Lucky(34)

“I need to go, kiddo. Back to work for me. How’s the studying?”

“Going great,” Lucky said, staring down at her book.

Lucky got a perfect 1600 on her SAT. She finished her college applications just in time. “With that score, you can go to college wherever you want,” her father said—but he sounded nervous now. There was money in the lockbox, but not enough, not yet. “Where do you want to go?”

“We should probably stay here, live here,” Lucky said. “It’s more practical.” She looked away from her father’s obvious relief and tried not to think of all the colleges she wanted to apply to. “The University of San Francisco is only half an hour away by bus, and they have an accounting program in the management school. That’s what I want to do.”

“An accountant? But you love books, you love reading, you could do anything you wanted, anything in the world. That, really? It’s such a…” He trailed off.

“Boring job? Boring life path? Has it ever occurred to you that boring and safe is exactly what I want? Also, I love numbers. I love their… predictability.”

“I didn’t know this about you.”

“We don’t talk much, lately.”

Doing these normal things—applying to college, getting accepted, making the preparations to go there—gave Lucky a deep and calming sense of satisfaction she had never experienced before. She began to see a map laid out before her, much like the one they had consulted throughout her childhood, trying to decide which town to hit up next. But now, it felt like a path she was controlling herself. College, the certificates she needed to become an accountant, her own business or a job at a large firm—she had a plan, and for once, it didn’t include cheating.



* * *




It was June. Lucky put on her bikini, took out her Discman and popped her earbuds in her ears. Bikini Kill started screaming about liars. She shoved a twenty-dollar bill in the pocket of her denim shorts, grabbed a book, left the boat, and walked down to the pier. This was becoming her daily routine on the days she wasn’t hostessing at the restaurant. She didn’t have to study anymore and had nothing else to do.

Today, as she sat reading, a group of teens caught her eye. There were many small crowds of friends who frequented the pier, and some of them were growing familiar to her. One group in particular always drew her eye. She tried not to feel jealous of their expensive-looking clothes and the gadgets and accessories they seemed to take for granted.

There was a cute boy in the group with a good tan and brown hair streaked with California blond. She had walked by him and his crew of six, sometimes seven, a mix of boys and girls, almost every day that early summer. He was the only one who ever looked her way. When he watched her, she understood what it meant to say your heart had skipped a beat.

Today, he smiled at her and she felt shy; she ducked her face back behind the collection of Lucia Berlin short stories she was reading, and she regretted her shyness immediately. What would it be like to be one of those girls in his group?

But she wasn’t. For one thing, they were all petite, and she was tall. They were blond; her hair was sun-bleached now but still red, and too curly. They were pert-faced and smiling; she almost never smiled. The only feature she liked were her emerald-green eyes, a color she had never seen on anyone else. Everything else about her felt too big. Nose too prominent, lips too wide, too tall in general, feet too large and awkward.

The girls in his group wore white, pastel, or fluorescent tank tops; neatly trimmed denim shorts and Keds with no socks, all in the same varying colors as their tops. Lucky wore ripped cutoffs made from old pairs of jeans over her bathing suit, and thrift shop T-shirts.

There was something about the boy that was different, too. She couldn’t put her finger on it. He probably lived in some beautiful home in The Hill with a perfect family, a mom and dad and plenty of siblings. But still, she felt a strange kinship with him.

Later, she walked past him and his group again on her way back from the restrooms. He was holding an ice cream cone now. Lucky watched from behind her sunglasses, now ambling slowly, as one of the girls took a swipe at it with her tongue and he pulled it away, laughing. Lucky averted her eyes and kept walking by, but at the last second, she veered right into the ice cream shop because, for once, Lappert’s didn’t have a line.

Inside, she puzzled over the flavors: Hawaiian Sea Salt Caramel, Hana Road, Manila Mango. The clerk behind the counter asked what she wanted.

“Um…”

Then the boy was standing beside her. He was smiling. She found herself saying, “Just an iced coffee, please.”

“Iced coffee? Really?” he asked. “I see you walk by here every day, but you never go in, even though you want to, I can tell. And then you finally come in here and you get iced coffee?”

“Well, I don’t really—”

“Kauai Pie,” he said to the clerk. “That’s the one she wants.”

“I don’t like coconut,” Lucky said.

“The Kona Mocha Chip, then. It’s got coffee in it.” He ordered another cone for himself, too, and paid for both of them. Then he held the cones aloft, leading her outside.

The smile on the face of the girl who had swiped at his ice cream cone disappeared when she saw him leading Lucky out, but the rest of the group watched her with interest.