by Jenn Bennett
Lucky Karras.
Why is he everywhere I go in this godforsaken town?
“Josie Saint-Martin, as I live and breathe,” he says.
“I didn’t see you there,” I quickly say. “I wasn’t …” Following you? Stalking you? Always managing to bump into you whenever I step outside my door? “I didn’t realize you were out here. Or here. At this party. Here at all.” Good God, I sound like a moron.
“Oh, I’m here, all right,” he announces sarcastically, lightly lifting both hands and then dropping them. His gaze trails over the long, single braid of my hair that falls over one shoulder. “Question is, why are you here? Didn’t peg you for a partyer. Especially surprised to see you popping up at a Golden event.”
“Evie brought me along,” I say, gesturing toward the lights and sounds of the pool that seep between the dense branches of the shrubbery behind me. I try to remember the names of her friends. “Vanessa? From Barcelona? I think she’s taking a class at community college with Evie? I guess they’re friends or classmates or whatever.”
Lucky chuckles. Black lashes cast shadows over high cheekbones as he looks down.
“What?” I say, feeling defensive.
He shakes his head. “Nothing.”
“Look,” I tell him matter-of-factly. “I’m just waiting on my cousin, okay?” I intend for this to be a signal. Like, hey, move along and join the party; give me some privacy. Why is he sitting in the dark, away from everyone else? He’s usurping my loner throne, and I don’t like it.
Lucky and I had one class together this semester at Beauty High: AP English. Because our teacher would do anything to avoid teaching, we watched a lot of old movies in that class—adaptations of the books we studied—and Lucky slept on his desk when the lights went out. I let him borrow my notes once; he returned them to me at the bookshop with a couple of smartass corrections in red pen. That was most intimate interaction we’ve had in the few months I’ve been in town. Unless you count all the silent staring. Staring from Across the Street. Staring from Across the Bookshop. Staring from Across the School Cafeteria.
If you count staring, then we interact on a regular freaking basis.
Like now, for instance. His gaze sweeps over me as if he’s playing a memory game and cataloging every detail of my outfit for points: loose, brown hair braid down my shoulder; striped top; tight jeans with a tiny hole in the left knee; red low-top sneakers.
No one looks at me like Lucky does.
It’s disarming. Way too intimate. And it makes my pulse speed like I’m running a marathon. Especially since this is the first time we’ve been alone together since I’ve been back.
I don’t want to be here, alone with him. I want to be at home, trying to figure out how I can talk my way into that magazine internship. Looking for local galleries that might let me exhibit my work. Developing a roll of film. Doing anything but enduring the never-ending thump of electronic dance music and Lucky’s honey-slow gaze.
It’s been a bad day. A bad four months. Something inside me just … snaps.
“Do you have something to say to me?” I blurt, exasperated.
“Excuse me?”
“You glare at me all day long, and you’ve barely said two words to me since I’ve gotten back into town.”
“Don’t have anything to say to you, I guess. Don’t really know you anymore, do I?”
“We used to be best friends.” You used to be my boy.
“When we were twelve,” he says, eyes narrowing. “I was on math team and building robots on the weekend. I hadn’t figured out how to disable the parental controls on my phone so I could access free porn on the internet. It was a different time.” He shrugs with one shoulder.
Wow. Okay …
“If you’re trying to shock me, you’ll have to do better than that,” I say, a little miffed.
“Thought we were besties who could say anything to each other. Can’t have it both ways, Saint-Martin.”
“My former best friend wasn’t a dick.”
“Your former best friend has been through some dark shit,” he says, face tightening into sharp planes that make the ragged scars on his forehead stand out, white against olive. “So you may want to slow down before you get all high and mighty, pointing the finger of judgment in my direction.”
I know what he’s talking about. Of course I know. I glance at the black cat tattooed on his hand. “I’m sorry about the fire and everything you went through. I know when I left town, we didn’t, uh, end things on the best of notes.…” I feel ill at ease, talking about this now. Sweat blossoms across my brow, and I have a fierce yearning to bolt out of my chair and flee this party, to never look back.
He blinks for several moments and looks at his hands. “Yeah, well, I was a stupid kid, and I was already hurting, physically and mentally. It was easier to shut you out. I guess I thought I was punishing you, but I didn’t realize that it would punish me, too. Because when you left, I didn’t have anyone.”
I’m caught off guard by his confession. Some part of me wishes I had my Nikon with me to hide behind, because it would be easier … safer. I’m not used to anyone confessing anything to me. Ever. I think I’ve forgotten what it’s like to speak to someone openly.
I’ve forgotten what it’s like to communicate with a human being.
We stare at each other for a moment, then I say, “Thought maybe you hated me.”
“Don’t hate you,” he says, the tiniest of smiles lifting one corner of his mouth. “Anymore. Much. Unless you hate me, then I’d like to change my answer. Because you did avoid my mom when she came to the Nook to bring food when you guys came back to town.”
Oh, right. I totally did. She showed up with a ton of Greek food, and I hid upstairs. I used to eat Sunday dinner at her house every week for years. She was my second mother. Then she was gone. “Classic coward move,” I admit. “A lot of old feelings. I wasn’t sure what to say to her, and it was weird.”
“Guess we’re both fools.”
“Maybe,” I say, “but that was your mom, and this is us. You could have said, ‘Hey, Josie, let’s settle this mano a mano.’ And we could have had a fistfight back when I first came into town, or maybe a Mario Kart race, or a few hours of D&D at the North Star—”
He snorts a little laugh.
“—and then the air could’ve been cleared. But instead, I’ve been freaking out, because you barely talk to me, and I’ve been trying to figure out why, because you’re always staring—”
“Staring?”
“Look, I know it’s hard to resist the Saint-Martin beauty, and all.…” I’m joking, of course, but it’s weird how good it feels to joke with him again. Really good. Something icy in my chest is melting.
“You’re the one who’s been staring at me.”
My jaw drops. “Pardon me? I think you have that backwards. You’re the starer. I only look back at you because you instigate the staring. I’m the staree.”
He makes an amused noise in the back of his throat. “Hey, I stare at lots of things. Restored vintage motorcycles, sunsets on the beach … and trouble.”
“Oh, I’m trouble?” I say, pointing to myself. “Me?”
“Got ‘Siren’ right over your door, don’t you? Might as well add a red flashing light.”
“Oh, r-i-i-i-ight. Saint-Martins are temptresses. Never heard that one before.”
“Hey, you asked why I stare. I’m being honest. Just recognize temptation when I see it. Talented. Pretty face. Mysteriously keeps to herself. All my weaknesses.” Lucky holds out both hands loosely, palms up. “Know thine enemy.”
“Wait. Now we’re enemies instead of friends … because I have a pretty face? Pretty sure I should be insulted.”
“Why? It was a compliment.”
“Didn’t sound like a compliment.”
“Hey, I tried,” he says. “You’re probably just better at flirting than I am.”
I snort. “Oh, is that what we’re doing?”
&
nbsp; “You tell me.…”
I don’t know. A sticky feeling forms in the middle of my breastbone. We’ve never flirted before. Ever. Ever-ever-ever. We played video games and read books. We painted backdrops for plays at school. When people kissed in movies, we both rolled our eyes.
Maybe I should think about … uh, whatever this is before I say or do anything I regret. It’s Lucky, after all. That’s first. And second, I’m not good at this. And third … the Saint-Martin love curse. And fourth, the utter pit-pattering-panic I’m feeling in my chest—something between excitement and fear.
I quietly clear my throat. “Um, I just remembered that I’m almost positive you’re not single, so I should probably … um, maybe … ,” I say in the most awkward way possible, trying to remember what I’ve heard about Lucky at school. “You have a girlfriend, I think, maybe?”
“I don’t have a girlfriend.”
“Boyfriend?”
“Nope.”
“Huh.” I waver at the edge of my seat. “Okay. Guess I got my gossip mixed up.”
“Come on, Saint-Martin. I’d think you’d know better than most folks that you shouldn’t listen to gossip,” he says. “But if there’s anything I can clear up for you, ask away.”
He’s right, of course. I shouldn’t listen to gossip. But most of what I’ve learned about Lucky 2.0 has been gleaned from hallway whispers at Beauty High, which shockingly isn’t the most reliable source of information. There are rumors he spent time in juvie. And that he once had his stomach pumped after OD’ing on drugs.
That he got Bunny Perera pregnant earlier this year.
Is any of that true? I don’t know. But Beauty is an insanely finger-wagging, gossipy town that has made an art of shunning outcasts since it was a colonial village, and people are publicly judged, facts or no facts. More dirty laundry is aired here before nine a.m. than most towns manage all day.
I do know that more than half the things people whisper about me and my mom aren’t remotely true, so I’d imagine this general percentage of truthiness could apply to Lucky as well. I just don’t know which parts of his gossiped history are made up and which parts might be based in fact.
Here’s what I do know about Lucky Karras: (1) His family has owned a boat-repair business in various locations around town for a few generations. (2) They live in a house west of the harbor in a small residential area called Greektown. (3) Lucky works part-time as a mechanic after school in the boatyard. (4) He reads a lot in the Nook, but he almost never buys anything. (5) He’s a loner, like me. (6) He likes the same grape gum that he used to chew when we were kids, which I only know because he folds up the waxy wrappers into tiny, neat shapes that he leaves on his desk at school, like gum-wrapper origami.
Splashing and laughter float from the pool behind us during a break in the dance music. No way am I brave enough to ask Lucky to confirm or deny the nasty rumors about him. I try for a safer subject and ask, “What are you doing out here alone in the bushes, anyway?”
“Meditating on the meaning of life and how to live it.”
“What is that? Some kind of code for smoking up?”
“You offering?”
“I have a peppermint candy in my pocket.”
He whistles softly. “Now it’s a party.”
I smile. Just a little.
He smiles. Just a little …
“Seriously,” I say. “What are you doing back here?”
“Antony invited me.” When I make a face he elaborates, “Adrian’s cousin.”
Huh. Hopefully that’s not the same guy Evie is trying to avoid. “Which Adrian?”
He looks at me as if I’m a big-eyed space alien who just walked out of a flying saucer. “Adrian Summers? As in descended from the founder of Beauty? Father is Levi Summers? This is his cousin’s house.”
I stare at Lucky, blinking.
“You know Evie just broke up with Adrian Summers, right?” Lucky says. “I thought you and Evie were close, or whatever. You live in the same house and work together.”
Oh.
Now I feel completely blindsided. Why didn’t Evie tell me this? I pretend like my cheeks aren’t suddenly ten degrees warmer and try to cover it up with more sarcasm—a tried-and-true Saint-Martin technique for avoiding humiliation. “And you got a personal invite to a Golden party, huh? Didn’t realize you were part of the crème de la crème of Beauty.”
“Yeah, no. My pops made me come,” Lucky admits. “We take care of all the Summers family’s boats. Gotta flaunt my handsome mug around all these future yacht owners, so one day, when he thinks I’m taking over the family business, which I’m not”—he holds up a finger to his lips—“I can charge them ridiculous prices for oil changes and repairs.” He shrugs.
“Circle of life, and all that?”
“All that,” he agrees. “And what about you, shutterbug?”
I frown at him. “Don’t call me that.”
“Your mom still does.”
Sure. It’s been my nickname since I was old enough to steal her phone and take pictures of my own feet. He knows that. What surprises me is that he’s heard my mom calling me this recently.
“Just how much do you hear, brooding in the back of our shop?”
He threads his fingers together. “I hear some things, figure others out. I have some theories about you.”
“Is that so?” I say. “Enlighten me, then. What are your theories?”
“I think you know that Beauty isn’t your mom’s forever home. So when your grandmother comes back and your mom inevitably hits the road, I think you plan on going out West to crash with your father.”
Every muscle in my body tenses.
His smile is slow and smug. “Knew it.”
“What the hell?” Has he learned some new hacking skills over the past few years? Paranoia skitters down my spine.
“Travel books about Los Angeles,” he explains. “Seen you flipping through them at the Nook when you think no one’s watching and hiding the notes you make from your mom. Your dad’s an LA fashion photographer who has a multimillion-dollar beachfront mansion in Malibu, and you always wanted to go out there. One plus one plus one equals you’re planning a secret trip to California.…”
My stomach twists. “You’re spying on me in the bookshop?”
“I’ve got two eyes, Josie. That’s not spying.”
“It’s exactly spying!”
“If you don’t want people to see, stop doing it in public. You’ve always been terrible at hiding things, so that hasn’t changed, just for the record. You left a printout of Los Angeles airfare comparisons next to the register two weeks ago. I swiped it and dumped it in the trash before your mom found it. You’re welcome.”
I’m stunned—stunned. And furious. “I didn’t ask for your help.”
“Sorry?”
I lower my voice and point at him. “You cannot say anything, okay? This isn’t a joke. This is … I’m just looking at airfare. It’s not a crime to look!”
“Whoa,” he says, dark brows knitting together. “Not accusing you of murder. Jesus.”
“I don’t have firm plans or anything,” I insist. “But you know my parents aren’t friends, right?”
“I remember.”
“Well, my mom would be really upset if she knew I was even thinking about it. Please.”
He straightens his posture and holds up both hands in surrender. “Hey. No judgment. And I won’t say anything. It’s just something I noticed, is all. I wasn’t snooping. I just happened to see it. Okay?”
I nod and scratch my arm, feeling exposed and uncomfortable.
We don’t say anything. Behind the shrubbery, the dance music thumps on.
“Have you gotten to know him better?” Lucky finally asks.
“What? Who?”
Lucky lifts his chin. “Henry Zabka—your dad. He’s gotten a shit-ton of big projects over the last few years. His work is gorgeous.”
“Uh, yeah. He’s amazing. He’s still �
� tough.”
“Tough,” Lucky repeats.
I’m not sure how else to describe a man I barely know. He’s candid in both his photos and his manner. Interviewers call him rude. “I still don’t get to see him much. Every year or so he visits or we’ll meet up somewhere for the weekend. He took me to see a bunch of photography galleries in New York the year after I left Beauty. I was thirteen. I shook Annie Leibovitz’s hand.”
“Yeah?” He seems impressed.
“It was pretty great,” I say. Truth be told, I was so nervous that it’s hard to remember anything about it other than I felt overwhelmed, and that her hand was cold.
Lucky studies me. It’s hard to read his expression.
I sniffle and scratch my nose. “But, anyway … yeah. Henry—my dad. He’s, still, um … very much a tough-love kind of guy. Nothing for free. He takes on apprentices every year, but you have to earn it. Aspiring photographers fight for those slots.”
“At his home in Malibu?”
“Yeah.”
“And that’s where you plan on going after your grandmother comes back?”
“You do remember what happened the last time my mom and grandma spent more than a few hours together, right?” Ticking time bomb.
Something clicks behind his eyes. “So, that’s why you’re bailing and going to Malibu?”
“I’m not bailing. It’s not a sure thing, but yeah. After I graduate, maybe. I don’t know.”
“You plan to move in with your dad.”
God, he’s nosy. “Maybe. If he’ll have me as his apprentice.”
Lucky makes a funny face. “If? Jesus, Josie. You’re his daughter.”
“So? Just because we share blood doesn’t mean I should get special treatment.”
“Suppose not,” Lucky says, but he doesn’t look convinced.
“I don’t want a handout,” I say, feeling like I have to explain myself. “I want to earn it and prove to him that I’m worth taking on after I finish high school next summer.”
“Like, how?”
“Like, by building up my portfolio. And … I was … hoping to get a photography internship at a magazine.”
