The Thing About Luck

by Cynthia Kadohata

  The whole way back, Obaachan was growling “Errrr,” so I knew she was in a lot of pain. She took seven aspirin, then said, “If I die from aspirin poisoning, Parker fire us. Here. Take this.” She pulled over and handed the cell phone to me.

  When we got a signal, I helped Obaachan call Mrs. Parker. “We almost back,” she told her. “Yes . . . Yes . . . Yes . . . Yes . . . Yes . . . Good-bye.” She handed the phone back to me. “Make sure that turned off.”

  I looked at the phone. “It’s turned off.”

  “If you wrong and she hear me, you grounded. I keeping list of every time you grounded during harvest. Then you be grounded for long time.”

  “It’s off,” I said again.

  “I just want to say, then. I want to say that woman drive me crazy.”

  “Well, she’s just very detail-oriented,” I said.

  “I like detail too. I love detail! Detail my most favorite thing in world! But she drive me crazy.”

  When we arrived at the Laskey farm, it was already afternoon. The combines were going strong. When we got back to the camper, I called in on the radio. “Mrs. Parker? We’re back. Should we make everyone sandwiches?”

  “Yes, of course. I’ve decided to move dinner to eight for this job.”

  “Okay.”

  “Personally, I believe in three nice, big meals a day, not in those six smaller meals that are so popular today.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Personally, I believe in the traditional method of just about anything.”

  Obaachan was watching me glumly. “Yes, ma’am,” I told Mrs. Parker.

  “I’d like to get on one of those cooking shows. I think my recipes are just as good. I looked into self-publishing a cookbook; I think it would be a bestseller.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Anyway, you’d better get to making the sandwiches.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I put the radio down.

  Obaachan was pressing her palms against her temples. “She give detail a bad name.”

  Obaachan made the sandwiches and went to drive them out to the combines. I went into the bedroom and took out my lucky amber, with the mosquito in it. I pressed it against my forehead for luck and then meditated the way Jiichan had taught me. First I did alternating-nostril deep breathing, then I lay down on my back and spread out my limbs. Thunder took that as an invitation and climbed back and forth over me three times before settling down on my shins. Jiichan liked me to pick a person to open my heart to. I picked Jenson. “I accept you for who you are,” I said. I hadn’t even realized he was still in my mind, but apparently, he was. I tried to picture him. But usually when I closed my eyes, all I saw were chaotic lights and shapes. Mrs. Parker once said she could see pages and pages of writing in her head if she’d just read a book. She could pick out a page number and know exactly what was on that page.

  After I did my breathing, I opened my heart to Jaz, as Jiichan sometimes asked me to do. Then I tried to untangle some of what I saw when I closed my eyes. I could never quite meditate because of the chaos in my head. After a while I thought I was awake . . . unless I was asleep. The next thing I knew, Jaz was leaning his face a foot over mine.

  “Hey, Summer?” Jaz asked.

  “You surprised me!” I yelped.

  “Two kids at school said I’m a freak.”

  “Which two kids?”

  “Just two kids.”

  “You’re not a freak,” I said.

  “Why do you think they said it, then?”

  “Because they don’t know what they’re talking about,” I told him firmly.

  “Summer, can you just answer honestly?”

  I considered that and decided to tell him what my true opinion was at that moment. “I think you’re a very intense boy and are really good at concentrating, and Jiichan says people like that are very successful in life.”

  “Like thinking hard can make me successful?” Jaz asked. Something in his voice indicated that he was already moving on from the idea that he was a freak and was now playing with the possibility that he was a great thinker.

  “Yes.”

  “That’s interesting,” he said, clearly pondering which particular type of greatness he should aspire to.

  I could hear voices in the kitchen and realized Robbie was talking to Obaachan. I really wanted to go out there to see Robbie, but Jaz’s earnest expression—with a few scars on his forehead—told me that he needed my full attention right then.

  “So why can’t I make friends with any kids from school?”

  Trying to be helpful, I said, “Sometimes you say the wrong things at the wrong time.” I heard Robbie saying, “Okay, thanks, bye,” then I heard the door open and close. Rats.

  “How can you say the wrong thing at the wrong time?” Jaz asked me. “If you have a thought, why not say it?”

  “It’s like that time the teacher said you started singing during a test.”

  “I got an A on that test.”

  I ignored that and said, “There was that time we went into town and you asked that boy from your class if he wanted to come over and play.” I felt the camper shake from the wind. Tonight would be dry and windy. The dust and bits of cut wheat would make the combines look like gigantic tumbleweeds.

  “What was wrong with asking him that?”

  “You can’t just ask someone that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s not your friend yet.”

  “How can he become my friend if he doesn’t come over?”

  Jaz was making my brain hurt. I heard Obaachan growling and pushed myself up, then pulled my knees in close and rested my chin on them. I didn’t know what to say. He was a strange boy.

  “You’ll make another friend,” I said finally. “It just might take time.” I stood up. “I have to help Obaachan. You coming?”

  “No.”

  In the kitchen Obaachan was making lasagna. She didn’t even turn her head. “You make brownies,” she ordered.

  “How did you know it was me?”

  “I have eyes on back of head.”

  I took out the mixing bowl. “You always lecture me to tell the truth.”

  “I never lie.”

  “But you just said you have eyes on the back of your head.”

  “Did I know who come in without looking?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I no lie.”

  At almost eight, we drove dinner out to the combines. I’d seen Robbie on a dirt bike ahead of us. At the combines, Obaachan and I arranged all the food on the open bed of the pickup, buffet style. We’d set out a bunch of folding canvas chairs for everyone. The drivers all stretched their necks and backs before turning to the food.

  “It’s lasagna,” I said proudly, even though I hadn’t made it. “And brownies for dessert.”

  Mrs. Parker was already looking over the food. “Oh, dear, the broccoli is overcooked.” She turned to me and Obaachan. “If there’s one thing I hate, it’s overcooked vegetables. Wasn’t that included in the directions at the start of my menu book?”

  Obaachan didn’t say a thing, so that left it to me to admit, “We didn’t get a chance to read the whole preface. The broccoli is still kind of crunchy.”

  “Oh, honey, you must read the preface. It’s my whole theory of cooking. I just wrote it this year. It needs to be a tad crunchier.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ll read it, I promise.” I felt totally deflated. She leaned over and lightly sniffed the lasagna but didn’t comment. She only glanced at the brownies.

  Everybody grabbed the reusable plastic plates and utensils and sat down. I stood watching. Mick stuck a big forkful of lasagna in his mouth, then made an unpleasant face. When he had swallowed, he said, “A bit cheesy, isn’t it?” Right then and there, I decided I hated Mick.

  Mrs. Parker looked offended. “It’s my own personal recipe.” Then she took a bite, smacked her mouth together a few times, and shook her head. “Oh, no, no, no. This
is all wrong. Too much Parmesan and no basil at all.”

  Since Obaachan obviously wasn’t going to participate in this conversation, I said, “There actually wasn’t any fresh basil at the store.”

  Finally, Obaachan said, “Not enough Parmesan in your recipe. Lasagna need—what you call it?—tang. I put more in.”

  Mrs. Parker looked at Obaachan as if she couldn’t believe her ears. There was a deadly silence.

  Then Mr. Parker said, “Oh, come on, honey, it’s actually good. I like the tang.”

  She looked at him as if she was going to take a butcher knife and plunge it into his heart.

  “Tang. No tang. All I know is this is good food and I’m hungry,” he said. “Sit down and eat, sweetheart. Mick, cheese is good for you.”

  Mrs. Parker turned to Obaachan. “This must be the last time, and I do mean the last, that you deviate from a recipe.”

  Obaachan said, “What ‘deviate’?”

  “It means change,” Mrs. Parker answered. “You must follow my recipes exactly. I just want you to know that before I married my husband, I went to cooking school and worked as a chef for seven years.”

  Obaachan nodded her head and said, “You great cook. I know that. But your school no teach you about tang.”

  I was stunned that Obaachan would talk back to Mrs. Parker.

  “In future I follow all your recipe exactly,” Obaachan continued. “But I have very strong feeling about tang. But you pay me, I leave the tang out. I give you my promise.”

  I’d never even heard Obaachan use the word “tang” before.

  Obaachan and I sat down and began eating with the others. It really wasn’t half bad. Yes, it had more tang than the usual lasagna, but it still tasted good. Everybody scarfed down their food. All the guys even went for seconds. Then it was brownie time. Nobody commented as they ate their brownies, so I guess that was good. Personally, I thought they were excellent brownies.

  Then Robbie suddenly said, “Good brownies.”

  “I made them,” I said. And I had to admit, they were excellent.

  I wanted to make him brownies every day for the rest of the harvest.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The next morning I woke up first to cook. It was Sunday, so that made it a full-breakfast day, with all twelve of us looking forward to our weekly treat. I was still in a happy mood because Robbie had liked my brownies. In fact, I started to think that perhaps they were the best brownies I had ever tasted. And to tell the truth, I mistakenly put in a little more sugar than the recipe called for.

  Jiichan walked into the kitchen and stared at the pan I planned to use to scramble thirty eggs. It was made of Teflon. We didn’t have anything made of Teflon at home because Jiichan refused to eat anything cooked on weird pots and pans that were coated with who knew what kind of chemicals. Jiichan stumbled backward with a hand on his heart. I knew it was because of the Teflon. I waited for him to recover. “Don’t worry,” I said. I took out a smaller stainless-steel pan to cook his three sunny-side-up eggs in, using the special oil we’d brought for him—a mix of butter from grass-fed cows, organic coconut oil, and organic extra-virgin olive oil. Jiichan ate as much junk food as anyone, but he balanced it with this magical oil.

  Unfortunately, dishwashing was one of my chores both at home and on harvest, so I had scraped quite a few pans in my life and pretty much thought that whoever had invented Teflon had done the world a big favor. I wondered if the inventor of Teflon was someone like Jaz, some brainy dude locked up in a lab twelve hours a day while he chewed gum and blew bubbles exactly the same size, over and over.

  “I got very bad feel about Teflon,” Jiichan said. “Teflon invented by someone who care more about easy than about good.”

  I cooked everyone else’s eggs at the same time and toasted and buttered a loaf of wheat bread. I fried thirty sausages and started the coffee and the hot water for tea. I radioed the Parkers. “Breakfast is ready,” I said. Then I felt kind of shy about going over to the drivers’ quarters. Finally, I crept forward and peered into their room. “Breakfast,” I said, but not loudly enough to wake anyone. I took a big breath. “Breakfast!” I said, even more loudly than I’d meant to.

  “Girl, we’re not deaf,” Mick said. The guys started getting out of bed, some of them in their underwear. For half a second I stared, but then I hurried from the room. There was hair all over their chests! A lot!

  Obaachan was setting the kitchen table. Breakfast was always indoors, I didn’t know why. I guess that was just the way Mrs. Parker liked it. No harvesting operation I had ever heard of cooked a hot breakfast for the workers, even on Sundays. But like I said, the Parkers had started out as drivers themselves, so they really liked to take good care of their team.

  Rory, Sean, and Mick came into the kitchen at the same time. I sat down with my plate and slid to the very end of one of the benches. I didn’t know whether I wanted Robbie to sit next to me or not. It was kind of stressful sitting next to him. On the other hand, it was also fun and exciting. Mick took some eggs and five sausages and slid in next to me. He hadn’t bothered brushing his hair, and tufts of it stood up on his head.

  “Summer. What’s the craic?” he said.

  But I couldn’t stop staring at his plate. Who eats five sausages? I thought. Now there were only twenty-five left for everyone else. But I could make that work by not eating any until after everyone else had eaten theirs.

  “Summer?” Mick asked.

  “The usual,” I replied. “Got up at six.”

  “Summer, is there milk in it?” Rory asked.

  “Yes, in the fridge.” I forgot what exactly “in it” meant to Irish people, but it didn’t exactly mean “in it” like we thought.

  “Jaykers! Ya want milk? The amount of milk ya drink, ya’re going to turn into a cow,” Mick exclaimed.

  “What’s that? I like milk, all right? My ma always gave me a lot.”

  “Ah, still a mama’s boy, are ya, then?” Mick teased.

  “I like milk, sure. It doesn’t make me a mama’s boy,” Rory retorted, slipping in next to Mick.

  “Well, these long days’ll make a man out of ya.”

  “If it doesn’t break him,” Sean said, thumping his plate on the table. Sean had taken four sausages. Well, the sausage situation wasn’t my fault. I had made exactly as many sausages as Mrs. Parker had said to in her binder.

  Obaachan poured a glass of milk for Rory and passed it down to him.

  I felt more comfortable with them than with the two American drivers. I wasn’t sure why, but maybe it was because I felt closer in the pecking order to the Irish guys. The Americans were older, so I had to show them more respect.

  Mrs. Parker swept into the camper, her chin rising a bit as she sniffed the air, a lot like Thunder would do.

  I looked over at Jiichan and saw him closing his eyes the way he often did when eating. It was like he was savoring his magic oil.

  I didn’t know what to say, so I kept it basic. “So what’s it like where you guys live?” I asked the Irishmen.

  “Oh, it’s lovely, beautiful countryside,” Mick replied, his voice suddenly catching fire. He was the most talkative of the three.

  “Tell her about yer crop circles, then,” Rory said, elbowing him with a laugh.

  “Ya can make fun about it, but it’s an honest day’s work,” Mick shot back, returning the elbow.

  “Last year, and the year before that, he took people on tours of crop circles all over Ireland,” Rory explained, setting down his fork. “Mostly Americans, and he charges them a thousand euro a tour. He probably makes the circles by himself!”

  Mick chewed on a sausage, unperturbed. He swallowed and turned toward me. “It’s a mystery, and they want to see a mystery. I join together a mystery and someone who wants to see a mystery. That’s all it is.” He spoke wearily, as if he had said this many times before. It struck me that he was basically a salesman, selling a mystery to Americans. He then speared another sausage and put t
he whole thing in his mouth at once.

  Rory laughed loudly. “He can talk for an hour about nothing but crop circles. But don’t get him started, because he might bore ya to death.”

  “I don’t even know what a crop circle is,” I said.

  Rory groaned. “Now ya’re going to get him started.” Rory was a skinny guy with curly red hair—on his head and his chest!

  Robbie entered the kitchen next, asking, “Is there coffee?” Obaachan said I couldn’t drink coffee because it would stunt my growth. I wondered if she was taking note of how tall Robbie was. Although, I have to say that once, Obaachan had let me taste some, and it was so awful I had no plans to ever drink any again. I had been looking forward to drinking coffee my whole life, but after that I had to cross it off my list of things I wanted to do one day. Actually, I didn’t really have a list. It was more like things I made mental notes of. Right then I made a mental note to start keeping a list of things I wanted to do one day. Honestly, I would be happy if I could just visit the Badlands once a month or so. I think that would help me settle my personality.

  Mick leaned forward and said, “Robbie, can ya get me a couple of sausages?” That meant he was eating seven sausages so far. Seven! Then he turned back to me. “A crop circle is a huge, geometric pattern that appears in a field, usually a wheat field. They’re mostly in England, but we get them in Ireland, too,” he said.

  “So why do people want to see them?” I asked. I saw Mrs. Parker leaning over the sausages and counting.

  “Because no one knows how they got there. Every one is different, and some are as big as two or three hundred meters. Even the complicated ones are perfectly symmetrical,” he said, starting to get excited. “We don’t know if it’s the earth trying to communicate with us or what.”

  “Some people are gobshites,” Rory said. “Gobshites” were gullible people. I had picked that up during the last harvest we’d worked. “But ya know, I think Mick is becoming a gobshite too. He actually believes everything he tells his customers.”

  Jiichan looked up from his plate. “What ‘gobshite’?”

  “It’s someone gullible,” I told him.