Lucky Me (2 page)

Considering all the preparation I'd done, I was way more nervous for my speech than I should've been. I sat on the stage, in mismatched socks, in front of the entire eighth-grade class. This speech would seal the election for me. I'd worked hard on it, and it was—how can I say this so that it doesn't sound like I'm bragging?—perfect! I had nothing to worry about.

I imagined the scene as though it was frozen in one of my lucky snow globes: I'm on stage delivering my last sentence, but before I finish, the room booms with applause. Kids stand up and cheer. My opponent is so intimidated, she walks offstage—she doesn't stand a chance. She knows it. I know it.

The principal introduced me and my opponent, Avery Brown, and she explained that we each had four minutes.

I was up first. I stepped to the podium and began:

“Fellow classmates,” I started confidently, “my name is Meghan McGlinchey. I want to be your class president for three very important reasons. First, I am filled with Wilmington Prep school spirit. . . .”

I looked into the crowd and noticed that everyone was talking to each other like I wasn't even there.

I held up two fingers. “Secondly.” Still the crowd talked among themselves. I could hear them like a rumble. Why weren't they listening to my amazing speech? I was being very clear, articulate, and was holding up fingers.

Principal Jackson came out from behind the stage's curtain and walked over to the podium, where I was already talking about point number three and holding up three fingers.

“Excuse me,” she whispered, interrupting my flow.

I whispered back to her, “What's the matter?”

“The microphone—” She flipped a switch with her thumb, and her words bellowed: “IT ISN'T TURNED ON!” She moved it away from her mouth. “It is now.”

My fellow classmates laughed.

They hadn't heard a single perfect word I'd said. I started over. “My name is—”

The girl who was keeping time in the front row said, “One minute.”

One minute?

“Reason number one . . .” I raced.

“Number two . . .” I spoke faster, threw up two fingers.

“And number three—”

“Time!” the timekeeper said.

Principal Jackson walked out clapping her hands. “Thank you, Meghan.”

“B-but,” I sputtered. “The mic.”

“Very good job. Next we have Avery Brown.”

I passed Avery as I went back to my chair and she approached the podium. She said, “Bad luck for you.”

It was.

What have I done?

T
he election was during lunch in the school courtyard. I stood near the ballot box, ready to shake hands with my fellow eighth-grade voters. My hands were sweaty.

Carissa entered the courtyard covered in
VOTE FOR MEGHAN
buttons.

“Did you hear that speech?” I asked her.

“I couldn't hear much.”

“Thanks a lot,” I said.

“Just being honest. It wasn't great,” she admitted. “But we can't go back and change it. You're gonna have to win this election
right now
.”

The spring breeze picked up. It was cool and felt good.

“I am?”

“Yes. Ready?”

I nodded.

Loudly Carissa asked me, “So, what do you plan to do about our aging technology in the computer lab, Candidate Meghan McGlinchey?”

She knew I had a good answer to this. “A car wash!” I said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “We'll have a car wash in the parking lot during the statewide track meet that Wilmington Prep is hosting. Over two thousand cars will pass through here that day.”

“That's an incredible idea,” Carissa said. “It sounds like a lot of fun, too!” Some of my classmates seemed to perk up at the idea, but it started to get colder in the courtyard, and they slowly migrated inside. Carissa tried to keep the voters in the area by yelling, “What about cafeteria food? Who's concerned about the quality of our cafeteria food?”

“I am!” I said, and I detailed my plan.

I could hear some of the girls who were waiting in line to cast their vote say how excited they were about my idea for a student cooking contest in the cafeteria to improve the food. It was something I'd read about in an ebook.

Carissa was brilliant. Heck,
I
was brilliant! Maybe
everyone in line voted for me before they ran inside to get out of the cold wind.

Things were looking good, until a big gust of wind knocked over the ballot box. Papers—all of the ballots—scattered
everywhere
.

I
n between the election and our monthly school assembly—a magic show by the Fabulous Frank-O—Carissa asked, “What's with you today?”

I quickly explained the snail-mail–e-mail chain letter conundrum and showed Carissa the letter. She instantly pulled me into a nearby restroom and into a stall.

“What are we doing here? Whatever it is, I don't think it'll cheer me up,” I complained.

She took out her state-of-the-art—and strictly off-limits during school—phone. I'd put mine in a cubby when I'd walked into school, just like we were supposed to. Carissa never did.

“Are you kidding me?” I asked. “You're holding enough
demerits in your hand to get us both expelled.” I started to shake in my mismatched socks.

“Rules, rules. You're always about rules. Let's think of the cell phone rule more as
un
conseil
, or a guideline. I mean, what if there was an emergency?
This
is an emergency. You're lucky you have me to help you put things into perspective.”

“I'm feeling anything but lucky today. In fact, I feel like any minute the sky might fall right onto my head.”

“Don't pull a Chicken Little on me just yet.” She touched the phone's screen. I would've paced around if I could, but it was cramped in the stall, which was a gross place for our rendezvous.

“Don't worry. This thing is faster than lightning,” Carissa said. “It's got, like, six or eight Gs. Gimme two secs, and I'll figure out the official way you can reverse the bad luck of a snail-mail–e-mail chain letter sitch.”

“How are you going to do that?”

“A little invention called Google.” She read the screen. “Uh-huh . . . uh-huh . . . uh-huh.”

I asked, “What is it?”

“Easy peasy. You just have to find the people—the links—before you on the letter and ask them to forgive you
for e-mailing your letter. If-slash-when they agree, you do a double-handed handshake.
Pas de problème.
”

“Can I just call them? Or e-mail them?” I asked. “That would be a lot easier and faster.”

“If you can figure out how to shake hands over the phone or Internet, that would be a magic trick worthy of the Fab Frank-O.”

“What's a double-handed handshake?” I asked.

She held the phone between her knees. “Like this.” She crossed her arms and reached for my hands, shaking both of my hands at the same time. “You could add a hip bump like this, if you wanted to shake things up.” She swung her hip into mine—a little too hard, because I banged into the metal toilet paper holder.

“Okay, so hand-shaking the links might be easy if chain letters didn't travel around the world for hundreds of years. That makes it pretty tough to find the senders, considering they've probably been dead and buried for a long time,” I said, rubbing my hip where it had hit the holder.

She took the letter from me. “See, you
are
lucky, because you have
moi
. I'm way more attentive to details than you are when you're an emotional wreck due to crazy socks.” She took the folded-up letter out of my fist and pointed to the
name on the letter. “See here that Clare is link number four. And you're number five? This is a brand-spanking-new chain letter. That might be a problem for some unlucky suckers, but you're going to Ireland tomorrow.”

Carissa was right. Only four links in this shiny new chain.

We stepped out of the cramped bathroom stall and walked right into the ample gut of Mrs. Swarez-Vincent, whose hand was extended for Carissa's phone. Carissa placed the phone into Mrs. S-V's outstretched palm, and it disappeared inside a sea of polyester pants. Mrs. S-V's hand reemerged with two demerit slips. We didn't argue.

With yellow papers and flushed cheeks, we walked to the auditorium for the assembly. Carissa didn't seem nearly as angry as I was. The yellow paper didn't upset her, and she'd probably have another cell phone before dinner tonight. I, on the other hand, would be haunted by guilt for hours—if not days. I'd made it to my eighth-grade year without a single demerit, and now I'd gotten two in one morning!

All because of that STUPID letter.

I
took a seat in the back of the auditorium, trying to keep a low profile. The Fabulous Frank-O ran out to center stage under a majestic purple cloak, trying to give the illusion he was flying. From the “oohs” and “aahs,” I could tell the little kids bought it. It didn't take me long to figure out I was way too old for this gig.

I picked at my cuticles and watched Frank-O out of the corner of my eye. He pointed his index fingers at his temples. “I need a volunteer.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “Is there a Hayden Posey in the audience?”

Hayden was friends with Piper and would have loved to be chosen as a volunteer. I looked for her to leap onto the stage, but no Hayden. Guess she'd picked today to stay home sick.

Frank-O peeked an eye open, and when he saw that no one was approaching the stage, he squeezed his eyes shut again. “How about Meg . . . Meghan McDonal . . . no . . . McGlinchey?”

“No way.” I sank low in my seat, hoping he would just choose another name.

I heard Piper yell, “That's my sister! She's here! Meghan, THAT'S
YOU
!”

“Go.” Carissa nudged me.

“I don't wanna.”

“Oh, come on,” she said. “Go along with it. It'll be fun. It's for the kids. It's very presidential.”

“Fine.” I got up and walked to the stage with my head down. My face flushed as I went up the steps to meet Frank-O. He moved his hands from his head and held them out for me. They were clammy. From close up I could see he was older than I'd originally thought.

“You look like the perfect victim—ha-ha, I mean
volunteer
, of course—to be cut in half.”

Cut in half?

I felt sick. Puking on stage was a real possibility.
That
wouldn't be very presidential. The way my luck was going today, I wouldn't have legs in a few minutes.

Frank-O swooped to the side of the stage and rolled out a case that looked kinda like a coffin on a table. It had a hole at each end—one for my head and one for my feet.

Frank-O lifted the case's wooden lid. With a sigh I started to climb in. “Wait,” he said. “Please take off your shoes and socks.” He did a double take when he saw my socks. Using a step stool, I climbed into the box. Frank-O clicked a latch that locked me in. He held up a mirror to show me that my body was, in fact, closed in the box. From this angle my feet looked like a caveman's. The Fabulous Frank-O spoke with dramatic flair, “This will only hurt for a second.” The elementary kids giggled.

Frank-O pulled and pushed a fierce-looking saw.

My heart raced. The blade moved lower and lower. I closed my eyes and wiggled.

I guess I wiggled a little too much, because the coffin rolled off the table, crashed onto the stage, and broke open, revealing to everyone that the caveman feet were
fake
! As I lay on the stage I could see an arched slot through which the scary saw was bent—it was made of rubber!

The older kids laughed while the younger ones' mouths flew open. The little kids whispered to each other in confusion.

“It's not real magic?”

“He isn't really a magician?”

A smattering of “boos” came up from the crowd.

Frank-O sneered at me and let out a low growl. Then he smiled to the crowd and waved his purple-cloaked arms around. The crowd didn't give in. To distract them Frank-O stuck a finger into his mouth and pulled out the corner of a scarf, and pulled and pulled and pulled a long row of scarves, all from his mouth.

No one seemed to care whether I was okay after falling off a table in a coffin. I slid my socks back on—one black, one blue. I stood to return to my seat, with my shoes in hand. But because I was wearing only my socks, the stage was superslippery. And I slid. Right into Fab Frank-O, who fell on his magician's butt, spilling magic coins, cards, and handcuffs from his pockets. A little pod, which he'd scrunched in his mouth, flew out.

No magic. Just tricks.

I offered him my hand to get up, but he didn't take it. I carefully slid on my feet, like I was wearing ice skates, off the stage and walked to my seat in the back of the auditorium. On my way by, a second grader said to me, “You ruined everything.”