A Whole Lot of Lucky (2 page)

“Matt
-eew!”
Amanda called out as we passed her brother in the kitchen on our way to the stairs.

I followed behind just as Matthew hefted the milk onto the island while sticking an Oreo in his mouth. Pouring the milk, he turned as I was about to pass him. “Hey, Hailee,” he said in chocolate letters.

You'd think I'd be used to his eyes—I saw Amanda's all day long—but the pure greenness of them shocked me every time.

“Hi.” My gaze fell to the floor and I rushed up the stairs behind Amanda. You'll notice I didn't put an exclamation point after I said
“Hi.”
That's because I said it very quickly and sort of quietly. Whenever he's nearby, my heart beats too fast, my words get stuck in my throat,
and my arms and legs move like a robot's. Matthew plays baseball and
never
moves like a robot.

Safe in Amanda's bedroom, I sank into her beanbag, which spilled out to make room for my butt while hugging my shoulders.

Amanda threw open her closet. “Three days or two days?”

Sundays were when we decided what we were going to wear for the school week. Three days meant dresses on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday; two days meant dresses on Tuesday and Thursday.

I drummed my fingers on my knee. My favorite outfit was getting tight across the top; I once caught a boy staring at me
right there
when he thought I wouldn't notice, so I folded my arms in front so there wouldn't be anything for him to look at. “Two days,” I said. “If I could borrow your denim skirt?”

“Hail
ee
…”

“Come on.” I lowered my chin and batted my eyelashes at her.

She groaned. “Not the puppy face!”

My big brown eyes got her every time. Curving my mouth into a smile, I aimed a sparkle right at her.

“Aagghhh!” She pretended to strangle herself. “But I'm wearing it Tuesday.”

* * *

Let me tell you something about Palm Middle School. You have the popular people, who everyone else supposedly hates but secretly wishes they were one. Then you have the
almost
popular people. They're allowed to sit with the popular people—maybe they knew them before they were famous; maybe they're cousins—but they have no popularity of their own to speak of. If you saw one of them at Kmart or the mall, you wouldn't even care. Amanda and I call them sidekicks because all they do is laugh at the popular people's jokes and follow them around.

Going down the line, you have the sidekicks of the sidekicks, the smart kids, the funny kids, the normal people, the kids who dress all in black, band geeks, nerds, and losers. You can tell who you are by the way people treat you. When I'm with Amanda, I feel like a normal person.

Thursday morning, I paired Amanda's jean skirt with my silky white T-shirt Mom found at Goodwill with the tags
still on.
When I pulled the top over my head, it whispered against my skin, sliding down my back like soft cascades of fresh spring water.

I padded across the wood floor of my bedroom, making sure to step on all the creaky spots so Mom would know I was getting ready for school. Turning in front of my dresser, I gave my reflection a quick onceover. My new top shimmered with every movement. I
stuck gold-colored hoops through my ears and stepped back to examine the finished look.

This is why I needed a full-length mirror; I could see from my waist up only. Still, that's what most people are looking at, so I continued my inspection. Front—good; side—good; other side—small brown mole on tip of ear, but outfit good. I turned all the way around and craned my neck to see my back, which you know is impossible, but I liked that particular reflection, glancing over my shoulder with my mouth a little open, so I made a mental note to use that pose later.

“Hurry up, Hailee!” Mom yelled from downstairs. “Pancakes are ready!”

I spun to see the front again.

“Hailee!”

I peered into the mirror. I laughed silently to see how I would look later talking with Amanda. I picked up a book and held it in the crook of my arm. I put the book down. I stared at myself as if I were a stranger and saw this girl in the mirror. My eyes fell to the waves of silk.

I stared a little harder.

Was that? …
Oh, no
… it was! I could see the faint outline of my first bra through the shirt.

“HAILEE!”

“MOM!” I stomped my foot at the same time. My fingers pulled at the fabric—maybe if the shirt lay differently—

“BREAKFAST!”

“I'LL BE RIGHT DOWN!” I rubbed off the top like a snake shedding skin and grabbed a wrinkled green T-shirt from my closet floor. On it, a bunny is looking at a frog who says, “Rabbit.” I thought it was funny when I got it for Christmas in fifth grade. Now I was in middle school and I thought it was stupid, or I should say, I
discovered
it was stupid after a sidekick told me, “Hey, that's stupid.” But you couldn't see through it, so I put it on.

Downstairs in the kitchen, Mom arched one penciled-in eyebrow at me. I have practiced that expression with Amanda, but the only way I can do it is if I hold the other eyebrow in place with my fingers.

“Sorry,” I said in a rush and kissed the fuzz on my baby sister's head before sitting down.

“Aa-ee!” That's “Hailee” in baby language. Libby is one and a half years old. Olivia is her full name, which is why I call her Libby.

I tugged Libby's feet under the tray of her high chair and she squealed and stamped her baby fork on the tray.

Mom frowned at my shirt. “I thought you were wearing the new one today.”

“Doesn't fit,” I lied, shoveling the best blueberry pancakes ever made into my mouth.

“Well, you can't go to school in that one—it's wrinkled. I'll get a different top for you.”

“No time!” I slurped my orange juice. “I'll be late!”

She glanced at the clock on the microwave, sighed,
and slid into the chair across from me with her coffee. Snuggling into Libby's face, Mom said, “Olivia was a good newspaper girl today.” She tickled her feet. “Yes, you were! Yes, you were!” That's all it took for Libby—she giggled, snorted, banged the high chair with her heels, and grabbed her cut-up pancake bits in her fists, squishing them through her fingers like Play-Doh.

Mom's newspaper route was fun. She drove through town with both windows open, pitching newspapers out both sides without even slowing down—her arm's that good. Sometimes I thought about getting up early to help her on Sundays, but I never did more than think about it. I'm not what you'd call a morning person—at least, not a
four
o'clock-in-the-morning person.

I glanced at the back door. Dad's work sneakers were gone. “Did Dad have an early job today?” I asked between blueberry bites. Dad cleans carpets—that's his business and he is the owner and also the only employee. The good thing about Dad's business is we have the cleanest carpet in town. The bad thing about Dad's business is that his customers all live around here, which means he's like a servant in the houses of my classmates.

Mom set her cup down. “Three, actually—in Hill Crest.” Hill Crest is the la-di-da gated community across town. Once when Libby was sick and Mom had to take her to the doctor, Dad brought me with him to a job there. Talk about security! Not only is there a gate, there's a security guard, video cameras, and signs
telling you about the guard and cameras. I never saw a neighborhood so stuck on itself. Past the gate, you can hardly believe your eyes. Those aren't houses—they're mansions, and that means a lot of carpet to clean and maybe even sofas and drapes.

I swirled the back of my fork through the leftover syrup on my plate, licked it off, and then cleared the table. The phone rang. Mom and I groaned at the same time. Since I happened to be standing by the sink, I answered it after looking at the caller ID. “Hi, Mrs. Gardner, how're you today?”

“I'd be a lot better if I got my paper.”

Cranky old lady. Her voice sounded like crushed aluminum foil. One of her grandsons was in my math class. “Hang on,” I said. “Here's my mom.”

Mom rolled her eyes and shook her head as she reached for the phone, but not before giving me a quick hug. Poor Mom. You'd think when you're an adult you'd be done with getting in trouble.

Speaking of trouble, as I rode up to the bike area outside the school, there they stood, Megan and Drew, leaning against the light post. They were on me like mosquitoes.

“Really?” Megan said in that superior voice of hers. “Wearing a skirt on
that
bike?”

“Oh, my God,” Drew said, and they laughed.

Becca Singer shot me a look of sympathy before she scooted out of target range.

Heat crawled up my neck, but I walked on by. They followed me into the pen and I pretended like they weren't there, which was supposed to discourage them but never did. I took a deep breath and bent down to lock up my bike.

Megan's feet pranced closer to me. “You're wearing Amanda's skirt!”

I whirled around. “No, I'm not!”

“You're right—she is!” Drew said to Megan.

I stood and threw my fists down, arms rigid at my side. “I am not!”

Megan started laughing and turned to Drew. “The A—”

“A for Amanda! You did it when we dressed out at gym!” Drew cracked up too much to say anything else.

I couldn't help it; I glanced at the skirt but didn't see anything. Then, feeling better, I smoothed the skirt down the seams and that's when I spotted it: a spiky red A inked in near the hem. Pings of heat fired off all over my face, even in my eyeballs.

Megan put one hand on her hip. “Told ya!”

“The least she could do is wash things before she wears them,” Drew said.

Megan threw her head back with a wide-open laugh.

Somewhere between elementary school and middle school, Megan got popular. She's pretty but not superpretty, though she does wear cool clothes and I guarantee they're not from picked-over bins at the thrift store. She's
not the smartest or the fastest or the funniest, and she's
definitely
not the nicest. How does a person like that get to be popular? Let me know if you figure it out, because I sure haven't.

Megan linked her arm through Drew's and they strolled away, sniggering.

A couple of other kids overheard everything. From the sides of their eyes, they searched for the red A. Instead of slinging my backpack onto my shoulder, I let it hang from my elbow. The heavy books inside banged against my thigh as I marched past the rubberneckers, but there was no way I was walking around with Megan's A for all to see.

I searched the sidewalk and then the courtyard for Amanda. The first bell rang, which had the same effect as a traffic light turning yellow. Some people sped up, but others screeched to a stop. These would be your popular people. They thought they owned the halls, standing in circles, forcing the rest of us to flow around them. I squeezed past the first blockage, got pushed against a locker, then picked up by the current, which floated me down the hall and deposited me at my first-period classroom: social studies.

Amanda sat at a desk with her legs crossed, pretending to look for something in her folder. This is a tactic we both used when we didn't have anyone to talk with and didn't want to look like losers.

“Amanda,” I said as I took the seat next to her,
“look.” I tapped the side of the skirt and told her the whole story.

As I spoke, her shoulders sagged and her mouth pinched together like a clam's. She started shaking her foot. The more I talked, the harder that foot bounced. Finally, she said, “I told you I didn't want you borrowing my clothes anymore.”

“You never said that!”

“Well, it should've been obvious,” she said. “Besides, I didn't want to hurt your feelings.”

My mouth dropped open.

“This is so embarrassing.” She put her head on her desk. Her long blond hair slipped over the side in ropes.

Before I could say anything back, the tardy bell rang and Mrs. Weller called out roll.

Apparently, Megan and Drew texted everyone in their contact lists about their little trick, because all day long I thought I heard people whispering, “Hey,” but what they were really saying was this: “Where's the A?” “I see the A!” Amanda gave me the silent treatment at lunch. Becca told me to hide it with duct tape. Tanner Law walked up to me and said, “Rabbit!”

By the time school was over, I was ready to disappear. Amanda came up behind me in the pen. I thought she was going to apologize, but instead she said, “Just keep the skirt, okay? I don't want it back.” Her voice was flat.

“It's not
my
fault,” I snapped.

“Whatever.”

I watched as she unlocked her new twelve-speed bike with the Sure-Grip hand brakes and the butt-soft seat, and I watched as she daintily got on—daintily, because hers is a girl's bike—and I was still watching as she rode away and the back wheel slipped into the long crack between the concrete sections.

Megan, Drew, and their sidekicks pointed and snickered at her straining on the pedals. One of the lesser sidekicks slapped his knee as if Amanda stuck in a crack was the funniest thing he'd ever seen in his whole entire life. One of them took out her phone and I heard the words “video” and “YouTube” and “loser,” and that's when I did it—that's when I sprinted toward Amanda and pushed her bike seat as hard as I could.

The back tire hopped out of the crack just as Amanda stood on the pedals. Her bike did a fierce wheelie, and she sailed over the curb into the pickup line. For a moment, it looked like she might right herself, like a jumper on a horse, but then her tires hit the pavement and she fell off in one direction and the bike fell in another. Mrs. McCrory jammed on her brakes hard enough to cause her van to buck.