Just My Luck

by Jeff Anderson

  “Um, you weren’t even there.” I squinted at him.

  “People talk.” Marquis grabbed a dressing-coated cucumber off my salad. “Are you going to eat this?”

  “No.”

  Marquis crunched, wiping a drip of ranch off his chin. “That is a lot of dressing.”

  I pushed my soggy lettuce around, looking for a possible bite. “After Dilum hit me, he said something weird: ‘You shouldn’t pick on people because they’re different.’ What do you think he meant by that?”

  “Well, maybe because Abhi’s not from around here?”

  “Oh, I didn’t think of that.” I shook my head. “But I never picked on her.”

  “Well, you did mow her down with a dodgeball.” Marquis mumbled with his mouth full of lettuce. He swallowed. “That could’ve been seen as aggressive.”

  I sighed.

  “And,” Marquis continued, “you did look pretty upset yesterday with the bees and all your carrying on.”

  That stung.

  “Did you ever apologize?”

  “I tried to, but…”

  “But what?” Marquis chomped as he waited for an answer.

  “I don’t have a reason.” I shrugged. “I just never really got a chance.”

  “Well, you could start there.” Marquis pointed his chocolate milk to the table across the room. “Go apologize.”

  Abhi sat at a table with none other than El Pollo Loco. The worst part was she appeared to be totally entertained by El, laughing and smiling.

  “It won’t help.”

  “You’ll never know till you try.”

  I gulped down the rest of my milk. Marquis was right. I decided to apologize to Abhi quickly as I left the cafeteria—before Mrs. Gage or Dilum could stop me. Plus I could thank her for helping me this morning.

  After I returned my tray, I watched Dilum. He was busy talking. I walked toward Abhi’s table. When her eyes made contact with mine, she looked away—fast—like she was scared. Who could blame her? El Pollo Loco looked up when I arrived at the table.

  “Well, if it isn’t the Dodgeball Bomber. Did you swim through a cheap cologne ocean to get to school today?” He turned to Abhi, looking her in the eye. “I’ll protect you, mija.” He stood between Abhi and me, puffing out his chest.

  My conscience hovered behind me: “Do what’s right, Zack.”

  Actually, it was Janie again, pulling the strings.

  CHAPTER 21

  YOUR DESTINY AWAITS

  “Does your girlfriend always tell you what to do, Zack?” El Pollo Loco taunted.

  Mrs. Gage lumbered toward us.

  “El, please stop.” Abhi stopped smiling. “I was having fun talking with you. Don’t ruin it.”

  That felt like a punch in the gut. But I had to say something fast before Mrs. Gage stopped me.

  What could I say? Everything our school counselor, Dr. Cortez-Smith, had ever said about making friends and communicating flooded my mind: ask questions, find things in common, compliment.

  José tried to stare me down.

  I tried to ignore him.

  “Looks like you really liked your salad, Abhi. You ate every bit.” My mouth started chattering out of control. What on earth was I saying? But I couldn’t seem to stop. “Do you like to eat a lot? You seem like you do.” I kept making it worse. “I didn’t think vegetarians ate that much.”

  Abhi’s gray eyes grew bigger and bigger.

  “Fun fact, I’m actually … not … a veg—”

  Janie slapped her hand on her forehead and walked off.

  “All right, all right, Mr. Delacruz and Mr. Soto,” Mrs. Gage interrupted. She called us by our adult names, hoping that would make us act like grown-ups.

  “I’m not sure what his problem is, Miss.” José sat back down. “Maybe you should send him to the nurse for diarrhea of the mouth.”

  “Enough!” From behind, Mrs. Gage placed her hands on both of my shoulders. “This is your second problem today, Mr. Delacruz. Let’s try and show the new girl how respectful we are at Davy Crockett Middle School. Why don’t you return all these trays?” She let go of my shoulders and turned to José. “Mr. Soto, please escort the young lady to the blacktop.”

  “But …” I tried to explain.

  “Yeah, Zack,” José jabbed. “When you’re done, wipe down the tables.” José held out his arm and Abhi linked her arm in his.

  “No PDA,” Mrs. Gage warned. That means “no public display of affection.” It’s in the student code of conduct.

  Their arms dropped. El Pollo Loco swooped his charming bullfighter arm toward the door. “Ladies first.”

  Seething, I stormed over and returned their trays. Marquis came up behind me.

  “I tried to apologize, but it …”

  “I know, Zack. I saw everything. It wasn’t your fault.” Marquis shrugged. “It’s that curse.”

  “Yeah—and that’s why I’m not going to the stupid fall festival tomorrow,” I said.

  “It’s fiesta-val.” Blythe interrupted, returning her tray. “Besides, you have to come, Zack. I’ll be driving the train, and there will be cotton candy and hot dogs and who could forget cascaRRRRones?” Blythe rolled her R’s way too much.

  Before Blythe went out the door, she turned and added, “And as sixth-grade student council representative, I order you to go.” She held up her cardigan-covered hand like she was queen of Davy Crockett Middle School.

  “See, Zack. You have to go,” Marquis held back a laugh, putting his palms out. Marquis whispered, “Happy girl Blythe forgets this whole school is my realm. I’m the one who orders people around.”

  “Oh, yeah, Marquis.” I sighed. “This whole thing’s hilarious.”

  “All I know is you’re going to the festival.”

  “Fiesta-v…” I stopped mid-correction. “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

  As soon as we stepped onto the blacktop, everybody stopped to get a closer look at the fool of Davy Crockett Middle School: the fool who ripped off his pants in the lunchroom; the fool who blasted the new girl off her feet on her first day; the fool who stank up the school with cheap cologne; the fool who spazzed out in a bee cloud; the fool who slipped in the courtyard and had to be saved by the new girl.

  Even so, I searched for Abhi on the blacktop for another chance to say I was sorry, to say thank-you for this morning. But once I saw she was with El, Sophia, and the blue-eye-shadow gang, I gave up. I’d never get to talk to her with them around. They would just talk about all the mud on my clothes or how I smelled up the school and every other dumb thing that I hoped Abhi would never remember.

  Janie came up behind Marquis and me.

  “Zack, I was practicing with my crystal ball last night. All I can say is …” she paused, “you need to go to the Fall Fiesta-val tomorrow. Your destiny awaits.”

  I sighed and crossed my arms.

  Marquis lifted prayer hands to his chin, looking at me.

  I uncrossed my arms and looked at Janie.

  “I predict you will talk to Abhi at the Fall Fiesta-val. If you do not go, you might not ever have another chance to get to know her.” She squinted and poked two fingers into both sides of her forehead. “I keep getting images of cascarrrrrones.” She rolled her R’s just like Blythe. What is it with this school and stretching out letters?

  “What about cascarones?” I asked. “Do I need to buy her some?”

  Janie ignored me. “And a train.” She opened her eyes. “But that’s all I can see now. It’s very fuzzy—the image isn’t clear to Madame Bustamante yet.”

  “Oh.” I held my palms out. I had a feeling why the images might be a little fuzzy. Part of me thought Janie’s vision would go about as well as the cologne catastrophe and every other delusional disaster that had happened so far. But another part of me needed Janie’s vision to be true, needed something to hang on to. And because I wanted to talk to Abhi, I had no choice but to believe there was something to her vision.

  “Madame Bustamante and t
he crystal ball say it’s your destiny, Zack. So …” Marquis gazed at me. “I can’t argue with that.”

  Janie straightened her shoulders, raised her eyebrows, and stared at me.

  “Okay, Okay.” I hunched over. “I’ll go to the stupid Fall Fiesta-val tomorrow. What have I got left to lose, anyway?”

  “You could lose that curse,” Marquis added.

  “Marquis.” I wouldn’t look at either of them. “Be quiet before I change my mind.”

  The more I thought about it, the more I wondered if Janie really did know something.

  CHAPTER 22

  LET THE FIESTA-VAL BEGIN!

  On Saturday morning, Mom dropped Marquis and me off in front of Davy Crockett Middle School. Her embarrassment mobile had huge real estate signs on the doors, so I always try to make a fast exit. At least Mom’s car was less humiliating than Dad’s orange Instant Lube van. But, trust me, it was a close contest.

  Mom clicked the car in park and turned to us. “You two have a great time today. I wish I could go with you, but I’ve got houses to sell.”

  I grabbed the cold door handle. In San Antonio, it starts to get a little nippy in the mornings in November, but it warms up. I looked out the window and the sun was beaming.

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?” Mom asked.

  “No,” I looked at myself, checking. “I’m wearing my hoodie.” I patted my jeans pocket. “I’ve got my money.”

  “Are you sure there’s nothing you need to say?”

  “Bye?” I squinted.

  Finally, from the backseat, Mom got what she was looking for. “Thank you for the ride, Ms. M.” Marquis never forgets to say thank-you or call her Ms. instead of Mrs. and M instead of D. Mom liked him even more for using the right letter for her last name.

  As Marquis and I piled out of the car, Sophia’s mom honked her horn as she parked her van, yelling out her window, “Let’s get our festival on!”

  We waved. “That lady likes to have fun,” I said.

  “FIESTA-val, Mom!” Sophia slammed the van door. Everybody was out of uniform today. We can never wear jeans, so even Sophia wore them that day.

  “Come see me at the cotton candy booth, kids!” Mrs. Segura waved. “That’s my booth!”

  Sophia walked away, putting her hair in a ponytail.

  “Sure thing, Mrs. S.” Marquis grinned. Man, he’s good with adults, with people really. I could learn a lot from him.

  The Fall Fiesta-val was held in the field behind the school, so we had to walk around the building through the grass to get to it.

  Side by side, Marquis and I followed several clumps of kids. Sophia found Raymond, but from the murmur of the crowd you could tell a lot of people were at the festival already. Most of the kids we walked with were sixth-, seventh-, and eighth-graders from Davy Crockett. A few of them held hands with their little brothers and sisters. And since this is middle school, nobody really wanted their parents there. The adults walked alone.

  As we rounded the school, the excitement of the festival swirled through the crisp fall air. The sounds from the games mixed with carefree laughter. The smells of hot dogs, popcorn, cotton candy, and stomped-over grass invited us into the Fiesta-val. Over it all drifted the thrill of fun with friends and a freedom to do whatever we chose.

  Mr. Akins’s bullhorn boomed directions over the fun: “Fighting Alamos, please seek to form an orderly line for the required ticket-purchasing process. All events and foods must be acquired with tickets only.”

  “He can sure say a lot of words,” Marquis observed.

  “Yeah, but you must seek to use a Texas-sized dictionary to understand him.” I sniffed the air. “It smells like a cookout at a swimming pool.”

  Marquis shaded his eyes from the morning sun with his hand. “I bet the dunking booth over there has chlorine in it.”

  “I can’t believe the teachers are going to let us dunk them,” I said, elbowing Marquis.

  “Do I hear someone having a good time?” Marquis teased.

  “Maybe.” I pulled out a crisp five-dollar bill from my jeans. “Mom gave me some cash this morning. How many tickets will that get?”

  “Twenty.” Math-quis pointed to the handwritten sign taped to the ticket table. He pulled a gray duct-tape wallet out of his jeans.

  “Since when do you have a wallet?” I asked.

  “Since I became I man.” He opened the duct-tape wallet and pulled out a few one-dollar bills.

  “Oh, really.” I smirked. “Since when do men get rides from their friend’s mother?”

  “The moment I made this wallet.” Marquis shoved his wallet back in his pocket. “I found this on a YouTube channel. I’m a trendsetter. Duct tape is a fashion statement.” He popped the collar of his black golf shirt and moved ahead in line. Marquis had a swagger about him, duct-tape wallet and all.

  After we purchased our tickets, he patted my shoulder. “Come on, Zack. Let’s roam.”

  A small train with red oil-barrel cars rode outside of the big rectangle of booths around the edges of the football field.

  “There’s Blythe’s train,” I said.

  “And,” Marquis smirked, “she’s not driving, I notice.”

  Blythe waved from the caboose. “Everybody come ride the train. It’s the only real ride here!”

  “And it’s slower than a snail.” I watched the lawn-mower engine spurt some smelly black smoke, “I could walk faster than that.”

  “What do you want to do?” Marquis stopped and turned to me.

  “Get cascarones!” I smiled.

  “All right. But let’s do the rubber-duck races first.” Marquis rubbed his hands together. “I’m feeling lucky.”

  A little kid was holding his mom’s hand and eating cotton candy. My mouth watered. “We are definitely getting some of that,” I announced, nodding.

  Music blared from the cakewalk booth. All these kids, young and old, walked around on these white circles with numbers on them.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “They do cakewalks at Ma’s church sometimes. See those cakes on that table over there.” Marquis pointed to a long table covered with every kind of cake you could imagine. “When the music stops, they pick a number. And the person standing closest to that number wins a cake.”

  “Marquis!” Cliché yelled. “I’m going to win you a cake so we can share it.”

  Marquis waved back. “It’s a date.”

  “Do you realize what you just said, Marquis?”

  “It’s an expression.” Marquis scoffed. “C’mon”

  “Maybe later I’ll win a cake and give it to Abhi.”

  “Maybe you’ll win a cake and give it to me. But that’s later. Here’s our first stop,” Marquis pointed. “The rubber-duck race.”

  The booth had a painted sign with a huge yellow duck waving a black-and-white checkered racing flag.

  After giving Mrs. Harrington our ticket, we waited for a PTA lady to give us a yellow rubber duck with a number painted on its back.

  “Seven’s my lucky number.” Marquis raised his up, showing the top of his duck. “What did you get?”

  “Let me dig deep for a good one for you.” The PTA lady dug and dug in the bin all the way to the bottom and handed me a duck.

  “Thirteen,” I mumbled, my cheeks burned. “The most unlucky number possible,” Maybe today wouldn’t be a good day after all. Maybe bad luck did follow me around like a secret fart.

  “Perhaps you shouldn’t have thrown away that Double-Acting Reversing candle.” Marquis teased, squeezing his duck, making it squeak.

  I ignored him and plopped my duck in the water with everyone else’s. The oval-shaped racetrack looked like a dug-out donut filled with water.

  “How do we make our duck move?” I asked.

  “You can splash with your hands all you want,” Mrs. Harrington said. “But you can’t touch the ducks, just the water.”

  Mrs. Harrington blew a whistle. “Whoever’s duck goes all the way
around the track first, crossing the starting line again, wins.” She acted all teachery and looked each of us in the eye. “Remember, whatever you do, don’t touch the ducks. You can only splash the water to move them forward. On your mark, get set, swim!”

  “Go! Go!” We yelled at our ducks. Cramming our hands in behind the ducks, we splashed and pushed the cold water forward, moving the ducks on rolling waves and getting each other wet.

  With all the splashing and yelling, I got into it.

  “Come on, Thirteen!” I splashed. Everybody fought for space beside the track to splash their duck. Sometimes you’d move someone else’s duck, or yours would go back.

  Marquis nudged me, “See, thirteen doesn’t have to be a bad number. We can’t forget our country started with thirteen colonies.”

  We cracked up.

  With everybody splashing and pushing, the water in the track sloshed from side to side. My eyes followed my duck as the hand splashes carried it forward. Thirteen was doing pretty well. I might win this thing, I thought. Duck thirteen got on the crest of a big wave, a huge swell, moving it ahead, faster and faster, up on a higher and higher bump of water, straight for the edge of the track.

  “Not over the edge, ducky!” I yelled. But it was too late.

  Unlucky Thirteen rode the crest of the wave right out of the track, crashing on the grass. The thirteen on its yellow back faced up, mocking me.

  “Wow! That’s never happened before in all the years I’ve run this booth.” Mrs. Harrington looked confused. “Tough luck, Zack.”

  “I’m cursed,” I mumbled.

  “What?” Mrs. Harrington asked.

  “Nothing.” The crowd of kids continued cheering their ducks and splashing away. Of course, my duck was the only one who went overboard, an automatic disqualification.

  Marquis’s rubber duck took the lead. “Go Seven! Go Lucky Seven!” Marquis yelled.

  I cupped my hands and cheered too. I still had a duck in this race!

  Hands splashed wildly, and Marquis’s duck crossed the finish line, winning by a beak.

  “And the winner is rubber duck number seven,” Mrs. Harrington announced, holding up Marquis’s hand.