Somewhere Only We Know(33)

The line moved forward, and Lucky looked deep in thought.

“Thinking about your next meal?” I asked with a grin.

She widened her eyes. “I wasn’t, but now you’ve got me thinking all sorts of things.”

“Oh, God.”

“Actually. I was thinking about our Buddhist conversation earlier,” she admitted. “You asked me something. Can’t a quality life also be selfish?”

I shook my head. “No, I said can’t it have some selfishness?”

She waved her hand. “Okay. Well, I’ve been thinking about it. Yes, you can have selfishness. But there’s a balance. If you’re always driven by ego, narcissism … what you create at the end of the day, what you’ve built, isn’t that meaningful.”

Like Lucky’s body of work? Her fandom? Interesting.

“But isn’t that all art? It’s driven from ego and it’s okay! People love it, they want it. You should be proud. I mean, as in, people should be proud of what they create, even if it’s driven by ego!” Holy crap, that was close. “It’s not something that should make you feel ashamed.”

“I’m not ashamed,” she said, quick and defensive.

Careful.

“I’m using ‘you’ in the general sense,” I said. We were both quiet, sitting with our lies.

“You sure have a lot of opinions about art,” she finally said, shooting me a smile. “Are you an artist?”

I thought of my camera back at home. I would have killed to have it with me today, but secrecy was the name of the game.

“Nah,” I said easily. “You’ll be surprised to know that I, a male, am merely very opinionated.” Even though I loved photography, I always hesitated to call myself an artist. Something about it felt, I don’t know. Presumptuous. I was a guy with a camera. That’s all.

Lucky laughed. “What about you, then? What would you pray for in that temple? If you were a believer?”

I crumpled up the paper wrapper of my bao to avoid answering right away. “Hm. I don’t know. I’ve never prayed for anything before.”

“What?” she exclaimed. “Not ever? Not even when you were a kid and you were scared of getting in trouble or something? No, ‘Dear God please don’t let my mom see the grape juice stain on the carpet.’”

“Grape juice?” I made a face.

“You know what I mean,” she said as the line moved and we both shuffled ahead. “Don’t avoid the question.”

I shrugged. “I don’t remember praying. And I really don’t know what I would pray for.” It was true. When I watched everyone in the temple offering up their prayers or wishes or whatever it was, I felt so detached.

“What about getting into the college you want?”

“I don’t know which college I want to go to,” I said.

She shook her head. “I don’t get that. I have a list of wishes a mile long.”

That didn’t surprise me. I also suspected she made sure her wishes happened. Like being a famous performer.

“And, I am being selfish today,” she added with a raised eyebrow. “Ditching choir duties and everything to hang out with you.”

“See? Selfishness is a good thing,” I said, happy to ease the mood. Something about this conversation was unsettling and I didn’t want her to get to me. I had to stay in control of this, our interactions. She was the one being observed.

Lucky shot me a dubious look and I said, “I’m serious! Because you’ll have this break, this nice day. And then you’ll go back to choir, fresh with … energy. Bring the entire mood of the choir up.”

She let out a snort of laughter, her arms crossed as we shuffled forward. “Like, I go into practice doing cartwheels, high on carbs.”

That made me laugh—suddenly and very loudly.

Lucky beamed at me. “I like making you laugh.”

The words paired with her smile did all sorts of weird things to me. I cleared my throat, suddenly aware that the plastic bag of bao was empty and I had no more weight to swing around in my hands. “I have a terrible sense of humor.”

“Well, if you don’t laugh at my jokes, then yeah. Agreed.” She turned around then, her hair whipping through the air. I watched her watch the crowd in front of us, as she stood high on her toes to assess the length of the line ahead.

Something was looser in Lucky’s limbs. Direct in her gaze. Seeing her like this—scrubbed of her glamorous persona and getting more comfortable with me—I could almost forget who she was. Almost.





CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE


LUCKY


I was pretty sure I was going to die on this tram.

Why wasn’t everyone else on this jalopy losing their ever-loving minds like me? People were jammed into this wooden antique toy, excited and taking selfies and pressing their faces against the windows as we crept up a nearly vertical mountainside. Visions of cables snapping and the tram plummeting down amid the screams of the trapped humans inside made me sweat.

I pressed my hip firmly into Jack’s side and then glanced up at him. “Hey. Don’t get any funny ideas,” I said.

Jack held on to a pole and didn’t move a muscle in response. “Yes, I got the memo the first three times you said it.”