Getting Lucky Number Seven (3 page)

Chapter Four

Beck

Some people swam, some ran, some liked to get all Zen and do yoga or meditation. I preferred slamming guys into walls. I checked my defender, and when he was sliding down the glass of the hockey rink, I hit the puck and skated after it, heading toward the goal.

This was my place where everything else disappeared. Classes got boring and my mind tended to drift, and I rarely liked where it went these days. I guess if you put off dealing with things long enough, they simply came after you when you least wanted them to.

I swung my hockey stick back, aimed to the left of the goalie, and hit for everything I was worth. Charlie tried to catch it, but he missed, and it soared in.

I threw my hands up as my teammates barreled into me. Then Coach called practice and we headed toward the locker room. Just as I was about to leave, I remembered Lyla and her damn goals. I got where she was coming from, and I thought loosening up a bit might be good for her, but she was also sweet and naïve enough to get herself into trouble, and I was determined to make sure the trouble didn’t get out of control, even if that’s what she thought she wanted.

“Hey, any of you know if there’s a party going on this weekend?”

“My frat’s having one,” Daniel said.

A big
hell no
to that. Frat boys and Lyla screamed bad idea. Daniel wasn’t a bad guy, but most of the other dudes he lived with were pricks who cared about name brand clothing, fancy cars, and girls who looked like Victoria’s Secret models.

Carson slammed his locker door. “There’s one at the Quad. There’s guaranteed to be lots of beer and pretty girls.”

“What about guys?” I asked, and Carson looked at me like I’d sprouted a unicorn horn. “Not for me, dumbass. I’ve got a friend, and she’s looking to party.”

“Send her to me, and I’ll take
good
care of her.”

Another
hell no
. He slept with more girls than I did. Honestly, though, that wasn’t even that hard, despite what people tended to assume about me. Sex usually led to attachments, which was why I lived in a constant state of frustration, only closing the deal with girls I knew wouldn’t constantly call and follow me around. Not that I hadn’t misjudged before, but I tried. Carson promised girls they were special and then treated them like shit. He wasn’t going near Lyla.

But the party at the Quad was probably the better pick of the two. I’d keep asking, just in case something better came up. I don’t know what more I was looking for—keg stand opportunities were a dime a dozen. Hopefully we could knock out Lyla’s first two items at once, and then she could get it out of her system and go back to being happy. Seemed like she’d been sadder the past few months, ever since she and her boyfriend broke up, immediately followed by dealing with finals. I’d chalked it up to stress, but maybe there was more going on.

“Text me the details,” I said, then headed out of the locker room. As I walked to my Land Rover, I checked my phone. There was a text from Monica saying she wanted to meet up tonight—apparently I’d been forgiven.

Just as I was about to text back and tell her to meet me at my place, my phone rang. It was Lyla, so I answered. “Yeah?”

“I was hoping you could come pick me up so we could go to the mall. I really need to get moving on my first item.”

For a moment I thought about telling her I was serious about the no shopping thing. The whole point of moving into an apartment by myself and keeping my schedule filled with weight training, hockey practices, and games was so that I didn’t have to deal with people unless it was on my terms. So that no one saw when the past rose up and got the best of me. And if I went, this would be the second time I let her get between me and getting laid. Monica was a no-strings-attached girl, and they weren’t exactly easy to find. I couldn’t imagine choosing shopping when sex was an option.

But then I pictured Lyla’s sad face, and thought of all the times she’d cheered me up when I was having a shit day. “I’ve got to shower and change. Give me like thirty or forty.”

…

“What about this?” Lyla asked, moving aside the pink and purple scarf she had on and holding a black shirt over her white sweater. “Or is it too boring? I usually wear a lot of colors, but maybe that’s too much? Maybe I should just go with one solid color. Or do I go black? Do guys care either way?”

I glanced at the uniform-colored tops. I’d never thought much about it, but they did seem plain next to Lyla’s usual outfits—funny since “plain” was apparently the problem she was trying to fix. I’d never seen anyone wear as many layers as she did, rain or shine. She had a scarf in every combination of colors, and nearly all of her skirts and dresses were wild prints with lots of color. “So no more hippie style?”

“Hippie?” She stuck out her lower lip in a way that made me think I’d said the wrong thing. “I’d call it more bohemian chic. A little more artsy and less peace, free love, and no showering?”

I just stared at her for a moment. “Oh. Pardon me.” Come to think of it, she did look more like she should be an art student than a hardcore chemistry nerd. But I supposed I looked like a dumb jock, and I preferred to let people assume that was all there was to me. Less questions that way. “I’m the wrong person for this, Ly. You need someone who knows more about fashion.”

“Okay, no pressure and all, but you’re kinda one of my only friends here. And I don’t need someone who knows fashion—I need a
guy’s
opinion. I want to know what guys prefer for girls to wear, versus what they hate. Like, turtlenecks, or whatever.”

I wrinkled my nose. “Yeah, turtlenecks are a no.”

“See,” she said. “You know the important stuff. And if I try on something that guys usually like, but I can’t pull off, I need you to tell me that, too. You always give it to me straight.”

Not turning that “give it to me straight” comment into an innuendo wasn’t easy, but I let it go. She’d probably be horrified or smack me, and while she was trying to act like this was totally normal, I could tell by the slight hitch in her voice and the way her eyes never landed on anything for more than a couple seconds that she was getting overwhelmed.

“It’s pretty simple, actually,” I said. “Guys like seeing girls’ bodies. Accentuate what you got, hide what you don’t. Lesser men might be intimidated by all of your layers and colors—I personally find them charming.”

“But you don’t want to date me, either.” She waved her hands. “Not that I want to date you. We’re, like, nonentities to each other. I get that, and that’s what’s so great about us. I’m just saying that I’m glad you find them charming, but I want to see if I can make a guy stop and stare here and there. I want to use what I got.”

I exhaled, feeling totally out of my league. The foreboding prickling sensation warned me I was getting sucked into a conversation where I’d inevitably say the wrong thing. “Well, what do you got, then?”

She took a step toward me. “I don’t know. You tell me.”

Honestly, I’d never looked at her like that. I mean, of course there was the general noticing that she had nice ivory skin, a cute little nose, and a really great smile. There was also something hot-librarian about when she wore her glasses and had her hair in a bun. But she wasn’t a hookup type of girl, and when I’d met her, she’d talked about Miles. A
lot
. It was one reason I hadn’t hesitated to have her over to study at my place.

One day she noticed
The Hangover
DVD on my entertainment center, remarked that she hadn’t seen it, and I insisted we watch it. The next week she suggested a movie, and even brought over a carton of ice cream. From there, we started our Sunday night ritual. For so long, she’d been a—as she put it—“nonentity,” that I hadn’t thought about what kind of body she was hiding underneath her many layers of clothes since I’d first met her.

I grabbed a few short skirts and skimpy tops and thrust them at her. “Put these on and we’ll see.”

She glanced at what I’d grabbed, changed the sizes out, and headed to the dressing room.

My phone rang, and I pulled it out of my pocket, thinking it was Monica, and already trying to come up with an excuse for why I’d blown her off.

But it wasn’t Monica. It was the only other girl on the planet I’d ever let drag me to a mall.

Chapter Five

Lyla

They always say dressing rooms have the worst lighting and mirrors, and right now, I was hoping whoever “they” were, knew what they were talking about. Why wouldn’t stores invest in fabulous lighting and mirrors that smoothed out flaws? Wouldn’t that sell more clothes?

“Lyla?” It was Beck, obviously. I’d heard him talking on the phone a moment ago, although I couldn’t make out the words. Whoever it was, she’d immediately gotten a sweet tone I’d never heard him use before.

“Just a second,” I called, tugging at the hemline of the skirt. If guys wanted to see girls’ bodies, well, this getup certainly accomplished that. I hadn’t worn a skirt that didn’t brush my ankles since a band concert in high school that required boring black and knee-length. This one was black, showed off lots of thigh, and was more adventurous than boring—the adventure being maybe I’d accidentally flash everyone. Wahoo!

The beaded purple top scooped low, showing off quite a bit of cleavage. And by quite a bit, I mean
holy hell balls
, that’s a lot of boobage. I had a lot of it to show off, too, which, trust me, I wasn’t one to brag about. I’d actually wished for not-so-much many times through the years, but especially when I was younger and they were the bane of my existence.

When I’d suddenly developed at eleven, way before the rest of my friends, my mom freaked out and bought me lots of super high-necked shirts and jackets. Since she made a point to always tell me—with a frown on her face, no less—if there was even a hint of cleavage or if my shirt was “so tight it’s graphic,” it only added to the stress. She warned me guys would think I was older, and that I’d have to be careful. Didn’t want to give them the wrong idea. Didn’t want to make myself a target. I heard about it so much that I got paranoid about it. Then I found scarves, and they at least made my boring, high-necked T-shirts look cuter.

“I’m sorry to do this,” Beck said through the door, “but something came up. I need to go.”

The girl who’d been on the phone. My heart dropped. Of course he’d choose her over helping me shop. I didn’t blame him, but it still stung a little—didn’t he get how important this was to me? I stripped off the revealing clothes and started to pull my long sweater and leggings back on.

“If you want to keep shopping, maybe Whitney could come get you? Or you can catch the bus?” His voice got closer, and I saw his Adidas under the stall. “I know that sucks, though, and I swear I wouldn’t leave if it wasn’t important.”

Maybe I wasn’t the only damsel currently in distress that Beck had to attend to. For all I knew he had needy friends like me spread across campus—he rarely talked about anything but hockey, with the occasional remark about his classes, but I knew he had more than that going on.

“Maybe I’ll just catch the bus, then. It’s not that far of a ride to my apartment.” I cracked open the door, wishing I’d left the outfit on so he could’ve told me if it was a go or not. He looked a little paler than usual, and the lines in his forehead were creased. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, no worries.” His attempted smile didn’t fully catch hold. He glanced at the discarded skirt and shirt bunched up on the floor. “How’d they look?”

“Skimpy.”

“Well, that’s the opposite of nice and sweet. I say go with it. Just act confident and you can pull off anything.”

“Confidence.” I gave one sharp nod, even though confidence had always been a hard thing for me when it came to anything besides school. “Got it.”

He took my hand and squeezed it, calming the worries rising up to tell me that I’d never be able to even fake that much confidence. “Thanks again for being so cool. I’ll catch you later.” His gaze remained on me as he backed away from the dressing room. “And I found us a party to go to, so start your preparations, because I know you’ve got some kind of checklist typed up.”

“I don’t.” Yet. That was tonight’s activity. “Is there anything I should put on there, though? If I decide to make one?”

Beck gave me an I-knew-it grin. “Don’t overanalyze, and don’t stress. Buy yourself that outfit, and I’ll take care of everything else.”

He nearly bumped into the attendant who’d come in, only he somehow sensed her right before contact, confirming my suspicion that he might be part ninja. She beamed at him and batted her eyes.

The fact that he didn’t bother stopping to deliver a flirty line meant he truly did have an emergency situation to get to. In the past I’d gotten a little hurt that he didn’t tell me much about his personal life when I constantly divulged too much. I also sent him way too many pictures of my cat doing funny things, but what can I say? Einstein’s freaking adorable.

But I digress.

I now knew that being tight-lipped about himself was just part of who Beck was, and that was okay. Still, I couldn’t help but worry. Occasionally he got this faraway look that said he had a lot on his mind, more than hockey and classes. Or maybe I was overanalyzing—as he pointed out—I tended to do that sometimes.

Which was why I was going to buy the clothes I thought were far too revealing. I’d get a couple of pairs of jeans, too. It’s not like I never wore pants, but after my life-long fight with jeans that were too long, not to mention the struggle to find ones that also fit my hips, it was just easier to go with dresses, skirts, or funky leggings.

Suddenly it hit me that what I wore was more function and styles being pushed on me for the sake of not “showing off too much” than items I’d picked out myself. I’d just gotten used to them. Used to not rocking the boat. I looked at myself in the mirror, studying the outfit I was wearing. Did I even
like
my style?

Guess it doesn’t matter, since I’m trying out a whole new look anyway.

After I browsed through several more stores and racked up enough purchases to make me fear the day my credit card bill arrived, I hesitated in front of the salon. I had a few pictures on my phone, and I figured I could ask one of the hairdressers for help choosing the exact cut and style. I’d considered short and choppy, but I wasn’t quite ready to lose a few feet of hair—I was planning on wearing it down more, but I still needed bun capabilities. It drove me crazy when it was in my face as I studied, and there were plenty of bold choices that didn’t require me going short.

Luckily, one of the hairdressers had an opening. She ushered me into a chair, I showed her a picture, and then explained that I also wanted to do a bright, edgy color, but I couldn’t decide between really blond or really dark.

She pursed her lips as she studied my hair and then my face, and then my hair again. “Blond is so harsh and hard to keep up, and with your pale skin tone, I think dark might look Gothic.” She glanced over my clothes. “Which doesn’t really seem like you.”

“No, not the look I’m going for. But I also want edgier than my current style—I’m looking for a more modern upgrade all around.”

She picked up a strand of my hair, studied it for a couple of seconds, and then asked, “Have you ever thought about going red?”

…

Einstein jumped onto my lap as I typed the list items I had into a document. He curled into a fluffy ball and purred as I scratched under his chin and ran my hand down his back. Even though I was a hardcore chemistry nerd, I occasionally dabbled in physics, and when I saw my new kitty, his long gray and white hair sticking out at all angles, I knew Einstein was his name, no question about it.

I saved what I’d written so far as “College Bucket List,” and then added a number four to the bottom.

So, what else should I add?
In general, I was trying to be bolder and not have too many rules, but I knew myself well enough to know that I’d need certain goals to check off—I worked best that way. Little goals got me to big goals, and anything I took the time to put on paper got done. Plus, it’d keep me on schedule so I could accomplish the list by the end of this semester and go home an entirely new, more-fun and less-scared person.

I do need to make sure to keep my grades up, despite going out more.

But that didn’t belong on my bucket list. Just in general life goals, and it wasn’t something I’d accidentally forget to do. To get more ideas, I pulled up Google, typed “college bucket list,” and started scrolling through the resulting links.

Yikes. There were a lot of things I didn’t want to do. Skydive, bungee jump. Get into a bar fight, and then get thrown out. Considering my non-existent fighting skills, I’d have to be carried out on a stretcher. No thanks.

Streaking—yeah, I’d never be able to do that one. The risqué wardrobe choices I’d made earlier in the mall were enough to give me heart palpitations. Not to mention a big part of the reason I’d chosen to live in an apartment instead of the dorms was having my own private shower and bathroom—well, a bathroom with a locking door that I only had to share with one other girl—so that I didn’t have to risk ever being even semi-naked in front of people I didn’t know.

The other reason was Einstein. Dorms didn’t allow cats, and I didn’t trust my parents enough to leave him behind. Not that they wouldn’t have
tried
to take care of him, but with Mom’s job as a flight attendant constantly taking her away from home and Dad working all day at the coffee shop he owned in Utica, New York, no one would be there to make sure my kitty got enough love and attention—and a full food bowl.

I scratched Einstein behind his ears. I would’ve missed him like crazy, too. Whenever I was having a lonely day, he made me feel loved, even if only for my ability to get him food and make him comfy.

Let’s see. What other suggestions do they have?
I skimmed down the page to the next item.
Skip a class to have sex.

I stared at that one. Sounded kind of exciting. Then again, why couldn’t you just have sex at a normal time and not skip class? I’d never be able to focus, and wouldn’t everyone else be in class around that time? Except for slacker guys, who’d never been my type.

Plus, here’s the thing about sex: I didn’t really get the big allure. It’s not awful, but it’s just okay for me. Nothing worth skipping class for and then stressing out about how to make up the work. But maybe that was me not being bold or edgy enough, and it was something I should work on.

Deciding I’d chosen a list that might be over my head—and noticing most of the items were geared toward guys, what with the “get a chick to eat a banana during a wet T-shirt contest,” which was definitely against my feminist values—I clicked back and went to one of the other search options.

“Thank your favorite professor? Really?” Talk about the opposite of bold. That was just common courtesy. Then again, at least I was unknowingly doing something right already.

Try food on campus that you’ve never tried before.

Okay, this one’s too weak. It’s what I’ve already been doing, and by their definition of bucket list, I’m a total rebel.

Another search showed things I couldn’t afford to do, like go to Hawaii and study abroad—I mean, who
didn’t
want to do those things? Awesome ideas, webpage, but first I’d need to win the lottery, and I’d spent too much time studying statistics to believe that’d ever happen. As Miles used to say, the lottery was just a tax on people who weren’t good at math.

I smiled at the memory of the first time he’d said it and I’d laughed, linking my fingers with his and thinking my boyfriend was smart and my kind of funny.
Man, I miss him sometimes.

I shook my head.
Focus, Lyla.

And then, like Goldilocks—or whatever the redheaded version of that was—I stumbled upon a list with items that were just right. The top suggestion took my number four spot.

4. Sing karaoke

I’d always wanted to do it, and had actually gone to a birthday party where they had a karaoke machine, but had chickened out. Beck was probably going to try to resist being the other half of my duet, but I’d feel much better with someone else than going solo, so I’d find a way to talk him into it.

Hmm, kiss a beautiful stranger is pretty much the same as my number three. Only that one sounds more poetic. Maybe I’ll change it to that.

Oh, dancing on a bar! That one might be a good one.

Or it might be humiliating.

But I’d already ruled out skipping class to have sex, and I needed to stop talking myself out of things and go for a few of them. So I added number five, with a sub goal, of course.

5. Dance on a bar. (Learn how to sexy dance, so I don’t make a fool of myself when the bar dancing happens.)

After a few more minutes, I added another one that had always appealed to me, but I’d never thought I could do.

6. Get a tattoo

It’d be something cute and feminine. Not too big, and something not many people saw. But it was definitely bold, so go me!

I skimmed the other items on the webpage, wondering if I should add anything more, but the knock at the door cut my search short. I quickly minimized my list.

Whitney stuck her head in my room. “Hey, I was wondering—whoa! Your hair!”

I shook out the thick fringe bangs and tugged one of the fiery strands in front of my face. The bright color still caught me off guard, but it also gave me a thrill every time I saw it. “What do you think?”

“It’s effing fabulous. It looks amazing with your skin tone, and those bangs and the long layers really add volume and style. I’m impressed. That took balls.”

My grin was probably way bigger than the situation allowed, but I did something bold. Me. Who knew I’d be so happy to be accused of having balls? “Thanks.”

“A group of us are going to grab food and then go bowling. Do you wanna come with?”