He snorts a little laugh.
“—and then the air could’ve been cleared. But instead, I’ve been freaking out, because you barely talk to me, and I’ve been trying to figure out why, because you’re always staring—”
“Staring?”
“Look, I know it’s hard to resist the Saint-Martin beauty, and all.…” I’m joking, of course, but it’s weird how good it feels to joke with him again.Reallygood. Something icy in my chest is melting.
“You’re the one who’s been staring at me.”
My jaw drops. “Pardon me? I think you have that backwards. You’re the starer. I only look back at you because you instigate the staring. I’m the staree.”
He makes an amused noise in the back of his throat. “Hey, I stare at lots of things. Restored vintage motorcycles, sunsets on the beach … and trouble.”
“Oh,I’mtrouble?” I say, pointing to myself. “Me?”
“Got ‘Siren’ right over your door, don’t you? Might as well add a red flashing light.”
“Oh,r-i-i-i-ight. Saint-Martins are temptresses. Never heard that one before.”
“Hey, you asked why I stare. I’m being honest. Just recognize temptation when I see it. Talented. Pretty face. Mysteriously keeps to herself. All my weaknesses.” Lucky holds out both hands loosely, palms up. “Know thine enemy.”
“Wait. Now we’re enemies instead of friends … because I have a pretty face?Prettysure I should be insulted.”
“Why? It was a compliment.”
“Didn’t sound like a compliment.”
“Hey, I tried,” he says. “You’re probably just better at flirting than I am.”
I snort. “Oh, isthatwhat we’re doing?”
“You tell me.…”
I don’t know. A sticky feeling forms in the middle of my breastbone. We’ve never flirted before. Ever.Ever-ever-ever.We played video games and read books. We painted backdrops for plays at school. When people kissed in movies, we both rolled our eyes.
Maybe I should think about … uh, whatever this is before I say or do anything I regret. It’s Lucky, after all. That’s first. And second, I’m not good at this. And third … the Saint-Martin love curse. And fourth, the utter pit-pattering-panic I’m feeling in my chest—something between excitement and fear.
I quietly clear my throat. “Um, I just remembered that I’m almost positive you’re not single, so I should probably … um, maybe … ,” I say in the most awkward way possible, trying to remember what I’ve heard about Lucky at school. “You have a girlfriend, I think, maybe?”
“I don’t have a girlfriend.”
“Boyfriend?”
“Nope.”
“Huh.” I waver at the edge of my seat. “Okay. Guess I got my gossip mixed up.”
“Come on, Saint-Martin. I’d think you’d know better than most folks that you shouldn’t listen to gossip,” he says. “But if there’s anything I can clear up for you, ask away.”
He’s right, of course. Ishouldn’tlisten to gossip. But most of what I’ve learned about Lucky 2.0 has been gleaned from hallway whispers at Beauty High, which shockingly isn’t the most reliable source of information. There are rumors he spent time in juvie. And that he once had his stomach pumped after OD’ing on drugs.
That he got Bunny Perera pregnant earlier this year.
Is any of that true? I don’t know. But Beauty is an insanely finger-wagging, gossipy town that has made an art of shunning outcasts since it was a colonial village, and people are publicly judged, facts or no facts. More dirty laundry is aired here before nine a.m. than most towns manage all day.
Idoknow that more than half the things people whisper about me and my mom aren’t remotely true, so I’d imagine this general percentage oftruthinesscould apply to Lucky as well. I just don’t know which parts of his gossiped history are made up and which parts might be based in fact.
Here’s what Idoknow about Lucky Karras: (1) His family has owned a boat-repair business in various locations around town for a few generations. (2) They live in a house west of the harbor in a small residential area called Greektown. (3) Lucky works part-time as a mechanic after school in the boatyard. (4) He reads a lot in the Nook, but he almost never buys anything. (5) He’s a loner, likeme. (6) He likes the same grape gum that he used to chew when we were kids, which I only know because he folds up the waxy wrappers into tiny, neat shapes that he leaves on his desk at school, like gum-wrapper origami.
