A Whole Lot of Lucky Read Online Free Page B

and she chases it with her hand.
    â€œYes, I’m listening to you,” I say, making a Cheerio tower. Libby knocks it down and eats the pieces.
    â€œYou’ve got to take these things seriously.”
    My honor roll ribbons flutter as Mom opens the refrigerator for ingredients. A handprint I painted in third grade is held to the freezer part with magnets. I used fluorescent paint and silver glitter and filled every square inch with color. Even though the corners are curling, Mom keeps it up there. She thinks it’s pretty.
    â€œMom?”
    She lays down the cleaver. “Yes?”
    â€œI need a new bike.” I push Libby’s Cheerios around so I don’t have to see Mom’s reaction.
    At first, she doesn’t say a thing, just picks up the cleaver and starts chopping again. Then, in an even voice, she says, “We need a lot of things around here. Go upstairs and do your homework.”
    I didn’t have my snack yet, but I know better than to argue with her after hearing that tone of voice.
    My pale pink walls don’t cheer me up as much as they usually do. I toss my backpack to the floor and lie on my bed, staring at the popcorn ceiling and the one cobweb in the corner I keep forgetting to knock down. The more I don’t clean it up, the worse it gets. It’s grown an extra tentacle since the weekend.
    Below it, my memo board is so loaded with pictures, you can’t even see the quilted purple fabric underneath. When I get new pictures, I stick them right over the old ones. Sometimes, I pick a spot and slide off the top picture, and then the next, and then the next one after that. It’s like going back through time. There’s even a picture of Amanda and me in diapers, playing together. I keep that one buried, but I know exactly where it is.
    I hate being in fights with people. Today I’ve had three: Amanda, Mom, and you have to count my dad, too, because in about two hours, he’s going to hear all about it.
    I roll onto my side. The swamp maple that’s as tall as our house waves its cheery red leaves at me. The branches stretch across my window, sometimes holding a squirrel or a bird for me to get a good, up-close look. Peoplealways talk about fall colors—that’s a northern idea. Sometimes, the truth of a thing depends on where you’re looking at it from. For instance, in Florida, red leaves pop from our maples around Valentine’s Day. I ask you, could that be any more perfect?
    Also, birds don’t fly south for the winter; they fly north for the summer. This has nothing to do with my cheery maple, but I just thought I’d mention it.
    * * *
    Mom shouts from downstairs she’s taking Libby out in the stroller. Her voice has forgotten she was mad at me. Still, I answer back without opening my door.
    I’ve finished my decimal multiplication homework. I read chapter twenty-three in social studies. I answered questions one through thirty (odd numbers only) in science. All that’s left is PE, which of course there’s no homework for; language arts; and Family Science, which is really home ec but they changed the name so it wouldn’t sound old-fashioned and so boys would take it.
    As I wrangle with my backpack trying to fit everything back in, a shred of lined notebook paper floats out. I know what it is without looking, but I pick it up anyway. Amanda’s bubblegum print, fat and happy with hearts over the i’s.
Can you still spend the night Friday? My mom will get doughnuts!
    I’ve spent so many Friday nights at her house that Idon’t remember which one this note is talking about, but when I read the words, I hear Amanda’s voice in my head. I would like to point out, before I go any further, that I had been thinking about Amanda earlier, so it wasn’t seeing the note that made me get the phone and punch in her number.
    Her phone rings and rings and rings. I hang up and dial again. Then I hang up and