Gettin' Lucky (2 page)

I rang the doorbell and tried to look nonchalant as I waited for someone to answer the door. In my mind, Jesse pulled the door open, erupted into a thousand-watt grin at the sight of me, and swooped me up into his arms, finally dipping me gracefully into a flawless Hollywood kiss.

In point of fact, what actually happened was that Jesse’s younger brother, Paul, opened the door, and scowled at me.
Paul was twelve, which put him at prime sulking age.

“Hi!” I said brightly, trying to ignore the fact that he didn’t seem to care one way or another about my arrival. “I came home early!”

He managed an all-but-imperceptible nod. “Okay. Jesse’s upstairs. Our mom’s not home,” he added as an afterthought, smirking. He really was rushing into the adolescence thing full-force.

Despite the fact that I wanted to go charging up the stairs at top speed, I forced myself to walk like a normal, non-crazy, non-boyfriend-starved person. When I got to Jesse’s bedroom door, I paused and took a deep breath. My heart was going crazy. Which later on I would look back on as some sort of omen or whatever, but really was probably much more straightforward and meaningless. I mean, how could I have known?

Music blared out of Jesse’s room—Kelly Clarkson, which would ensure no small amount of teasing once our reunion kissing was out of the way. I giggled, rapped hard on the door, and called out.

“Surprise!” I shouted, gleeful.

I grabbed at his doorknob.

I turned it.

I pushed.

And gasped.

Jesse did not seem to have heard me knock at his door or call out to him. He did not notice that his bedroom door had opened and that I was now standing in his doorway. He was completely oblivious to my presence, for better or for worse.

For better, because I’d like to think that if he’d known that I was standing there, he might have ceased and desisted all suspicious activity.

For worse, because said suspicious activity seemed to involve swallowing my best friend’s face whole.

The blood drained from my face and I felt faint. There, right before my plane-puffy and red-rimmed eyes, were Jesse and Alana. Kissing. And possibly doing some other stuff that was maybe a little more PG-13. His hand was buried in her straight-ironed, low-lighted, meticulously layered hair. Her premium-denim-clad legs were splayed across his legs. Kelly Clarkson sounded incredibly chipper about this whole state of affairs.

I, however, wanted to die.

“What the …?” I started, grabbing against the frame of the doorway to keep myself steady.

Fortunately, just then Kelly stopped wailing, and Jesse and Alana were finally aware of my presence. They had the good grace, at least, to spring apart to opposite sides of the bed guiltily, Alana furtively straightening out the hem of her tank top.

A power guitar chord cut through the tension, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. Sheepishly, Jesse grabbed at a remote and shut the stereo down. Now you could hear a pin drop again. That, or the tiny tearing sound of my heart as it made its way through the meat grinder that was my best friend and boyfriend’s betrayal.

Ouch.

The awkwardness threatened to suffocate us. Finally, Jesse cleared his throat, breaking the silence. He ran his fingers through his unruly brown hair.

“Cass,” he started, looking equal parts embarrassed, ashamed, and confused. “You’re home early.”

Two

“Omigosh. I like your skirt.”

Those were the first words that Alana Mark ever said to me.

It was the second day of seventh grade. The second day of school was bursting with all of the terror and unfamiliarity of the first day of school, while being simultaneously devoid of the false hope that I’d be inexplicably catapulted into sudden popularity and spared the humiliation of sneaking away to a stairwell to gobble down my lunch, alone. (Hey—a girl can dream, can’t she?) Since that magical experience had certainly not taken place on the first day, after all.

So you can sort of see how I was feeling, around the time that Alana Mark first
approached me. I was brand-spanking-new, both to the school and also to Vegas, and while no one had pelted me with mashed potatoes in the cafeteria, or pantsed me during PE, I was feeling more than a little bit terrified and out of place. And hoping fervently that Alana saw none of this anxiety on my face.

She slid into the desk next to me, second row, third from the left, in intro to world civ. Her long, tanned legs peeked out from under the desk, revealing bright wedge flipflops that I coveted instantly.

I’d noticed her yesterday, of course, though yesterday she’d sat behind me. She floated into the classroom with the exact opposite body language that I had been sporting all morning. Where I was shy and tense, she was all oiled limbs and effortless confidence. She had hair the color of Lindsay Lohan’s (back when it was first red, that is, and then later on, when it was red again). She was impossible to miss. It was clear to the casual observer that she was someone Very Important at Lincoln Memorial Middle School. Yesterday she’d been flanked by a B-level hanger-on, a washed-out blonde (Sun-In, I’d guessed) who was clearly the
junior high equivalent of Cacee Cobb. Today she was alone.

“Thanks,” I said, glancing down to remind myself of what I was wearing. It was a denim skirt, elevated beyond the level of basic by a cute gingham ruffle along the hem. “I like your …” I scrambled to take her in without appearing to be some kind of psychotic stalker. She was sitting; I couldn’t see all that much of her. “… nails,” I finished, somewhat lamely. They were pink and glittery. It was the best I could do on such short notice.

“Thanks,” she said, smiling brightly. She wiggled her fingers under my nose, then frowned adorably. Most everything about her was quite adorable. It was almost annoying. “They’re already chipping.”

I rolled my eyes. “Ugh,” I said, as though we were coconspirators in the war against beauty. Which I was starting to hope we would be. A girl could do worse than to be aligned with Alana Mark. I could see that already.

“Omigosh. I forgot to cover my book,” Alana went on, her eyes skating over my own. I’d forgone the standard brown bag in favor of clear contact paper over my magazine
section of choice: the horoscopes. At the time, I’d thought they were cool. Now I felt like a big-time dork for being so incredibly on top of such drippy endeavors as covering one’s books. Darn my father and his whole responsibility trip. Like I had absolutely nothing better to do than to skip home with my textbooks after the first day of school.

Well, I didn’t, but Alana didn’t have to know that.

I smiled and shrugged, like I just couldn’t help being a total geek. “I’m new,” I said, like maybe that excused my sudden lapse in cool factor.

“Yeah, I thought so,” Alana said. “I saw you yesterday.”

Which kind of made sense, since she’d had to walk past me to get to her seat. This meant I’d been noticeable in either a good way or a bad way. I hoped good. She wouldn’t have been voluntarily talking to me if it’d been bad, right?

Right?

This transferring-suddenly-during-the-crucial-apex-of-puberty wasn’t doing a whole lot for my self-esteem.

“I mean, this place isn’t
that
big,” she
continued, throwing me a teeny tiny line. “And I’ve been going here forever.” Her expression got serious for a minute. “Katy had to switch. To the other world civ class. I think it’s”—she lowered her voice—
“remedial.”

I nodded and tried to look appropriately concerned for Katys academic progress. Mostly I was just thrilled that Alana seemed to be confiding in me.

Alana drummed her nails against the surface of her desk, then sighed. “So I guess it’s a bummer that she covered her book already, right?”

At that, I couldn’t help but giggle. “Right,” I said. Katy and I had that in common, then. Though I hoped I wouldn’t get shunted off to remedial history. I’d always been a pretty solid-B student.

“So,” Alana said, slightly more urgently this time, “can I borrow a pen?”

“Of course!” I replied, wondering if I actually had an extra pen available to give her. I needn’t have worried. My father had loaded me up with more school supplies than a Staples. I was prepared for any writing-related contingency. I fished out an extra-fine in purple ink, and that was that. Purple, as it
turned out, was Alana’s favorite color. And
I
was Alana’s new favorite, non-remedial seatmate.

Alana Mark and I were officially friends.

I wasted no time in investigating Alana’s astrological sign. I was thrilled to learn that she was a Gemini, a fellow air sign. That meant we were both creative types, though she was—and this was not a surprise to me—somewhat more inclined to enjoy a good gossip session. She introduced me to Katy, who was exceptionally sweet, and not all that slow at all, outside of world civ, and the rest of her cohorts, a group of girls and guys almost as notable as Alana herself. As previously mentioned, Alana loaned me her lip balm, and I kept her in lavender ink for the duration of the year. Socially speaking, I was made. And I couldn’t have been happier.

In the meantime, my father and I were getting accustomed to the Vegas lifestyle. He worked long hours at the restaurant, which didn’t so much bother me, since I had cable, the Internet and, thanks to Dad, an endless supply of gourmet leftovers in the fridge. Besides, he liked to say that he was never more than a phone call away, a theory
that had held up under a Maxine-related crisis or two. (That dog will eat
anything
she gets her nose into, no joke.)

What I didn’t realize at the time was that, while the restaurant’s kitchen would close at eleven, when my father stayed on, it wasn’t to help out with late-night room service orders, like he said. Or, maybe it was, but that was sort of a side point. Mainly he hung out in the hotel’s casino.

Mainly he hung out at the blackjack table.

Now, I’ve played electronic blackjack myself (I mean, not only do I have high-speed wireless, but I live in
Las Vegas,
come on), so I can kind of get the allure. It’s a very fast-paced game and it’s very simple. If you can add or subtract, you can play. So I don’t blame my father for getting sucked in. And when he came to me, completely chagrined, and explained to me that he had perhaps developed the slightest little gambling habit and
perhaps
had run us into an
eensy
bit of debt, I tried to understand that, as well.

I must admit that I was a little bit disappointed. But I was beyond the age of thinking that my parents were infallible (given as how my mother had essentially
abandoned us just a few months prior—that was rather fallible behavior, I had to admit).

Anyway, the good news was that my father had caught himself before an eensy habit became a super-giganto-humongous habit. He joined a gambling support group (there are
tons
of those around here). He paid off his debts and went to his group meetings every day for a year. He told me that he has never again sat down at a blackjack table—he’s never again so much as glanced at a slot machine sideways. He pulled extra shifts at the restaurant and was even promoted in the process. That was three years ago, and by now he’s even paid down a good chunk of the mortgage on our house. He doesn’t usually involve me in the nittygritty of our financials, but I know enough to know that we are completely in the clear.

The other thing that I know? That my father, a devout believer in the culinary landscape of Vegas, basically frowns on the whole “let it ride” culture of this town. Not that I can blame him.

Moving to Vegas, making friends with Alana, Dad’s brush with Gamblers Anonymous—these were the defining incidents of my tweendom. You could have
seen the glass as half-empty: Mom leaving, moving, Dad sucking it big-time at the blackjack table. But to me, the world was a can of fizzy, flavorful, non-diet cola, and it was utterly and absolutely half-full. Mom leaving meant that Dad and I were closer. Dad’s gambling taught him so much of that famous “fiscal responsibility” that these days we had an inground swimming pool. And moving meant that I now had the chance to be a part of the social inner circle at school. To me, things were looking up.

And I know Oprah and whoever are always talking about the “power of positive thinking” and blah, blah, and sometimes it can sound a little bit woo-woo. But the thing is that I think they’re onto something. I mean, I myself must be living proof of this. ‘Cause there I was, chirping away about silver linings and etc., and along came Jesse. And if
that
doesn’t count as some really sweet karma, then I don’t know what does.

“Nice kicks.”

Those were the first words that Jesse Dain ever spoke to me.

It was first-semester sophomore year and we’d just trounced the Midvale Tigers in the third home football game of the season. I was hanging around outside of the locker room, waiting for Alana to finish changing. (Of course Alana was a cheerleader. Did you really have to ask?) I’d been staring at the tiled walls of the hallway, sort of zoning out with that post-adrenal coma thing that happens once something very tense and very action-packed has ended. When I heard Jesse speak, I snapped back to the real world and hoped like hell I hadn’t been squinting or rubbing my nose or making that weird spaced-out face that I make when I think I’m by myself. That would have been embarrassing.

I must have been okay, because Jesse smiled, and I melted.

I glanced down at my feet to see what shoes I was wearing. They were old-school Vans in a pale pink. Not my most innovative fashion statement, but I would take the compliments where I could get them.

“I’ve got the same ones,” Jesse continued, nodding approvingly.

“Yeah?” I teased. “You wear a lot of pink?”

I couldn’t believe I was teasing him. It just showed how much I’d changed since that first day of school so many years before. I was comfortable (or, okay, semi-comfortable, but still—that’s something) teasing Jesse Dain.

Of course I knew who Jesse was. Like Alana, he was an A-lister, and like Alana, he was hard to miss. He was tall, stocky, but extremely fit, and his bright blue eyes had the easy familiarity of a pre-breakdown Tom Cruise. He was usually surrounded by a gaggle of beefy friends and/or a collection of doting females, many of whom were in Alana’s—and, by default, my own—extended circle. I knew he was cute, and I knew he was good. Good at sports, that is. Alana and her cheer-freak friends devoted at least half their time on the field spelling his name. So those were two cool things to know about Jesse. And the third cool thing was that, shockingly, he suddenly seemed interested in me.