Get Lucky: A YA Anthology Read online

  “You could have called me and cancelled, Kenny. Or rescheduled for later tonight. You didn’t have to miss beach time with your family.”

  She shrugs, looking down at her lap. I follow her eyes, and mine widen a little, when I see the Kenny’s wearing shorts. Honest to goodness, cut off jean shorts that stop way higher than mid-thigh. And Kenny has stems—legs that look like they start in the vicinity of the sky and go on forever until they end at her feet, encased in teal Vans. Swallowing, I look away.

  This is not the time to be mesmerized by smooth olive skin and slender legs. I shift in my seat, suddenly tense.

  “It’s no big deal. We live in Southern California—the beach will be there another day.”

  She plays it cool, adding a shoulder shrug, but she’s still looking at her shorts. I see it, the hint of pink on her cheeks that tells me maybe Kenny is a little embarrassed. Reaching over, I put my hand on the back of her seat, waiting for her to look at me. “Did you miss the family beach day because you were excited to see me, Kenny?”

  Her scoff is quick and loud, but the pink gets brighter. “It’s Kennedy. And don’t flatter yourself. I just figured that, if I rescheduled, you might do something desperate, like GPS track my phone and stalk me to the beach.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. That’s second date behavior.”

  She can’t control the smile this time, and—finally—she laughs, adding one more thing to my list of motivations: make Kenny laugh. A lot.

  “You’re a real nut, Christensen.”

  I wink and start the engine. “Please, Kenny, I’m just getting started.”

  I take her to the batting cages, even though I have a cage and pitching machine at my house. As skittish as she is, public seems safer.

  “This is what you consider getting to know one another? Swinging at some stupid ball?”

  I spear her with a look. “Are you a baseball hater, Kenny?”

  “Kennedy. Not hater—I just don’t really see the point, or the skill. You smack a ball and run.”

  Instead of the familiar buzz of irritation I can quickly tamp down when faced with statements like that, I feel an explosion of testosterone surge through me, pushing me not only to prove Kenny wrong, but to show her that I’m the best at what I do. More than that, I want her to understand that what I do is damn hard, and still, I never quit.

  Like I won’t quit on her.

  Stepping over to her, I take a little pleasure in the fact that she has to look up at me.

  “Care to make a wager?”

  I see her swallow, but other than that she’s rock steady. “On what?”

  “Just how much talent my sport requires. I’ll set it to the lowest setting. If you can hit even half the balls I hit when it’s set at the hardest setting, I’ll let you decide how we finish the next four weeks of the project.”

  “And, if I don’t?”

  I smile because that’s what I’m counting on. “You have to come to eight of my practices, and two games, in the next four weeks—and you have to wear my name on your back when you do.”

  She hesitates—Kenny knows what’s at stake here—and I wonder if she’s going to reject me. Twenty seconds go by, and then she holds out her hand. “Deal.”

  I smile and shake her hand, holding on a second longer. “Good luck,” I say. Twenty minutes later, I’ve got Kenny just where I want her, literally and metaphorically. She’s in front of me, my hands on her hips while I adjust her stance that has been killing me for the past five swings. The only reason she’s not taking a swing at me is because she knows just how close she is to losing, and she needs all the help she can get.

  If I milk it a little, skim my hands over her waist, press my chest into her back, lean down to speak into her ear and accidentally brush my nose across it, well, who can blame me?

  Shivers break out on her legs, and I try not to fist pump. “I think I got it now,” she says, voice low and little breathless.

  “Sure.” I drag my fingers across hers on the bat before stepping back a safe distance. Kenny gulps audibly, and settles into the stance I taught her. I’ll give it to her; the girl can follow instructions. When the ball comes—at a crawl—she swings full force, nicking it in time to send it into the fence.

  “Yesss!” She turns and smiles, giving me the real wattage that almost blows me away. “Get ready, Christensen. I’m on fire now.”

  She hits three more, not enough to make me sweat, but enough to enjoy watching her victory dance each time. When my turn comes up, I adjust the setting on the machine, and then I beat her in the first six pitches. And maybe hit six more just to show off. Swinging my arm around her shoulders when we walk out, I imagine which of my old baseball shirts she’ll look best in.

  Kennedy

  Week 2: Hobbies

  I’m an idiot.

  I knew betting with Gage was a risk, but something about his smug look made me want to prove him wrong. Which also makes me realize that in no way does my 4.0 GPA reflect my common sense. Otherwise, I would have deduced his smug look was a clue to abort my mission.

  How could I have misjudged the level of difficulty hitting from a pitching machine entailed? And how, with everything I’ve heard, could I have doubted that Gage Christensen was really as good as everyone said?

  Mother-trucker.

  I know now. Not that hindsight is any help, since I’ve forfeited my right to make dictator-type decisions for our project. Even worse, I’m wearing his name and number while I walk the slow mile through the hallways, cringing with each stare I get. It’s after school—he compromised enough to let me wait until the end of the day to put his old jersey on. When we sat down in Life Science today, his smile was bigger than normal. Then, he placed a coffee and his jersey in front of me without a word.

  The horror on my face as I glanced around to see people watching us might have clued him in to my discomfort. Without looking anywhere but at me—something he seems to be doing a lot lately—he nodded to the jersey, keeping his voice low. “You can keep that one. Put it on for the practices and friendlies you’ll be attending in the next four weeks.”

  “Won’t you miss it?”

  “Nah, it’s from middle school, Babe-Ruth ball. When I was smaller.”

  The jersey still hangs nearly to mid-thigh on me, but, then, I’m not what one would consider giant—or even average in height. I keep my head down while I wind through the parking lot toward the baseball field. I hate that I feel like people are staring—worse, I hate wondering what’s going through their heads. Nothing is worse than being the topic of conversation, especially when that conversation is about your drunken mother who killed herself, and a few other people, when she went on a bender and took the Oldsmobile out.

  Ah, yes, nothing like a few friendly head nods to open up old traumas.

  “No one here knows you as that person. They’re just staring because it’s Gage’s jersey.” This was from Cam when I almost had a panic attack just talking about it at lunch. Now, I keep repeating his words in my head while I walk, relieved when I get to the field and see only a few other people in the bleachers.

  Picking a corner, I sit down and take out my phone, sending Gia a quick text reminding her that I won’t be on the bus, and she’s responsible for the boys and Macy until I get home.

  “Hey, Kenny, looking good.”

  Gage takes the bleachers two at a time until he’s standing in front of me. I don’t respond right away because, well, Gage is in a uniform. I might pretend to be blind to everyone most of the time, but, when faced with Gage Christensen in a baseball uniform, it’s pretty freaking hard.

  Why are some people so beautiful?

  He’s that California blonde and blue everyone expects, with clear skin tanned by his outdoor activities. His hair is long enough to curl at his ears and stick out of his baseball cap, and his eyes are brighter than the spring sky, so clear and blue they make me want to believe in mermaids. Or love. What the…

  Clearing my throat, I s
hrug my shoulders and stand, hoping that it will level me out and stop my thought process. “Well, a bet is a bet, though you seem like you were a large twelve-year-old.”

  I lift my arms out to the sides, showing him how the shirt hangs like a dress on me. He flicks at it with his finger, laughing when I bat at his hand. Someone calls his name, and he looks over his shoulder and nods before turning back to me.

  “I have to get on the field.”

  “You don’t say.” Defense by sarcasm. Really original, Kennedy.

  He hesitates, not shy, but maybe a little unsure. “Don’t take off before I finish, okay? I’m going to take you home.”

  I start to protest automatically, but I stop, swallowing the words back because (A) I don’t really know how else I’d get home except for walking, and (B) nothing about Gage or this project is what I expected. Even more, I’m nothing like I expected when I’m around him. And it’s kind of refreshing.

  Look at me, Cam, I’m learning. “Sure. Thanks.” My first time acceptance has his eyes widening. Pushing his hat back on his head, he pretends to scratch his forehead.

  “Did you just agree to something I suggested without putting up a fight, Kenny?”

  I refuse to smile, but it takes some major muscle work to keep it in. “Yeah, yeah, let’s not read anything into it. There’s still plenty of time.” I shoo him away and sit down. “Now, go hit some balls.” He cocks his head and my face flames. “Baseballs, Christensen. Go hit some baseballs.”

  He winks, my blunder not forgotten. “I plan on it, Kenny.”

  “It’s Kennedy,” I call after him when he jogs down the bleachers. He just laughs and, sitting down, so do I.

  Gage

  Week 2, Part 2: Pianist… sounds suspicious

  “When were you going to tell me about this?”

  Kenny startles from where she was hunched over a textbook. I slap the school newspaper down in front of her before sitting down at her table.

  She glances at it, and then up at me. “The bake sale for Prom?”

  “No, Kenny. Not the bake sale. The concert tonight.” I lean forward, resting my forearms on the table to hold my weight while I look right into her eyes. They’re brown, so dark they’re almost black, like the expensive chocolate my mom uses for baking, the kind that takes forever to melt but when it does… totally worth it.

  Kind of like my lovely life-partner.

  She doesn’t move back when I push into her space—she’s getting better about that—but she shifts almost imperceptibly; her eyes glance around to see who’s watching us. I don’t do the same—not just because I don’t care, but because it seems really important for Kenny to know I’m only looking at her right now, no matter who else is around.

  When she finally looks back at me, I raise my brows and tilt my chin down to the paper again. “It’s hobby week. We were together three days ago. I drove you home, bought you ice cream to ruin your dinner… we talked.” I nod my head in an is-this-ringing-any-bells motion.

  It better ring some bells. Watching Kenny lick an ice cream cone with two scoops of vanilla quickly became the highlight of my high school career.

  “I know what we did, Christensen. I was there.”

  “Then you should also remember when I asked you about yourself. I think it went something like, ‘Hey, Kenny, who are you? What do you do in your spare time?’ Do you remember that?”

  She rolls her eyes, and picks up her pencil again, getting ready to hunch back over her textbook. “Are you going to get to your point? Because I have an AP Stats test tomorrow, and I need the extra study time right now.”

  “A test isn’t all you have tomorrow,” I say. Rather than flush in embarrassment, she looks truly puzzled.

  “Is this some weird, demanding way of telling me you have one of those baseball games with your friends tomorrow and I’m supposed to be there?”

  I close my eyes, briefly. “It’s a friendly, not a baseball game with friends. It means a game between opposing teams that has no basis on their standings. Not a pick-up game in the park. Two different things. And no,” I say, when she goes to snap at how much she doesn’t care about the distinction. “This isn’t about me.”

  “Sure sounds like it is,” she mumbles.

  I ignore her. “It’s about you, Kenny, and your concert tomorrow.”

  Cue the flush. Bingo.

  I pick up the newspaper, and let it fall on top of her textbook again. This time, her eyes scan to the bottom half of the page where a large, square announcement lies, reminding the student body to attend the Annual Winter Band Concert. It then lists soloists who will be performing. Three names in, Kennedy Russo is listed as vocal accompaniment for Ralph Waters, pianist.

  “What’s a pianist anyway? Sounds suspiciously like—” Kenny slaps her hand over my mouth, and then laughs when I lick her palm, shoving me away before wiping her hand furiously on her pants.

  “Gross, Christensen.”

  But the smile stays on her face, even when she makes a scene out of a using her travel-sized hand sanitizer.

  “How come you told me you didn’t do anything besides study and hang out with your family?”

  She shrugs. “I didn’t really think about it. I mean, even singing is for school—I’m not really athletic, so this adds those extracurricular activities to my résumé. And, I’m only singing in the concert because Ralph knows Cam and he asked for a favor. I don’t sing in front of people, usually. Just in class.”

  I can’t decide if she’s being honest, or purposely playing this off so she doesn’t have to share with me. Kenny’s poker face—it’s real. Kind of frightening how much she can keep locked down when she wants to.

  “Well, whether it’s for your résumé or for fun, it counts as a hobby. Which means I’m coming to support you. What time should I be here? Does the auditorium fill up early?”

  No poker face now, just straight horror. “You’re not coming to this.”

  Oh, Kenny. Challenge accepted. “Watch me. I’m your life-partner, supporting you is what I do. Now, what time should I be there?”

  * * *

  The auditorium is hot, and I’m starting to bake in the sweater my mom forced me to wear when I told her where I was going.

  “Concerts are not shorts and T-shirt kind of events, Gage Wyatt Christensen.”

  I submitted only because she used all three names; the use of my middle name means she’s not budging, and disagreeing with her only stalls the inevitable. So, I’m wearing jeans instead of shorts, a thin black sweater over a white tee, and my white Vans. I escaped before she could harass me about something else, and now I’ve sat through almost an entire concert—a definite first in my two and half years of high school—and I haven’t even seen the girl I’m here for.

  I was not lucky enough to snag an aisle seat, but at least I was lucky enough to find her friend, Cam. “It’ll be worth it,” was all he said when I sat down. I’m still hoping he’s right.

  The lady next to me shifts her oversized purse for the millionth time, hitting me three or four times and ignoring me, acting like she has no idea she’s slapping me around. Since it’s been like this for the past hour, I’m about to turn and give her a not-so-subtle reminder that she’s about to leave bruises on me when someone announces the final solo of the evening.

  “Ralph Waters, a senior pianist—” I was right, the word is dirty—“will now be playing his senior piece: Inside of Here. Original music and lyrics written and performed by Ralph Waters. Vocals by junior, Kennedy Russo.”

  “There’s our girl.” I have the juvenile urge to tell Cam she’s my girl, but then the spotlight finds the small guy behind the piano, Kenny next to him, sitting on a stool, and the words disappear. Her hair is down, a brown cascade over the shoulders of her simple black dress that covers her arms and reaches her knees. Her legs are crossed at the ankles, some short black boots on her feet. I can’t really concentrate on anything but Kenny’s face.

  My God, it’s one hell of
a face.

  My stomach tightens when the first chord is played. When Kenny’s voice begins, I stop breathing. Cam says something, but I don’t hear him, and I don’t dare look away.

  The melody is haunting. From the first chords to the last, I’m riveted, goosebumps breaking out over my skin while Kenny’s voice asks if anyone is there.

  Her eyes stay closed for most of the song, and my eyes stay on her. I don’t think of the lady next to me, or the heat that was threatening to suffocate me only moments before. I only think of Kenny, and how her words make me want to be the one to save her.

  Kennedy

  Week 3, Part 1: Meet the Parents

  Martha. Focker.

  I’m in the passenger seat of Gage’s truck, a place that is becoming oddly familiar since I’ve spent so much time in it these past two weeks, and he’s driving me home. This time, though, he’s not dropping me off. He’s coming inside. Because our assignment is to meet each other’s family—to learn about each other’s life. And as he pointed out, what better time since he’s with me?

  Righto.

  “You know, the kids are home and, well, they can be kind of crazy. Macy is five, and Rylon and Brandon are seven and eight. They get kind of loud.” I’m not looking at him, but I see him smile out of the corner of my eye.

  “My sister, Karen, the hypersensitive ball-buster I always mention? She rages at someone in the house at least once a week about something. Joss, my younger sister, screams like a banshee anytime one of her teams loses. Since she has eight teams in every respectable sport that exists, she screams a lot. I can handle loud.”

  I nod. When we pull into the driveway, I see April’s car and feel a rush of panic. My last hope was that she wouldn’t be here, and I could try and appease Gage with just meeting Gia and the kids. Now, though—there isn’t really anything else to do except try and prepare him.