Get Lucky: A YA Anthology Read online

  I smile; this does not please her. “That wasn’t a compliment.”

  “Telling me I’m good at my sport, and people like me? Hard to feel insulted by it.” I swear, there’s a real threat of steam coming out of her ears at this point. For some reason, I’m becoming less annoyed with her the more riled up she gets. In fact, I’m enjoying that it’s me who is making her this mad. Huh. May as well go for gold.

  “And you are?” I ask, now holding her hand in the semblance of a handshake.

  She stops, those eyes still barely visible through the glare she’s giving me. “No one,” she says, glancing down at her hands. “I’m Kennedy Russo, no one.”

  I should feel bad for her… the way she says that, like she really wants me to believe her. But, that’s the thing—I don’t feel bad. I feel motivated. I’ve always loved a challenge—it’s why I play baseball. People think it’s an easy sport—I let them because ignorance like that can’t be changed. In reality, I know it’s a sport about patience, determination, strength, stamina, and cunningness. All things I think I’m going to need for this relationship.

  So, no, I don’t falter or feel bad when Kenny tells me she’s a no one—instead, I accept the challenge to get to know her, holding her hand and leaning in just a little closer until her eyes widen with the very real possibility that she might shoot fire from them.

  “Wrong,” I say, a smile on my lips. “You’re Kenny Russo—life-partner to Gage Christensen. That definitely makes you someone to me.”

  Kennedy

  Natural Consequences

  “Um, Kennedy, hon, were you and Gage Christensen holding hands today?”

  What the… My eyes snap up from the Spanish notes I was studying. “Where did you hear that?”

  My best friend—fine, my only friend—Cameron gives me a look that says, Child, please, I know everything. So true. “Ugh, you know the ridiculous Life Science class I was forced to take this semester?”

  “No, you’re taking a class you don’t like? You never said a word.”

  I toss a half-eaten cracker at him. “It’s even worse than I thought.”

  “Checkbook balancing, caveman style?” He gulps dramatically. “Tell me you’re not using a pen and paper to make calculations. I couldn’t bear it.”

  “Are you done? Because no one’s laughing.” Always amused, despite my bad attitude, Cam laughs and then motions for me to continue. “Ms. Moyer has decided that there’s more to Life Science than learning about checks, balances, and finances. She isn’t even satisfied with adding in a little dream-crusher like STDs and natural consequences for our actions.”

  “Teachers, always out to expand out horizons. So lame.”

  I hate that I want to smile. Cam knows that, because he throws my cracker back at me. “So, what’s the dreaded woman done now if it’s not to crush your dreams about having sex, going to parties, and spending money with frivolous abandon?”

  “She gave me a life-partner—for five weeks.”

  I wait for his outrage. Cam knows me. The only person here who does so he, of all people, should understand that I can’t have a life-partner and play the get-to-know-you game. More importantly, I don’t want one. I’m here to learn, to get the grades I need, so that, in a year and two months when I turn eighteen, I already have a future lined up, one I can get to on my own.

  Instead of outrage, or even sympathy, Cam smiles. Smiles. As in, looks amused at my painful dilemma.

  “Should I be jealous that you have a life-partner, and I can’t even seem to get a date? I’m so much friendlier than you, too. And my style—well, it’s not really fair to compare.” He ignores my growl. “And, having your wagon hitched to Gage Christensen’s of all people.” He pretends to swoon, and I have to battle the very real urge to let my mouth fall open in horror. “Girl, you just keep getting lucky.”

  “Lucky? Lucky?” I hiss, and Cam’s eyebrows raise. Hindsight will show me that I am most definitely overreacting, but I’m not in a position for hindsight at the moment. I’m in the now, and the now is reminding me that everyone knows who Gage Christensen is, and, soon, they’ll all be thinking stupid things about me, too. Things that bring questions, questions that have horrible answers, which only bring one thing: pitying glances and further inquiry. I get queasy just thinking about it.

  So, without the value of hindsight, I rip into my best friend, and I take all of my fear and frustration out on him. “How dare you say that to me? How dare you think this is funny.”

  Before I can stand, Cam puts his hand on mine, holding me in place. “How dare you think that you’re always the victim?” His voice is low, and his tone is sympathetic despite the words; still, it feels like a slap when he says it. I blink, as shocked by his response as I’m sure he was by my outrage not even five seconds ago.

  The bell rings to end lunch, but I don’t move, not even when Cam lets my hand go, and begins picking his things up. I’m still sitting when he stands.

  “You had it rough, Kennedy. I get that. But disappointment isn’t unique to just you, and, sometimes, it’s really annoying to watch you shut out everything and everyone because you want to wallow, or because you’ve decided your life can only be one way.” He pauses, and looks back at me. “We both deserve better than to sit here and watch high school pass us by while we hang onto only each other. I don’t think I can do this much longer—not like this.”

  I watch Cam walk away, and the same stomach cramps that stole my breath this morning are back. Not Cam, I think. Don’t take the one person I depend on. The idea that I did this, made him leave, has the pain in my middle doubling, and causes me to wonder if karma is done with me yet for the day. Seriously, lady, take a break. Save something for the rest of the week.

  My hands are shaking when I try to pick up my water bottle, and I’m forced to close my eyes and breathe deeply.

  “Was that your boyfriend?”

  Dear Karma, when I meet you, I’m going to punch you in the face. Sincerely, Kennedy.

  “Is he mad about the fact that you’re my girl for the next five weeks?”

  His girl? Over my dead body. I open my eyes in time to see Gage pound fists with a couple of guys before they all nod in my direction and leave.

  “Christensen, not everything is about you. That’s probably the first thing you should learn, if we’re going to be spending any time together. And I’m not your girl. That’s a barbaric statement, implying ownership of someone.” Seriously, Kennedy, be ruder. What is wrong with me?

  He sits down next to me, and I don’t miss the glances people give us. I refuse to acknowledge them, even though I feel the weight of them. “Ah, you’re a feminist. So is my mom, so I can work with that. My older sister is a total diva, but my younger one is exactly like me; we entertain ourselves by ganging up on the oldest, and doing or saying things to offend her just so we can watch her flip out.” He pauses by grabbing my crackers and shoveling a handful into his mouth. “What about you? What’s the family like?”

  Cue the recoil. “My family is off limits.”

  Gage nods, unoffended. “Too soon? Okay, but we have to get their eventually. You strike me as an overachiever, and there is no way to do this assignment without talking. But,” he says before I can disagree with him. “We can ease into it. Start with social circles and interests. You first. Who’s the guy?”

  The problem with what he said is there’s a bit of logic to it. I am an overachiever, and I can’t afford anything less than an A on this assignment. Which means I’m going to have to be civil to Gage, at least until he starts to see things my way and lets me do the project on my own.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  Gage pauses in the act of drinking down my water. “Doing what?”

  “This.” I motion between us, standing to gather my bag and garbage, so I can walk to class. “Sitting with me and telling me about yourself? We haven’t been given any instructions do that yet.”

  Gage stands, too, studying me for a seco
nd before finishing off my water and tossing the bottle toward the recycling bin. I don’t have to look to know it goes in.

  “You ever think that some people are just friendly, Kenny?”

  “It’s Kennedy,” I say automatically. “And I don’t spend a lot of time talking to people.”

  His laugh is light and easy; I envy it, just for a second, the freedom of it. “Yeah, I’ve picked up on that. The thing is, I am friendly. Can’t help myself.” A group of boys rush by, tossing a ball back and forth. One of them bumps me, making me stumble. Gage’s arms are around me in a second, holding me steady, and the sensation of being held—protected—is so foreign, I lose my breath again.

  “Sorry, you okay?” I stare at the boy who bumped me, nodding. I realize Gage’s arms are still around me so I shift immediately, stepping back until I’m standing on my own.

  “See,” Gage says, when we start walking again. “That right there tells me you’re not really as unfriendly as you think.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “That guy ran into you—he wasn’t looking where he was going, and you paid the price. My sister, Karen, the oldest diva I was telling you about? She would have laid into him about respect, and paying attention, and not thinking the entire world was about him. Verbally annihilated him for thinking he had the right to so much as breathe the same air, let alone enter into her space. You know, basically what you did to me this morning.” His smile is amused, and the urge to respond with one of my own blows through me, taking me off guard. I hitch my backpack higher, linking my hands between the straps and my shoulders.

  “But you didn’t,” Gage continues. “You kept your head down, and you let him get away with it, just like in class this morning. Every time you wanted to explode, you put your head down and said nothing. Which tells me,” he says, pausing outside of my Spanish class with me. “You’re not angry at the world—you’re scared of it.”

  Gage

  The Game Plan

  “I’m not scared.”

  Said every scared person who ever lived.

  I swallow back this retort because, however satisfying it would be to watch her steam even more, I think I’ve given my dearest life-partner enough food for thought for one day.

  I nod ambivalently; prickly-pants takes this as a challenge to show me why she’s not scared. Women—so sensitive.

  “Maybe,” she continues. “I just don’t bother yelling at people because I know it won’t change them. Maybe I’m smarter than the average dunce, and I’ve already realized what you and your diva sister haven’t: ignoring people gets better results. Responding only makes you the topic of conversation—nothing more.”

  “I’m going to go out on a limb, and figure you just insulted me.” I shake my head. “I forgive you for that, but let me tell you, if my sister ever hears that you called her stupid, start running. She’ll wipe the floors with you.” I think Kenny just growled at me. “But, following your logic, I have question for you.” Pausing, I smile for effect. “If you’re so smart, and you’ve got it all figured out, how come you’ve responded to me every time you’ve laid eyes on me today?”

  Kenny is not pleased with my assessment of her—or my response to her ridiculous logic—so I leave her to her muttering and head to my own class. Advanced Weight Training—it has not skipped my notice that Kenny’s and my schedules speak volumes about the differences in our attitudes.

  I’m headed into Advanced Weight Training, she’s heading into Spanish III. I’m sure the rest of her schedule all carries the phrase Advanced Placement in front of it as well, while mine most certainly does not. Life Science is the only class I can identify that is not setting her up to rule the world.

  Yet… her personality doesn’t strike me as someone who wants to rule the world. In fact, it appears she wants the world to ignore her completely, ducking out of the spotlight every time it’s remotely close to her. She’s a puzzle, and, after what I saw at lunch today, I’m determined to figure her out. Something about her… she’s gorgeous, but that’s not it—or not all of it. Something hit me today, and made me seek her out at lunch.

  Since it’s the middle of January, baseball hasn’t started yet. That means two things: long days at the field, getting it ready, and long days in the gym, getting my body ready. I’m a catcher; it’s my job to be the strongest and smartest person on the field because, while everyone else takes care of their area, I take care of them.

  It’s more than squatting behind the plate and hoping that my pitcher puts the ball into my mitt—it’s analyzing the batters, the runners, my players, spotting any weakness before it can be exploited and fixing it. Which might be why Kenny fascinates me so much; she doesn’t add up.

  I think about her while I go through my warm-up round, then though plyometrics and agility. I get lost in the familiar motions, barely hearing the noise of other people around me until I stop to stretch, breathe, and drink water. By the time I get to wallsits with the medicine ball, I’ve got a game plan mapped out.

  Whoever Kenny is, and however tough she’s pretending to be, she’s scared. I’ve seen it a thousand times. Batters who talk shit because they’re terrified of the curve. Pitchers who throw the fastball time and again because they’re trying to prove they’re enough on their own. Kenny stays removed, keeps her circle of friends to one person, and attacks the everyday nice guy because she doesn’t trust the rest of us. Why is another thing altogether, but that will take more time.

  First order of business is to get her to trust me, and see that being friends isn’t an awful concept. I blow out a breath, and head to the showers when the ten-minute bell rings, reminding myself to hydrate. Tomorrow, I begin wooing Kenny, and it might just be the hardest game plan I’ve ever had to play out.

  Kennedy

  Traitor

  “Gia, I swear to God that I will make your life painful if you do not get out of that bathroom and down the stairs so we can go to school.” I slap my palm on the bathroom door to emphasize my point, swinging into Brandon’s room and digging around for the shoes he swears are lost forever. Within thirty seconds, I find one under his bed and the other in it.

  I step out of his room, raising my hand to bang on the door one more time, halting at the last second when it swings open. Gia raises a light brown brow at me, perfectly posed in the doorway. At fifteen and 5’7”, she’s two years younger and already three and a half inches taller than me. I take the time to scan her outfit, noting the thin romper that’s barely made modest by the open front cardigan, left hanging off one shoulder. Since it’s better than the skirt she was barely wearing last week, I’ll take it.

  I look up at her and note she’s taken the same perusal of me, no doubt horrified by the plain teal Roxy sweatshirt, jeans, and Chucks. My dark brown hair is piled into a top knot, and the only makeup I’m wearing is a smear of cherry ChapStick I got from kissing Macy when I set down her cereal this morning. Gia and I are the oldest kids, the two high schoolers who have limited time here left, but that’s about the only thing we have in common. We’re absolute opposites in every other way, from our coloring and height, all the way down to our interests and time management.

  “It’s six-thirty. Bus will be here in less than fifteen minutes, and the boys aren’t done with breakfast yet. Oh, and Macy wants her hair braided.”

  I don’t wait for her response—she doesn’t always like it, but Gia understands how to do her part in order to survive. Jogging down the stairs, I snag the two Spiderman, and one Elsa, backpacks from the landing, bringing them all into the kitchen with the newly discovered shoes.

  The boys—Brandon and Rylon—are at the table, pretending to eat their cereal. Really, they’re just picking out the marshmallows and tossing them into each other’s mouths. Macy is standing in front of the stove, staring at her smudged reflection, curtsying and twirling in the new layered tutu dress April found her.

  “Brando—think fast.” I toss his shoes to him, wincing when he almost upends his
bowl in his scrambling effort to catch them.

  I pat Macy on the head, grabbing three of the five packed lunches and stuffing them into the backpacks before zipping them all. When I turn, Gia’s walking into the room and scooping Macy up, twirling her around and commenting on her dress. We make brief eye contact, and I nod at her. Thank you. Her return nod is small.

  She’s barely fifteen. This is her fifth house since she was put into the system when she was no older than Macy. Gia hasn’t had a lot of thank yous, and though I want to tear my hair out and question what in the name of Harry Potter could ever take her so long in the morning, I understand that her life has never been easy. I may not have had a glamorous life, but my less-than-stellar upbringing was steady for the first eleven years. Gia has been in a constant state of change since before she was old enough to tie her own shoes.

  By some miracle, we manage to get the kids over to Mrs. Garcia—the neighbor who puts them on their bus, which comes almost an hour after ours—and still make it to our stop on time. We separate immediately, her to the back with her friends, me at the front because I have no friends. I’m almost seventeen—most everyone my age has a car, or a friend who will pick them up. I have no car… and, after the what Cam said to me yesterday, I’m not so sure I have a friend anymore either.

  For whatever reason, this makes me think of Gage.

  That definitely makes you someone to me. It’s been a long time since someone told me I meant something to them.

  I’ve been in the system for almost five years. My father never existed beyond the idea that I biologically had to have one, and my mother died in a drunk driving accident when I was in the seventh grade. Like all good alcoholics, she was estranged from her family, and they weren’t interested in taking responsibility for any of her choices, me included. So, I was put into foster care, lived at a group home, and then April and Brad came around.