A Whole Lot of Lucky Read Free Page A

eyes and shook her head as she reached for the phone, but not before giving me a quick hug. Poor Mom. You’d think when you’re an adult you’d be done with getting in trouble.
    Speaking of trouble, as I rode up to the bike area outside the school, there they stood, Megan and Drew, leaning against the light post. They were on me like mosquitoes.
    â€œReally?” Megan said in that superior voice of hers. “Wearing a skirt on
that
bike?”
    â€œOh, my God,” Drew said, and they laughed.
    Becca Singer shot me a look of sympathy before she scooted out of target range.
    Heat crawled up my neck, but I walked on by. They followed me into the pen and I pretended like they weren’t there, which was supposed to discourage them but never did. I took a deep breath and bent down to lock up my bike.
    Megan’s feet pranced closer to me. “You’re wearing Amanda’s skirt!”
    I whirled around. “No, I’m not!”
    â€œYou’re right—she is!” Drew said to Megan.
    I stood and threw my fists down, arms rigid at my side. “I am not!”
    Megan started laughing and turned to Drew. “The A—”
    â€œA for Amanda! You did it when we dressed out at gym!” Drew cracked up too much to say anything else.
    I couldn’t help it; I glanced at the skirt but didn’t see anything. Then, feeling better, I smoothed the skirt down the seams and that’s when I spotted it: a spiky red A inked in near the hem. Pings of heat fired off all over my face, even in my eyeballs.
    Megan put one hand on her hip. “Told ya!”
    â€œThe least she could do is wash things before she wears them,” Drew said.
    Megan threw her head back with a wide-open laugh.
    Somewhere between elementary school and middle school, Megan got popular. She’s pretty but not superpretty, though she does wear cool clothes and I guarantee they’re not from picked-over bins at the thrift store. She’snot the smartest or the fastest or the funniest, and she’s
definitely
not the nicest. How does a person like that get to be popular? Let me know if you figure it out, because I sure haven’t.
    Megan linked her arm through Drew’s and they strolled away, sniggering.
    A couple of other kids overheard everything. From the sides of their eyes, they searched for the red A. Instead of slinging my backpack onto my shoulder, I let it hang from my elbow. The heavy books inside banged against my thigh as I marched past the rubberneckers, but there was no way I was walking around with Megan’s A for all to see.
    I searched the sidewalk and then the courtyard for Amanda. The first bell rang, which had the same effect as a traffic light turning yellow. Some people sped up, but others screeched to a stop. These would be your popular people. They thought they owned the halls, standing in circles, forcing the rest of us to flow around them. I squeezed past the first blockage, got pushed against a locker, then picked up by the current, which floated me down the hall and deposited me at my first-period classroom: social studies.
    Amanda sat at a desk with her legs crossed, pretending to look for something in her folder. This is a tactic we both used when we didn’t have anyone to talk with and didn’t want to look like losers.
    â€œAmanda,” I said as I took the seat next to her,“look.” I tapped the side of the skirt and told her the whole story.
    As I spoke, her shoulders sagged and her mouth pinched together like a clam’s. She started shaking her foot. The more I talked, the harder that foot bounced. Finally, she said, “I told you I didn’t want you borrowing my clothes anymore.”
    â€œYou never said that!”
    â€œWell, it should’ve been obvious,” she said. “Besides, I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”
    My mouth dropped open.
    â€œThis is so embarrassing.” She put her head on her desk. Her