A Whole Lot of Lucky

by Danette Haworth

  “Light as a feather and stiff as a board,” I repeat. Amanda tickles the sole of my left foot. I ignore it. I concentrate all my energy on being light as a feather, stiff as a board. My blood is pine sap that hardens the wood, so now I’m stiff as a board and heavy like one, too. Instead, I try to think feathery stiff thoughts.

  “Close your eyes. Everybody, close your eyes. Hailee, you have to be quiet, but everyone else say it with me. Remember, if we believe, we can make her levitate.”

  Marna starts the chant. “Light as a feather, stiff as a board. Light as a feather, stiff as a board.” The others begin. Their voices join as one and fill the room with a hypnotic spell. I open one eye, spy through the slit. Marna rocks as she chants. Her features knit in concentration. Emily and her mom murmur the words in low voices. When I glance at Amanda, she doesn’t sense it. Her head is bent and she’s more serious than I’ve ever seen her. A chill goes straight through me and I squeeze my eyes shut.

  “Light as a feather, stiff as a board; light as a feather, stiff as a board.” The chant gets louder; their words get faster; and on some signal I can’t see, they begin to lift. “Light as a feather, stiff as a board; light as a feather, stiff as a board.” Louder, faster, fingers pressing against me. “Light as a feather, stiff as a board; light as a feather, stiff as a board—ohmygosh—it’s working!” someone says, which causes all their voices to heighten.

  I open my eyes again, watch their mouths flap in unison, and suddenly laughter rips open my gut, breaking the spell.

  “Hailee!” Amanda is clearly disappointed.

  “It was working,” Marna declares.

  I burst into gales of laughter. I was the board, and I can tell you right now their fingers were not lifting eighty-seven pounds of Hailee Richardson.

  “You should’ve seen your faces!” I roar. I mimic them, rocking and all. Amanda gives me sourpuss lips. I point at her as I chant.

  Mrs. DeCamp laughs and tells us she’s got work to do. “Emily, did you remember to take your allergy pill?”

  Emily leans her head back against the bed. “Yes, Mom,” she says in an oh-my-gosh-you-remind-me-every-day-why-are-you-doing-this-to-me-in-front-of-people voice.

  Mothers. They can be so embarrassing sometimes.

  Still, this is new information for my mental notes. “You have allergies?”

  “Grass, weeds, tree pollen.”

  I can’t believe it. “You mean like, basically, everything outside?”

  Amanda pipes up. “That’s terrible! I’d feel like a prisoner.”

  For a second, Emily looks hurt, like she’s a strange laboratory rat we’re all examining. But then she says, “I’m used to it. Besides, I can go outside a little bit; I just can’t stay out or I’ll start sneezing, coughing, and my eyes get all scratchy. I mainly need to be in.”

  We always thought she was weird. It’s just allergies! I guess you really don’t know a person until you know them.

  * * *

  The moon slowly makes its arc from one dormer window to the other and we are snuggly and wide-awake in our sleeping bags. Emily had braces in elementary school and might need them again. Marna actually hates the oboe. She wanted to play drums, but her parents said no way. Amanda talks about Matthew’s new girlfriend, Shana, and how she sees the two of them kissing.

  When a boy touches your cheek, his fingertips leave glittery paths of sparkles and happiness across your skin and somehow these sparkles bubble up to your brain and you feel as if you are floating. Even though Matthew was swatting a bug off my face, this is what it felt like.

  Amanda goes off to a different subject, but unanswered questions pile up in my mental notes: Who starts the kiss, the boy or the girl? Do you have to close your eyes? (I would like to keep mine open, at least the first time so I could see what’s going on.) What if the boy has just eaten half a bag of spicy barbecue potato chips? Do you still have to kiss him or can you ask him to go brush his teeth? You see what I mean here. No one ever tells you the rules.

  Marna asks me what it feels like to be rich. “I don’t know,” I answer. It’s hard to explain how we won three million dollars but we aren’t rich. I mention taxes, investments, and installments, but I can see she doesn’t know what those things mean.

  Marna says, “I can’t believe you could win three million dollars and be poor!”

  “We’re not poor!” I don’t even wear my Goodwill clothes anymore. “It just feels like we should be richer. But I did get some stuff, like this phone and my laptop.”

  “You got some new outfits,” Amanda points out.

  “Yeah, new outfits,” I say.

  “And a new bike,” Amanda adds.

  “Yeah.” I can’t believe I forgot the Treads Silver Flash 151.

  “And you get to go to Magnolia.”

  “O-kaaay,” I say, drawing out the last syllable. Except for Amanda, everyone else here has the same stuff I do. “It’s not like I’m spoiled or anything.”

  “Maybe not spoiled, but you guys are all so lucky!” Amanda gushes.

  “Lucky?” I am indignant. Who pedaled a red boy bike for years and endured the Megan and Drew tag team of insults? Whose mom used to drive a little farther because the Goodwill store near the gated communities had newer clothes on their racks? I’m not lucky; I’m finally getting what I deserve. Seems to me there’re two flavors of lucky—the kind that tastes like a chocolate sundae with whipped cream, M&M’s, sprinkles, chocolate shavings, hot fudge, and a maraschino cherry, or the kind that tastes like canned peas. I have spent most of my life with a heaping plateful of the second kind.

  I don’t want to talk about luck and money anymore. Instead, I put Amanda on the hot seat. “Amanda’s not allowed on Facebook.”

  “Really?” says Emily, and from incredulous Marna, “Why not?”

  Amanda kicks me from her sleeping bag. In a tight voice, she explains her parents’ rules. After tossing that bone, I thought they’d be busy for a while, but it backfires. They sympathize. Their parents are strict, too. Their parents insist on reading their posts and have controls that block some websites and turn off Internet access at certain times.

  “That’s horrible! My parents would never do that.” To prove it, I slip out my phone and tap on Facebook.

  The first thing in my News Feed pops my jaw open.

  Tanner Law likes Amanda Burns.

  “Tanner likes you?” I blurt.

  “What?” Amanda springs up. The other girls rustle with curiosity. Amanda leans over, glances at the screen, then takes my phone. Her mouth bows into a little smile.

  I’m confused. “Why did he write that?” I don’t like-like him, but I liked him liking me.

  Amanda gets all shy. “I guess he just sort of …” Shoulder shrug. “He just—” A smile breaks on her face like the sun popping up in the morning. “He put a note in my backpack, but I didn’t see it until I got home. He said he likes me and …”

  “And what?” Emily asks breathlessly.

  “Just stuff.” She lowers her gaze, stares at Tanner’s post. Her eyes reflect his words, are full of Tanner Law likes Amanda Burns. “He wants me to write him back.”

  “Why?” I hate how my voice sounds—big and demanding—but still I want to know.

  Amanda hears it, too. I realize this because she makes her voice small and sweet. “He wants to know if I like him.”

  You’d think she just announced a new Harry Potter book. Emily and Marna clamor to see his photo and then pronounce him “cute” and “hot.” Emily likes his curls. Well, of course she would.

  Watching them, I invent a new word—boyzonbrain. Sounds like a poisonous berry, doesn’t it? It means boys-on-the-brain and it’s even more dangerous. I make a mental note to submit my new word later.

  Emily asks Amanda, “Are you going to write back to Tanner?”

  “What’re you going to say?” Marna chimes in.

  “Could I have my phone back, please?” I’m irritated Amanda’s kept this from me, and
I’m annoyed that Emily and Marna act as if Tanner’s post is worldwide news. Here I was, concerned for poor Amanda and her ugly clothes, and there she is, taking over the whole sleepover.

  “One minute,” Marna says. She, Emily, and Amanda rate the pictures, comparing Tanner to different singers and celebrities.

  “Oh, yeah, I forgot to tell you,” I say like it’s not even a big deal, “I sent Nikki those quiz answers.” The only girl who responds is Amanda, who glances up just long enough to shake her head at me, then goes back to looking at Tanner’s face on my phone.

  When something simmers in a pan too long, it doesn’t boil over or burst into flames—it quietly bubbles until it’s charred and black. My charred black heart becomes tough as an overdone pork chop. In the dark room, all I can see are their smiling faces illuminated by the glow of Tanner’s photos.

  “I need my phone back,” I repeat. “I have to check my messages.”

  I read through my News Feed, gasping or chuckling here and there so Emily, Marna, and Amanda can hear how interesting my friends and I are.

  In fact, the comments and posts I read come through as a loud noisy room, a party where it’s all happening. I’m right in the middle of it when snippets of Amanda’s conversation penetrate my bubble. She’s asking what CSS means; she raves about the new dresser she got as a hand-me-down from her aunt; she talks about riding the city bus. My cheeks burn with shame. Though Marna thinks it would be exciting to go on a bus, she says, “My mom would never let me do that.”

  Of course she wouldn’t. Only poor people do that. I cringe at what Emily and Marna must think of Amanda—must think of us. Right away I say, “Well, I don’t ride the bus.” It’s true. I don’t take the city bus, but that’s because Mom and Dad haven’t renewed my pass in over a year. Nevertheless, I want to separate myself from the picture Amanda has created.

  Mom picks us up the next morning after Mrs. DeCamp has filled our stomachs with thick, sweet slices of buttery French toast. I’m relieved to get Amanda away from my Magnolia friends. She has nothing in common with them.

  As we ride home, I whip out my phone.

  “You were on that thing all night and at breakfast, too,” Amanda says. “It was kind of rude.”

  What can you expect from someone who shares a clunky computer with her parents and isn’t allowed on social networks? I ignore her. Mom aims her rearview mirror to talk to me. “You are on that phone too much, Hailee. Put it away.”

  The look I give Amanda is dirtier than the soles of my feet on a summer day.

  On Sunday, I don’t go to her house to help her choose outfits. Maybe Tanner should help her. Maybe she could hop on the bus and get advice from a department store lady. Maybe the flea market is holding on to a faded, pilling top that is a perfect fit for her.

  I am so glad I don’t go to Palm Middle.

  Chapter 22

  Nikki: Ditching school. Meet behind electric shed at south gate.

  It’s Thursday morning, and not even the surprise fire drill Tuesday made my heart flip out as it does now. Mom smiles and waves as she pulls away; after lunch, Amanda will babysit Libby while Mom runs errands. Since the weekend, I’ve been careful to keep Amanda separate from my new friends; I don’t want them to think of me as hobo Hailee. When Mom’s van turns the corner, I read Nikki’s e-mail again.

  Nikki’s sent a group message that includes me, Alexis, and another girl named Gia. Skipping school. Nikki’s skipping school and she wants me to come.

  Alexis: On my way! Hang out by Lake Eola?

  Lake Eola! My heart drops. I love the swans and the ducks and the way they flock over for bread crumbs. In my backpack is a sandwich waiting to be torn apart and fed to them. For a second, I am under the cypress trees laughing with Nikki. The Lake Eola Fountain shimmers in the sunlight, birds are chirping, and there’s a rainbow even though it hasn’t rained.

  Without looking up, I avoid other girls streaming onto campus as I stare into my phone like it’s a crystal ball.

  Gia: Dude! My mom almost read that! Be right there.

  I frown. The next adventure of my life is starting without me.

  If I go, Nikki and I will probably be best friends. If I don’t go, I’ll look like a dork and Nikki won’t like me. She’ll drop me from Facebook and not say “Hey” to me anymore. Why do I have to be a good citizen? Why? Why? Why?

  The bell rings. I grit my teeth.

  Me: I am a loser and a dork. Have fun without me.

  I don’t really write that, but I might as well have because Nikki will realize it sooner or later. My feet shuffle down the path, finding the way to my first class while my mind dashes for the perfect words and phrases. My life at Magnolia hinges on what I say next.

  Me: Cool.

  Okay, good start.

  Me: Cool. I might have a test today. Say hi to the swans for me.

  When I press send, I feel like I’ve just lost something that I won’t be able to get back.

  * * *

  This day is intolerable. The digital clock on our class monitors couldn’t move any slower. It’s like dog years times adult years, especially as I sit through the class Nikki’s supposed to be in. I am the only one with a heartbeat as everyone else moves in slow motion. No one cares about the cavernous black hole that is Nikki’s desk, but my eyes are drawn to it like paper clips to a magnet.

  They’re at Lake Eola. I’m the doofus at school. Honor roll, Library Club, perfect attendance, could I be any dorkier? Mom’s to blame—she raised me to be this way. Education is important. Be a good citizen. Honor thy father and thy mother. God needs to make a commandment for parents: Give thy kids a break. I suffer through history and my last class and only then do I feel a bit of relief because I spot Alexis back on campus to catch her bus home.

  Their day at Lake Eola being over, my day of torture ends as well. All my suffering has worn me out, and I trudge like a mule with a heavy load to Library Club.

  “Still tired?” Emily asks, referring to the excuse I gave her at lunch when I sat like the hunchback of Notre Dame and glowered at my milk carton.

  I throw my backpack behind the return desk. I need to talk with someone about this. Clicking over to my messages, I hand my phone to her so she can read the entire order of events. One library cart is full of books ready to be reshelved. Tugging it out, I say, “I’ll be right back.”

  Dewey Decimal is a blanket on top of all your other thoughts. No matter what’s bothering you, Dewey will take your mind off it. As I work my way down the stacks, I talk to myself inside my head. Arc, Arc—Archer comes before Architect. Sliding the books into the proper places gives me a sense of satisfaction. You can’t help but feel that way when everything is in order.

  When I tote the cart back, Emily is checking someone out. Mrs. Weston leans over the return desk looking at something. Squinting her eyes to focus on a phone left on the counter. My phone. I rush the cart closer. The display is lit up. The gray frame of my e-mail program is open.

  Oh, my gosh. Oh, my gosh.

  I whip the cart around the desk on two wheels and scarf up my phone. “Hi, Mrs. Weston.”

  Her eyebrows knit in the middle, a point of concern. “Hailee, I just saw something on your phone that was not good.”

  Emily blanches behind Mrs. Weston. Her eyes bug out. “It’s my fault. I put the phone down when I had to check out the books.”

  “I’m surprised with you girls.” She quotes from our handbook the oaths to report cheating, drug use, and other non-Magnolia behavior. “Hailee, may I please see your phone?”

  I slide my fingertips across the screen, accidentally deleting the string of incriminating e-mails; at least it feels accidental when I do it. I’m horrified and relieved when the e-mails slurp into the little trash can. When I hand the phone over, my inbox is full of noncriminal activity.

  “What happened? Did you just delete that message?” She flits up and down over my inbox.

  I tremble like a Chihuahua. “I don’t know! I
don’t know what I did!” And I don’t. I mean, I know what I did, but I don’t know how I did it—I had no out-loud thoughts of doing it.

  Mrs. Weston says, “Girls, I’m going to have to report this to the office.”

  “No!” I step closer to her. Suddenly I know the exact meanings of “implore” and “beseech.” “Please don’t. It’s my fault.”

  She waits for me to go on, so I do.

  “I left my phone out. It’s not Emily’s fault or anyone else’s. My phone should’ve been in my backpack. If I hadn’t shown it to Emily, she wouldn’t have put it down and you wouldn’t have read it.” I’m throwing everything out there. “Plus, aren’t those private? I’m sorry, but aren’t e-mail messages private?” My lungs pump air fast. My hands feel clammy.

  Mrs. Weston’s face is full of reproach. “Hailee, I’m disappointed with you. Just saying you’re sorry doesn’t excuse what you’ve done. A true apology means owning up to the actions you’re responsible for.” She rolls her head back as if seeking advice from above.

  I hope he throws some down for me, too. I’m in a world of trouble, which would be okay if it were just me, but this is a chewed-up gum ball rolling in the grass picking up everything in its path. “Emily didn’t know anything. I only now showed her.”

  Sighing, Mrs. Weston glances back at Emily. Emily’s nose and part of one eye show through sprigs of frightened hair. “Emily, please go to the second floor and straighten up the nonfiction.”

  Emily mouths “Sorry” when Mrs. Weston isn’t looking.

  “Exactly what did that e-mail say?”

  I can’t believe I’m being interrogated. She can stick me in a reading room, put the spotlight on me, and feed me only bread and water. I won’t be the pigeon. I won’t sing. Nobody’s going to call me a snitch. Besides, she wants to know exactly what the e-mails said. God is my witness and so are you—I don’t remember the exact words.

  I shudder with a million sighs. “I don’t know,” I say honestly.

  Mrs. Weston lets out her own cool breath. “Hailee, I’m a pretty fair judge of character. I know you’re a good girl, a conscientious student. Were you aware that you’re supposed to report things like this?” She gestures with the phone before handing it back to me.