressed to my lips, I nod. It’s touch-and-go for moment, and for one terrifying instant, I’m afraid I’m about to spray Emmett and the entire Spanish-speaking family with a mouth shower. But then the beastly popcorn kernel washes away, and I can breathe again after a few wracking coughs.

  Thankfully, most of this has happened while the family in front of me has been busy situating the two cane-bound members, still arguing in Spanish.

  Dear God, for future reference, if I’m going to choke to death, please don’t let it be in front of an audience, I pray, dabbing my eyes dry on the cuff of my sweater. Definitely not in front of Emmett. And no cute guys. I know I shouldn’t care about that part, but I really do—

  I halt my prayer as one of the strikers from the opposing team aims a powerful and arrow-straight kick right at the Lions’ goal. Harry leaps, limbs splayed like a five-pointed star, and deflects it with his right hand.

  The home side goes wild. Emmett and I spring to our feet, screaming for all we’re worth.

  “HARRY! YEAH!” I yell.

  “WOOHOO!” Emmett whoops. “THAT’S MY BROTHER! WOO!”

  I hear chuckles from the crowd around us, and I don’t miss Mr. Dark, Scarred, & Chiseled glancing over his shoulder, the corner of his mouth tipped up in a grin. But I quickly drag my gaze away,
cheering again for Harry before I sit down.

  I grab the water bottle and guzzle. Cheering is thirsty work. And my face is hot. And I am definitely not here to make eyes at the dark, scarred, and chiseled of the world. Not today, and not anytime in the near future.

  That is the last thing you need right now, I tell myself, a mental image of Carter Fox darting through my mind. And that image does the trick. A frosty rush replaces the heat in my cheeks, and I draw my thin cardigan more tightly around myself.

  One thought, and I am prepared to live like a nun until Emmett finishes high school. That’s me. Sister Mildred. I sniff a laugh at the ring of it. Sister Mildred sounds more chaste than Mary Poppins and absolutely, positively impregnable.

  Impregnable. That’s the critical point.

  So with impregnable focus, I turn my attention firmly back to the soccer game and cheer as the Lions make a goal.

  The blocked kick and the first score rev up the crowd, and the bleachers rattle as feet stamp in time to “We Will Rock You!” Emmett and I are stomping, clapping, and laughing when Mattie finds us.

  With her backpack slung over one shoulder, she gives us a wry smile. “Having fun?”

  Oblivious to her irony, Emmett practically vibrates with excitement. “Harry blocked a kick and then that guy scored!” He bounces in his seat, jabbing a finger toward the field. Mattie and I follow the trajectory of his pointing to see Number Seven, a tall, wiry boy with thick dark hair who is already in pursuit of the ball again, frowning in concentration, the moment of triumph clearly already a memory.

  And then the guy on the row in front of us turns. “That’s my brother,” he says with a grin for Emmett, but his gaze flicks to mine, and I quickly look away.

  “Really?” Emmett squeals. “He’s good!”

  I glance at Mattie to have something to focus on besides the gorgeous guy in front of me, but I find her blinking, looking almost startled, her eyes glued to the figure on the field. Number Seven.

  “He is good,” she says, sounding breathless.

  Oh Jesus.

  I yank the bag of popcorn out of Emmett’s grasp and thrust it in front of my sister’s face. “Want some popcorn?”

  She turns to me with a confused frown.

  “I-It might be a while before dinner,” I stammer. “Are you hungry?”

  She takes the bag from me, answering absently. “Sure.” She looks back, searching, I know, for Number Seven, but in the frenzy of activity on the field, no one person is easy to spot.

  Don’t look for him. I’m not ready to have The Curse Talk with you just yet.

  “Did you finish your homework?” I ask, my voice blaring.

  Mattie’s face when she looks at me is one of keen irritation. “God, why are you shouting? Are you okay, Millie?”

  No, not really, I want to tell her. Take your eyes of the cutie on the field, and I’ll be fine.

  Instead, I nod. “Yeah...You just made a big deal about finishing your work, so I’m curious. Did you?”

  She rolls her eyes at me and tosses her chestnut hair over her shoulders. “I finished math, but I still have to study Spanish.”

  I swear, every muscle in my body tenses when she says this, and from my peripheral vision I catch the guy in front of me react ever so slightly. He’s heard her. He’s listening. His eyes might be on the game, but his ear is angled just a little more in our direction, the line of his shoulders taut and alert.

  Why did she have to take Spanish? Why couldn’t Mattie have picked French like Harry and I did?

  “I can help you study after piano,” I say in a rush, ready to change the subject.

  My sister’s lip curls like she smells something off. “But you don’t speak Spanish.”

  And I know I’m not imagining things. Mr. Dark, Scarred & Chiseled chuckles at this. He doesn’t make any noise, but those shoulders—broad and impressively muscled though they are—bounce with silent amusement.

  He’s laughing. At me.

  I ignore the rush of heat this delivers to my cheeks. It doesn’t matter if this cute guy is laughing at my expense. Sister Mildred does not care about such things. I clear my throat and try to sound as confident as ever. “I can still quiz you. Call out vocabulary words or something.”

  Mattie just shrugs, and her eyes drift back to the game. And no sooner does she do that then Number Seven breaks away from the cluster of players, the ball clearly under his command, and makes a bold kick toward the goal. It’s blocked, but the crowd still roars, electric with the near miss.

  “Good push, hermano,” the guy in front of me yells. “Keep ‘em on their toes!”

  And before I can stop him, Emmett leans forward and shakes him by the shoulder. “Hey, your brother’s name is Hermano?”

  Three things happen at once. My stomach forms a cement ball. Mattie snorts a laugh. And the guy twists around, hitting me with a smile that is so beautiful I feel the absurd urge to cry. In a nanosecond, my brain catalogues every nuance of its radiance. The natural rose of his lips. The hint of dimples there on his cheeks. The white of his teeth, which are almost perfect except for the one lateral incisor. The left one on the bottom. It’s just a little crooked, leaning against the central incisor like a tipsy friend after a night of clubbing.

  Stop it. You’re making up stories about his teeth. Look away! I scold myself and then scold Emmett.

  “Buddy, let the man watch the game.”

  “It’s all right,” the guy says with a shake of his head, his eyes moving from me to Emmett. “His name is Alex. Hermano means brother.”

  It’s faint, but his words hum with an accent. The hum tickles the back of my neck. I lift a hand to sweep away the sensation, then grab the popcorn from Mattie and thrust it back at Emmett. “Want more popcorn?”

  But my brother just ignores me. “Alex? I think Harry’s talked about him.”

  “He has,” Mattie adds in a gauzy tone I’ve never heard from her. My gaze whips to her to find her staring onto the soccer field looking drugged, a slow smile lifting the corners of her mouth.

  Oh shit.

  I need Emmett to stop talking to this guy and Mattie to stop mooning over his brother, but I realize that’s not going to happen when the woman beside him—not the ancient one, but the other one—swivels around too. One look at her eyes, and I’m sure she’s his mother.

  “Is your brother in ninth grade too?” she asks, smiling, her accent more pronounced than her son’s. She’s looking at Emmett, but I am acutely aware, as if every cell in my body is receiving a satellite signal, that her son is looking at me.

  I force my gaze to my brother. Emmett nods. “Yes, ma’am.” I should be proud of his good manners, but the weight of this guy’s stare has my system on overload.

  Turn around, dammit.

  How can I ignore him and stick to my ten-year chastity plan if he’s staring at me like that? I refuse to meet his stare, but it might as well be a hand reaching across the space that separates us, seizing me by the belt. I feel like I’m being tugged forward. And maybe it’s not an invisible hand at my belt. Maybe it’s grabbing my chin, insisting that I turn to face him.

  Well, I won’t do it, I silently tell him, keeping my gaze fixedly on Emmett.

  “They’re the only freshman starters on the team,” the guy’s mother says with obvious pride.

  I swivel my focus to her, completely bypassing Dark, Scarred, and Chiseled. His mother is safe territory. I meet her smile with my own and nod. I don’t mean to be rude to her. She has no way of knowing what I’m dealing with. Everything I’m dealing with. She can’t possibly know the threat both her sons’ very existences pose to my sanity. Still, I don’t want the conversation to continue, and I need the temptation of her older son’s eyes to ease up, so I don’t actually speak to her.

  Instead, she turns to her son. “Luca, didn’t you start as a freshman too?”

  The question is a Godsend. He finally turns away and faces his mother instead. “Only during the playoffs when o
ne of the seniors tore his ACL.” He pauses for a moment, and I allow myself a glimpse at his profile. The dimple in his right cheek winks at me. “But don’t tell Alex. He’ll never let me forget he’s the better player.”

  His mother snickers, shaking her head. “Alejandro wouldn’t rub it in. He has too big a heart.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mattie drop her elbow to her knee and lean forward, resting her chin on her raised knuckles. I’m not a hundred percent sure, but I think I hear her whisper with dreamy appreciation.

  “Alejandro…”

  Chapter Three

  LUC

  I open my eyes and pick up my phone: 4:57 a.m.

  Across the apartment, coffee hits the bottom of the carafe, right on time. Tapping the clock icon on the screen, I swipe the green dot, killing the alarm before it kills the silence.

  But I don’t move. Instead, I lie still, eyes closed, and figure out my Daily Three. Today’s top three priorities. According to Papi, anyone who says you can have more than three priorities a day is full of shit. To-do lists are long. Priorities are short.

  Priorities determine to-do lists, not the other way around.

  Yesterday’s Daily Three were Resources, Quality Control, and Family. I review yesterday in my mind. Repair costs on the Series II Crawler. Lumber orders. My visits to each Valencia & Sons job site. Hector’s fuck-up with the dirt delivery. Papi’s leg. Alex’s two soccer goals.

  Eyes the blue of spring fever…

  My lids snap open and I stare at the ceiling, but all I see is that redhead. I reach a hand behind my head and squeeze the back of my neck, surprised I don’t have a crick in it from turning back to look at her so many times—instead of watching Alex’s game.

  “Pendejo,” I mutter to my empty room.

  I should have stopped that shit the first time she yanked those blue eyes away. She might as well have held up her hand. Not interested in you. Message received.

  But I didn’t stop.

  I tried, but looking at her felt like striking a match. No. It felt like I was the match. I tried telling myself she was an ice princess. No warmth for some first-gen Chicano who works with his hands. But that wasn’t it. Even a minute or two listening to her with her little brother and sister made that clear.