Lucky Breaks (9 page)

Miles and Lincoln, those doorknobs! They were sitting at the table with Mrs. Wellborne and Brigitte. They had come down the dry wash just as Lucky and Paloma had gone scarf hunting around the other side of the trailers.

Lucky steamed toward them full speed, to do damage control and send them packing. A lot of bad impressions could result if she didn’t act fast.

“It’s sad about that thing that happened,” Miles was saying as he leaned in toward Mrs. Wellborne. Lucky watched him sniffing her perfume and very subtly touching the fabric of her blouse. It was clear that Miles was entranced.

Brigitte gave Miles a quizzical glance and raised her eyebrows at Lucky. Lincoln seemed absorbed in tying a knot, but he also shot her a look. Lucky ignored them. “Here’s your scarf, Mrs. Wellborne,” she said in a way that was smooth and sweet, like spreading jam on a piece of bread. “It was hanging very
nicely on the mesquite tree. I could show you the mesquite tree right now, since Miles and Lincoln were just going home.”

“Thank you, dear,” Mrs. Wellborne said, looking at Miles. Miles gazed back at her with his chocolate-chip eyes and smiled his dear, tender, cookie-mooching smile. He said, “You don’t really need to be scared of b—”

Lucky cut him off. “Mrs. Wellborne just had a long car trip. I bet she’d really like some sun tea with lots of ice in it.”

“
I
sure would,” put in Paloma.

Brigitte looked at her watch. “We are waiting outside until Mr. Wellborne finishes his private telephone call. We will get the tea after.”

“Miles was asking about when Mrs. Wellborne was a child,” Lincoln said.

Mrs. Wellborne looked pleased. “A long time ago,” she said, and then, laughing, “but not
that
long ago.”

Lucky glared at Miles, who big-eyed her as a way of saying
he
wasn’t doing anything wrong, and anyway Mrs. Wellborne was acting perfectly nice.

“My mom had lots of adventures,” Paloma said, “when she was your age, Miles.”

“But that was before—” Miles stopped suddenly. His hands flew to his earlobes as Lucky saw realization flash across his face.

“Yes, before I grew up and had a child of my own,” Mrs. Wellborne said. “Then I found out that the world is full of danger, especially for children.”

“Yes, it is,” Lincoln said, to Lucky’s annoyance. She gnashed her teeth mentally: The idea here was to reassure Paloma’s mom, not
agree
with her. He shifted his big plastic trash bag. “That’s one reason I’m trying to learn the right knot for every occasion.” Lucky’s mouth fell open. She’d never heard Lincoln even come close to bragging before. What was wrong with him? Then she realized: He was trying to impress Mrs. Wellborne!

Lucky watched Paloma’s mother’s rows of smile-wrinkles deepen; they were like a special decoration especially designed for her face. “Really?” she said. “How remarkable! Although when you think about it”—she switched to worry lines or, Lucky thought, maybe concentration lines—“how often would knots really be that useful?”

“Well,” Lincoln said, “you could use the Josephine Knot on that scarf—it’s a nice loose knot and has the advantage of being easily untied and tied again. Number 2361.”

“Number 2361?” said Brigitte.

“In
The Ashley Book of Knots
,” Lincoln explained, “which most of us just call
ABOK
. Ashley sorted out all the knots, hitches, bends, loops, everything by what they’re used for, and gave each one a number. Plus instructions on how to tie them.” Lincoln brushed a flop of hair back from his forehead and looked at them intensely, eyes shining. His face showed that he considered this a tremendous accomplishment. “Took him more than eleven years.”

Paloma said, “Why?”

“Why give every knot a number? Much less confusion because a lot of knots have more than one name. And some knots are bad—wrong for certain jobs.
ABOK
explains everything.”

Everyone stared at Lincoln. Paloma nudged Lucky with her foot and widened her eyes:
You didn’t mention that he was so…unusual
. Lucky gave a slight shrug in response:
What can I tell you? Lincoln is Lincoln
. Mrs. Wellborne said, “Could you show me number 2361?” and held out the two ends of her scarf. Lincoln tied them in a loose knot that seemed easy but would be difficult, Lucky supposed, to remember later. Tied that way, the scarf looked quite elegant.

Lincoln and Mrs. Wellborne smiled at each other. This was not going the way Lucky had imagined. Shy, untalkative Lincoln seemed to have been taken over by an alien. “So is that rope in your bag? Are you making something?” Mrs. Wellborne asked him.

Lucky waited to see if Lincoln would tell the secret of what he was making for the contest. If it turned out to be a fishing net, she knew they would all realize how deeply weird he really was.

“Lincoln’s mother thinks he’s going to be the president of the United States when he grows up,” Lucky said quickly. Lincoln hated to explain why his mother had named him Lincoln Clinton Carter Kennedy.

“Well, anything’s possible in America,” said Mrs. Wellborne. “Don’t you think so, Brigitte?”

Brigitte laughed. “I tell you a little story about why I love to live here. When I first arrive in California, I see the sign on the highway, ‘Soft Shoulder.’ I think this is a very beautiful thing for a road sign to say: ‘soft shoulder.’”

Mrs. Wellborne laughed and nodded.

“We do not have any like it in France, and I am curious. Later I learn it means the side of the road is too sandy and your car can get stuck. So ‘soft shoulder’ is a practical warning, but sweet. Like a small poem. It is a romantic way to see the world, just like to believe anything is possible.” She shrugged. “Before, when I live in France, I believe
not
everything is possible. Never do I imagine that one day I will go to a little town in the middle of this big California desert or that, even working very hard, I can start my own business.”

Lucky listened with some amazement. Usually Brigitte didn’t share those kinds of private thoughts with someone she’d just met. The two moms must have really bonded because of those phone calls.

“And,” Brigitte continued, “certainly never do I dream that the girl waiting inside a water tank house will later be my daughter. So now that I am almost American, I see out of my almost-American eyes that it is true: Anything
can
be possible. And if Lincoln does become president, he will be a very great one.”

Well, thought Lucky, seeing Lincoln’s ear tips turn pink, that finally shut
him
up. At the same time, “soft shoulder” gave her cheek a sudden strong longing to rub itself against her first mother’s smooth, cool shoulder. Thinking about this made Lucky’s heart feel tender and sore for a moment, like when you poke a deep bruise that is still healing. Then a slender arm encircled her, Brigitte’s hand strong and firm on Lucky’s own shoulder.

“But that boy who lied when you were little, why didn’t you just bite
his
earlobes?” Miles asked. Everyone but Lucky, Lincoln, and Mrs. Wellborne looked puzzled. Lucky held her breath.

Mrs. Wellborne laughed again, throwing her head back and showing perfect, white, even teeth. “I miss that age,” she said to Brigitte. “When they come up with such off-the-wall remarks.” She winked at Miles.

Relief poured through Lucky’s arteries like a flash flood. “Hey, Miles,” she said, to keep him from pursuing this question, which she knew he would otherwise do. “How is
Brain Surgery for Beginners
?”

Miles eagerly pulled the book out of its Buy-Mor-Store plastic bag. He sat on the bag to keep it from blowing away. “This is the best book I ever read, so far,” he said. “Lincoln and Lucky are helping me with the hard words. I found out that you can poke or squeeze a brain—it’s true, it says so in the book—and it won’t feel a thing. The brain,” he explained, “depends on the skin to feel things.”

Lucky noticed out of the corner of her eye that Paloma was about to go on a laughing jag again, so she closed her eyes, hoping for something to happen that would get the Wellbornes back in their Hummer, Lincoln and Miles back to their own houses, and herself and Paloma to the privacy of her canned-ham trailer.

Lucky said the first thing that popped into her mind. “Miles has been diagnosed as a genius.”

“Diagnosed is the wrong word,” Miles said, frowning. “That’s for a disease.”

“A genius!” Mrs. Wellborne said. “How nice! Your mother must be very proud of you.”

“Well, she
would
be,” Miles said, “but she’s in j—”

“Look!” Lucky interrupted, before Miles could explain that his mother was in jail. Mr. Wellborne was tearing out of the kitchen trailer. “Mr. Wellborne is in a really big hurry!”

Jangling his keys as he started toward them, Mr. Wellborne said, “Brigitte, Lucky, appreciate the hospitality. Carmen, we have to get to a land line, right now, the one at the hotel in Sierra City. I got calls coming in, my lawyer and a couple producers in Honolulu. Lining up a pretty sweet deal.” He turned to Paloma. “Baby, have fun,” he said, and kissed the tip of her nose. Mr. Wellborne, who had Paloma’s curly black eyelashes and droopy eyes, now looked much happier than when he’d arrived. Lucky smiled at Paloma sideways, so anyone paying attention would have thought she was smiling at Mr. Wellborne for lining up a pretty sweet deal. Paloma smiled sideways back at her.

“But—,” Miles began.

“Miles,” interrupted Lucky, standing up. “What time is the party on Sunday?” She already knew, but asked in order to distract him.

“Oh, yeah!” Miles said. “It’s at four o’clock. You can come to our birthday party,” he added to the Wellbornes. “Everyone in Hard Pan is coming, and it’s at Short Sammy’s water tank house because I’ll be six and the next day Lucky’ll be eleven. But we have a rule,” he said seriously to Mrs. Wellborne, “that there is no earlobe-biting allowed. You have to be nice to boys.”

Mrs. Wellborne laughed. “Absolutely,” she said. Miles agreed happily when she told him she wanted to hear more about brain surgery later. “Brigitte, thank you and
merci beau-coup
, excuse my accent. The party sounds fun—we’ll come if it’s really okay. Then we’ll see you at around four o’clock on
Sunday.” She hugged Paloma. “Be good, sweetie. Don’t forget your repellant and sunscreen and try to keep out of the sun. Don’t wander off or go anywhere without letting Brigitte know where you are. And please, Paloma, remember to use good judgment!” Turning to Lucky, she added, “I know you’ll be a fine influence, Lucky dear. You seem so mature for your age.”

“Carmen,” said Mr. Wellborne. “Gotta go.”

“Okay! Don’t worry!” Paloma called as her parents hurried to the Hummer.

Lincoln jumped up suddenly. “Mr. Wellborne, your cell!” he said, and strode to the car with it, and then held Mrs. Wellborne’s purse while Mr. Wellborne helped her climb up the high step into the Hummer. Lucky ground her teeth.
Go
, she thought.

Lincoln said, “What’s the ground clearance?”

“Sixteen inches,” Mr. Wellborne answered. “Clears most terrain. Of course the H1 Alpha can ford thirty inches of water—it’s got a central venting system to protect the drivetrain.”

Lucky didn’t have the faintest idea what this meant.

“Man,” said Lincoln admiringly. “Five-speed?”

Mr. Wellborne nodded. Suddenly he wasn’t in such a hurry. “Plus tow mode.”

“Well,” Lucky called loudly. “Bye! Hope your sweet deal works out!”

Brigitte frowned at her. When Lucky was only being polite!

“Best part is the agility,” Mr. Wellborne went on, as if he
were a car salesman and not someone with calls waiting in Sierra City. “Would you believe an approach angle of seventy-two degrees?”

Lincoln smiled and shook his head. “Like climbing a wall, almost,” he said.

“Scale a sixty percent slope,” Mr. Wellborne added.

“Conference call?” said Mrs. Wellborne, winking at Lincoln.

“Right.” Mr. Wellborne walked around to the driver’s side. “I’ll take you out in it one of these days,” he told Lincoln. “Show you how it handles.”

Lincoln grinned. “I’ll be here,” he said.

The Wellbornes waved, and then the tinted windows slid up and the huge vehicle took off, leaving behind a brown trail of road dust and the smell of diesel. Lucky sighed, thinking how strange it was that both Miles and Lincoln,
of all people
, had made a fabulous impression on the Wellbornes. The world can be a very mysterious place.

Finding out the exact (or almost exact) location of the Lost Brooch Well had been a lot easier than Lucky imagined.

She had simply asked the Captain straight out, when she ran into him outside the post office, figuring he would answer in that direct, thorough way of his, as if she were an adult. She was right: He picked up a stick and made a big angular arm shape in the gravelly sand. “Okay, here’s California,” he said, and she laughed. Then he drew the low hills that marked the northern boundary of Hard Pan, little upside-down
V
’s, his house with its observation tower, and the post office. “You are here,” he said, making an
X
.

He dragged the stick to show the direction to the well. There were abandoned miners’ dug-outs and mines to mark the way. “You can do it in five minutes in a dune buggy,”
he said, which showed that he didn’t suspect Lucky herself was planning to go there, even though that meant it was about a thirty-minute walk. He didn’t even ask why she wanted to know, or warn her not to fool around at the well, or give her any advice. For an adult, the Captain was a very refreshing person.

Of course she’d worried about the problem of Lincoln and Miles wanting to tag along. But Miles, fortunately, was preoccupied with plans all over town for the party, and Dot was using Lincoln’s knot-tying skills to “festivate” Short Sammy’s water tank house with decorations.

Lucky and Paloma had helped with the lunch crowd at the Café on Saturday, and in the afternoon they’d hung out at the museum, checked out the broken-down cart at Dot’s, and finished their homework. And since Monday was Lucky’s birthday, Brigitte gave her Sunday off. She hired Sandi—who had worked as a waitress before she became the school bus driver—to help at the Café. The wonderful coincidence of this, getting a bus driver to bus tables, struck Lucky as a good omen. And she had been filled with gratitude that in spite of Brigitte’s many flaws, such as being too French and acting weird about burros, she had understood the supreme importance of allowing Lucky a whole day to spend with Paloma.

Sunday morning, curled in her sleeping bag on the floor, Lucky woke and craned her neck around; she looked up into Paloma’s deep blue eyes peering down at her from the bed. “You know,” Paloma said, as if they were in the middle of a conversation,
“tomorrow’s your real birthday, which, I won’t be here, so I’m declaring today ‘Lucky’s Birthday Observed.’”

Lucky grinned and flopped over onto her back.
This
is what having a best girlfriend was about.

“And here is your present from me, which, it’s so you won’t get lost in the desert.”

It was a small brass compass with a hinged lid. It looked brand-new but very elegant and old-fashioned. Lucky slowly rotated the compass until the
N
was in line with the sensitive, trembling needle. “Wow, Paloma, I bet Charles Darwin had one just like this!”

Paloma looked pleased and said, “Well, I wasn’t sure, which, my dad thought you’d rather have a GPS.”

Lucky thought of
her
father, who never observed her birthdays at all. As usual, this made a needle of longing swing around and point straight at her heart; it was a longing to understand why he did not love her. She held the cool metal of the compass to her check and sniffed the new-brass smell. “No,” she said to Paloma. “This compass is another way that Charles Darwin and I are alike. I’ll never get lost because of you. And it is so cool that you were right and your dad was wrong. My father,” she added—she never thought of him as “Dad”—“is wrong a lot.” Then she didn’t want to explain, so she jumped up and opened the portal windows, and sunlight streamed in along with a little breeze that made them both want to be outside.

They were starving. Lucky scrambled eggs with tomatoes and rolled them into warm corn tortillas, which they scarfed
down at a Café table. Brigitte, still in her T-shirt nightgown and bare feet, brought orange juice along with a kiss for both cheeks of each girl. In France, Lucky knew, you are supposed to kiss back, but she always found this too embarrassing so she just let herself be kissed and left it at that.

Lucky and Paloma’s plans for the morning, decided upon in private the night before, were to hike down to the old cemetery to look at fancy headstones from when Hard Pan was a booming mining town; have a picnic lunch on the museum’s shady patio; stay away from the Café so they wouldn’t get roped into helping after all; stay away from Short Sammy’s, ditto; and, later, to do something intrepid.

So after the picnic, when Lucky was pretty sure there would be no remaining customers at the Café, they headed back home to round up supplies for their next adventure. They passed an old, dusty, dented Camry heading the other way. It was Sandi, apparently finished with busing tables at the Café. Lucky found it extremely strange to see her in anything other than the school bus, where, back when Lucky was in kindergarten, she believed that Sandi lived her whole life.

Brigitte was in the kitchen trailer, and cupcake tins covered every surface. “You and Paloma should arrive to Short Sammy’s early,” she said as she spread frosting on row after row of cupcakes. With a small plastic spatula, she slapped the soft chocolate on each little cake in a quick, neat, professional way. “Do these look right?” she asked.

“Perfect,” said Paloma.

“We should taste one to be sure,” said Lucky. Paloma’s lips came apart and her smile beamed out.

“Yes, I make a few extras in case of this,” Brigitte said. She cut a cupcake in two and gave each girl a half, breaking a small piece off for herself.

“Yum,” Paloma said, and slid her eyes sideways at Lucky. This made Lucky realize how funny the word “yum” can be in certain situations, such as right then. Lucky knew she could burst out laughing very, very easily over “yum” and “yummy,” and she squeezed her eyes tight shut, swallowed, and without looking at Paloma, said, “Very yum.”

Paloma snorted and choked a little to keep from laughing. Pretty soon, Lucky knew, they wouldn’t be able to control how funny everything was.

Brigitte looked closely at Lucky, smiling and frowning at the same time. She smoothed Lucky’s garden-hedge hair back from her forehead. “Remember what I tell you before, Lucky, about trouble. This is important.”

“I know,” said Lucky, slipping on her backpack. “I’ll remember.”

Brigitte turned to Paloma and stroked her cheek with the backs of her fingers. “And you,
petit oiseau
, you will help Lucky to stay away from trouble?” Brigitte called Paloma “little bird” because of her name meaning dove.

“Sure! Which, I hope my mom won’t call, but if she does,
you can tell her I took my vitamins and I put on loads of sunscreen, okay?”

But the second Lucky and Paloma jumped the steps of the trailer and ran toward the dry wash, they had completely forgotten whatever it was that Brigitte had been talking about.