Just My Luck

by Jeff Anderson

  “I don’t know.” I scooped up some mashed potatoes and plopped it onto our plates.

  “What happened, Zack?”

  “Nothing,” I lied. “I just read about it in a book.”

  “Oh, okay.” He tore into his drumstick. “I guess I don’t really believe in curses that much.” He pointed his drumstick at me. “But your abuela believes in a lot of stuff. She was always using her healing magic.”

  “She did?”

  “You’ve seen the saint candles in her bedroom, right? That’s a big tradition.”

  I nodded. “Why don’t we have any?”

  Dad shrugged. “And all the time when I was growing up, whenever anybody got sick, she’d rub an egg on you or something—or use this oil or special water.” Dad licked his fingers.

  “She did that?”

  Dad nodded.

  “Does that work?” I finished off my drumstick.

  Dad wiped his hands on a paper towel and shrugged. “I don’t really know. But I guess I always got better—eventually.”

  “Do you think you have to believe in a curse for it to work?”

  “I suppose.” He scooped up more potatoes.

  “Then I don’t believe in curses.”

  “Sounds good, my man.” Dad headed for the couch with his plate, ending our curse-versation. “Want to watch a movie?”

  “Sure.” I brought my plate over to the couch and sat. That was the last that I mentioned curses and believing to Dad that night. But in my head I wondered about Abuela’s eggs, oils, and waters. If she believed …

  After the movie, I scrounged up some matches and closed the door to my room. I repeated to myself over and over that I believed in the water; I believed in the cologne; I believed in the candle.

  But not curses.

  I unpacked the sack, setting out my three-pronged approach on the dresser. I lit the candle, splashed some attraction water on my face, dabbed some Rapido Luck on my wrists and neck, sat on the edge of my unmade bed, and waited for everything to change.

  CHAPTER 17

  ZACK SMELLACRUZ

  Before school the next morning, after my shower, I poured attraction water over my head. I almost made Dad and me late because I took so long air-drying in the bathroom.

  “Stop stalling, Zack. Let’s get a move on.”

  Still wet, I carefully slipped my clothes on. I topped myself off with some more Rapido Luck cologne and headed for the open door.

  Driving out of the Villa De La Fountaine parking lot, Dad rolled the van window down. “Experimenting with cologne, my boy?”

  “I guess.” I opened the window too.

  “Dad Lesson #203: With cologne, less is more.”

  “Huh?” I turned to Dad.

  “Let’s just say you put on too much.”

  “Okay.” Staring forward at a smashed bug on the windshield, I felt embarrassment rising in my ears. Desperately, I licked my hand and tried to rub the smell off my arm.

  “Son, that won’t work.” Dad motioned his head to dashboard in front of me. “There are some napkins in the glove box.”

  I opened the glove box, grabbed some loose napkins, and rubbed away. I was trying to not believe in curses. But it wasn’t looking good for me at the moment. If you come to school with anything noticeably new—a new haircut, new glasses, you name it—you become a target for teasing. Too much smelly cologne will get noticed. Wiping my arm raw, I stopped, remembering I still wanted one person to notice.

  “Hey,” Dad said. “Look at me.”

  I turned and looked.

  “It’s fine. Really.”

  I wished I believed him. I turned up the radio and let the wind rush over my arm, hoping it would blow off the smell.

  Dad lowered the radio. “Who is the cologne for?”

  “It’s not for anyone.” I swallowed.

  We pulled into the Davy Crockett Middle School traffic circle.

  “Tell me about no one then.” Dad shifted the van into park.

  “Dad, I’m going to be late.” I gazed toward the front doors as kids poured in. I grabbed the door handle. “Can we talk about it tonight?”

  “All right.” Dad sighed. “Tonight then.” I opened the van door and slammed it. I joined the river of kids flowing into the front doors, hoping my Rapido Luck cologne had faded. But not too much. After all, I still wanted Abhi to talk to me. I disappeared into the hall.

  But only for a second or two.

  “Ugh! What’s that smell?” Sophia yelled. “Who is that?”

  Quickly, I ducked behind a large eighth-grader, hoping I’d disappear.

  “I smell it too, Soph.” Sophia’s eighth-grade boyfriend, Raymond Montellongo, scrunched his face.

  I peeked around my human shield to see if I could make a run for it.

  “There he is!” Raymond strutted around to me. I tried to walk past him, but he kept blocking me. He leaned in and sniffed. “Oh, no! Shrimps played with his daddy’s cologne.”

  The blue-eye-shadow gang held their noses. “EWWWW!”

  José trotted up and started coughing. Then everybody coughed and grabbed their throats like I’d cut a wet burrito fart.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s Zack Smellacruz!” José pointed both fingers at me, like the guns of an assassin. He jumped up and down. “Smellacruz! Get it?”

  “Man, Zack, you’re supposed to dab on cologne, not bathe in it.” Sophia shook her head.

  I tried to get around the tower of Raymond: first on his right, then on his left. But every time I moved, he moved, keeping me in the humiliation spotlight.

  “A-choo-ee!” Cliché sneezed a tiny high-pitched sneeze. “I’m having a Zack attack.”

  “I need an oxygen tank,” El Pollo Loco added.

  Blythe pulled her blue cardigan over her nose. “Somebody open a window!”

  The taunts and laughter and coughing closed in around me. I couldn’t catch my breath. I spun around and sprinted into the bathroom. There, I rinsed my arms in the sink, tying to wash off the smell, wash off the stupidity of believing I could fix my bad-luck life. But the water only made it stronger. I grabbed for paper towels to dry my arms and neck.

  Surprise.

  There weren’t any.

  “Stupid curse!” I stared at myself in the mirror, dripping.

  A trail of drops on the tile floor followed me to the cafeteria.

  “Do I smell Rapido Luck?” Marquis said, sniffing toward me.

  “Don’t even.” I shook my head no, n-o.

  We picked up our breakfast.

  “With a strong hint of attraction water.” Marquis smiled, nudging me with his elbow.

  I stiffened. “The only thing it’s attracting is attention—but not Abhi’s.” I snatched a chocolate milk.

  “What do you mean?” Marquis asked, leaning over the milk cooler.

  “Hey, Smellacruz!” A kid at the end of the line taunted. “Macy’s called and they want you to return the truckload of cologne you stole.” I didn’t even know this guy.

  “Oh, I see.” Marquis nodded. “Well, look on the bright side. Now you know how much to put on next time.”

  I dropped my Pop-Tart and chocolate milk on the cafeteria table. “There isn’t going to be a next time.” I ripped open the foil wrapper of my Pop-Tart. “If this stuff is going to work, it had better start happening fast because I’m starting to think my whole life is an obstacle course.”

  “Or an obstacle curse!” Marquis smiled.

  By now I’d lost my sense of humor, and if that wasn’t a curse, then what was?

  Marquis changed the subject. “Where’s Abhi anyway?”

  “She isn’t in the cafeteria yet?”

  “You mean curse-a-teria?” Marquis punned again.

  I glared at him.

  “Do you think this cologne-and-water stuff is going to work, Zack?” Marquis took a bite of his breakfast.

  “I don’t know …” I opened my milk. “Maybe. I mean, obviously people can smell me.�
��

  “Uh tuh, tuh, tuh.” Janie sat at our table for the first time. “It only works if you believe, Zack.” Janie sipped her milk. “So believe it.”

  I nodded and chewed.

  And hoped.

  Janie pulled out her scarf and draped it over her nose.

  CHAPTER 18

  THE NAME OF THE GAME

  In advisory, Abhi didn’t talk to me.

  In math, Abhi didn’t talk to me.​

  In social studies, Abhi still didn’t talk to me.

  And just when I thought this botanica bath wasn’t ever going to work, I heard a voice coming up behind me in the hall on the way to English.

  “Belieeeeve, Zack.”

  I looked at Janie and sighed.

  “Just give it time. Trust the cologne and water to do their work.”

  “It’s only causing me problems so far,” I said.

  “When you truly believe in it, it will solve your problems, Zack.” Janie and I walked into English. She stopped me and grabbed both of my shoulders, looking me in the eye. “‘Hope is the only thing stronger than fear.’ The Hunger Games, two thousand twelve, starring my Peeta pal, Josh Hutcherson.”

  I nodded and sank into my chair, trying to believe a little longer.

  “Stank you for staying on your side of the room,” El Pollo Loco yelled. “Champ the Whew! Whew! What’s that Smell?”

  Mrs. Harrington started class by reading aloud “My Name” by Sandra Cisneros, who—fun fact—lives in San Antonio. I can’t believe I ever thought fun facts about San Antonio could ever get Abhi to talk to me. Anyway, the story is about names and where they came from. While Mrs. Harrington read, the sentences took me away from my cursed day. I like how stories do that—take your mind on a trip for a while. The girl in the story was writing about her name—Esperanza—or “hope.” I wished my name meant “hope,” but I was starting to think it might mean “cursed.”

  After the story, Mrs. Harrington passed out a baby-name book to each table. “Have you ever wondered where your name came from?”

  “I hope our parents, Miss,” El Pollo Loco interrupted.

  “Yes, José, of course your parents named you, but there could be a story about why they chose that name.” Mrs. Harrington paused. “We can also explore the meaning behind your name. We call that your name’s origin.”

  As soon as the baby-name book landed at our table, Marquis flipped it open and thumbed through it. “It says the S at the end of my name is silent. But I like pronouncing the S at the end of my name. Marquissssss.” He whispered, deflating like a tire losing its air. “The other way my name sounds like Mar-kee.”

  “And that’s the name of the sign in front of the school.” I reached for the baby-name book. “Let me see.”

  “Wait.” Marquis yanked the book back. “It says here it was ‘a noble title derived from an Old French word marches.’” Marquis asked Mrs. Harrington. “Doesn’t noble mean ‘like a king’?”

  “Well, it’s like a high status,” Mr. Harrington explained, “but not a king exactly.”

  “Yes, it says right here ‘ruled the borderlands of the realm.’”

  “What’s a realm?” I asked.

  “I don’t know, but it sounds important.” Marquis handed me the baby-name book. “I’ve got to look up realm, so I know what I’m the boss of.” Marquis walked to the writing center and grabbed a dictionary.

  I opened the baby-name book to the end. When your name starts with Z you are always at the end. Always. “It says Zackary means ‘remembered by God.’ It’s a biblical name, so …”

  “But I rule this realm.” Marquis walked back. “The dictionary says I’m the boss.”

  “Did it really? Well, my name is biblical, so I’m like the king of kings.” I shrugged. “Shouldn’t I be over all realms?” Maybe going to church with Mom did have an upside.

  “The gospel of Zack?” Marquis asked. We cracked up—it felt so good to laugh again.

  “Ohhhh, I thought the name Zack meant ‘smelly dodgeball assassin.’” José looked over at Abhi, who was busy jotting something down in her writer’s notebook. When will I learn to keep my big mouth shut?

  “Or ‘King Thong.’” José slapped his knee. “Get it?”

  “All right, boys.” Mrs. Harrington crossed the room to Abhi and Blythe’s table. “Who else found out something interesting about their names?”

  “I thought Zack was the name of a cheap cologne,” Sophia whispered loud enough for me to hear.

  “It’s not even good enough for a dollar store,’” one of the blue-eye-shadow gang said. So now they were clever. Great.

  At the table next to us, Abhi looked up from her writer’s notebook and spoke softly. “My name means …”

  Blythe held up her hand to tell Abhi to stop. “In a minute, Abhi. I think the student council representative for sixth grade should be next.” Blythe stood up like she did every time she shared in class. I told you she was irritating. Pulling on the ends of her cardigan sleeves, clearing her throat, Blythe lectured us about her name.

  “Blythe means ‘happy.’” Blythe touched her B charm necklace and moved it up and down the chain. “I already knew that because my mom told me a long time ago, so officially I didn’t even have to look it up.” She did a mic drop of the book on the table, shooting a look at Mrs. Harrington.

  “Thank you, Blythe, now I think …”

  “Wait.” She put her sweater stump up. “I am not finished. I can use it in a sentence.”

  “That’s really not necessary, Blythe.”

  “I am Blythe—or happy—because my daddy said I’m going to drive the train he’s building for the Fall Fiesta-val.”

  “I wish Blythe meant ‘shut your cake hole!’” El Pollo Loco stood.

  “José!” Mrs. Harrington snapped.

  “Your dad is not going to let you drive a train.” Sophia crinkled her forehead. “No way.”

  “Is to,” Blythe glared. “Just wait and see, missy!”

  “Okay,” Mrs. Harrington interrupted. “What about you, José? What did you find out about your name?” I don’t know what made Mrs. Harrington think calling on El Pollo Loco would get us back on track.

  “Miss, I already know my name means ‘the crazy chicken.’”

  “I was hoping you’d find out the meaning of your actual name, José.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Abhijana means ‘of noble descent or royalty.’” Abhi announced, louder this time, standing like Blythe. But better, because she wasn’t Blythe. She was Abhi.

  “Ooh, she’s royal like you, Mar-kee,” Sophia said, not pronouncing Marquis’s beloved S. “Maybe you should be in the same kingdom.”

  I cringed.

  “Right?” The blue-eye-shadow gang ended her sentence, and the room got quiet, waiting for Marquis’s reply.

  Speechless, Marquis swallowed.

  “Talk to the hand.” Cliché held up her hand and stood between Abhi and Marquis. “Cliché is also French, just like Marquis.” She put her hand on her hip. “French means, ‘I’m fancy.’”

  “Chewy means ‘knight’ with a K,” Chewy stood, lumbering toward Marquis, excited to be knighted, his eyes sparkling through his bangs. “So I could work for you and Abhi, Marquis. I could guard your castle’s moat.” Chewy stood straighter.

  Cliché continued, shooting Chewy a nasty glare. “French—as in ‘Ooh, la, la!’” Cliché started reading from the word-origin book Mrs. Harrington had given her. “Platitude. Hackneyed phrase, commonplace, banality.” Cliché realized nobody understood what she was saying—including her—and sat down.

  “Make sure Chewy doesn’t pee in your moat, Marquis and Abhi. Just sayin’.” El Pollo Loco shrugged.

  “José!” Mrs. Harrington changed the subject again. At least she tried. “Janie, what’s your name mean?”

  “I don’t want to say.” Janie said.

  “Come on,” Cliché encouraged. “Spill the beans.”

  “Yeah, Janie.” Marqu
is smiled.

  El Pollo Loco peeked over her shoulder. “Dios mío. Janie means ‘God is gracious.’”

  Everybody laughed, but I didn’t. Janie slammed the book and put her head down.

  “It’s kind of like mine.” I held up the baby-name book. “It’s biblical.” Janie lifted her head and held up her hand for a high five. Why not? I slapped her hand.

  “Janie, shouldn’t you be getting ready for your stupid fortune-telling booth?” Blythe snorted. “That’s hysterical. Too bad I’m the only one whose daddy will let drive a train.”

  “Hold up.” Sophia said. And just like that the whole mood changed. “You’re telling fortunes, Janie?” She walked over to Janie, sounding sugary sweet. “I want my fortune told.” Sophia was interested in what Janie could do for her.

  “Well …” Blythe rolled her eyes. “I suppose that’s okay, but you have to admit it’s not driving a train, so …”

  “Yeah, me too,” El Pollo Loco said. “Read my palm, God Is Gracious.” No one listened to Blythe anymore. All eyes were on Janie and her fortune-telling abilities.

  Mrs. Harrington was too busy writing Chewy a bath-room pass to notice everyone gathering around Janie, circling her, not like sharks this time, but like fans who wanted her autograph. Man, middle school can change on a dime. One minute you’re shark chum, and the next you’re a celebrity everyone wants to be near.

  Janie lifted up her head. “Really? You want me to tell your fortune?”

  “Yeah,” Sophia sat beside Janie. “I want to know about me and Raymond’s future. And if I’m going to have a big hit song.”

  “I didn’t know you sang.” Janie looked at Sophia, pulling her hair behind her ear.

  “Oh, I don’t,” Sophia said. “That’s why I gotta know if I should start singing. Is it worth my time? If I’m not gonna have hit songs, why should I bother?”

  I had to admit it—sometimes Sophia’s logic fascinated me.

  “Riiiight?” The blue-eye-shadow gang would be her background singers for sure.

  “Yeah, and I want to know when a new pizza is coming into my life,” José leaned his elbows on Janie’s desk.