Lucky Breaks Read online

  lucky breaks

  Also by Susan Patron

  The Higher Power of Lucky

  Maybe Yes, Maybe No, Maybe Maybe

  Atheneum Books for Young Readers

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, New York 10020

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Illustrations copyright © 2009 by Matt Phelan

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  CIP data for this book is available from the Library of Congress.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4391-6376-4

  ISBN-10: 1-4391-6376-6

  Visit us on the World Wide Web:

  http://www.SimonSays.com

  For René, toujours

  contents

  1. a broken brooch

  2. a secret

  3. delicious little animals

  4. paloma

  5. tomorrow’s specialty

  6. learn to swim at home

  7. a plan

  8. short sammy’s box

  9. s’mores

  10. big, big wishes

  11. hard pan astronomy

  12. fifty individual birthday cakes

  13. a decision to trust

  14. chesterfield

  15. danger

  16. a jackhammer

  17. a good impression

  18. anything is possible

  19. a pretty sweet deal

  20. trouble

  21. intrepid

  22. nothing’s going to happen

  23. alone

  24. a mummy

  25. a dangerous world

  26. an old tire rim

  27. lincoln’s net

  28. two-strand knots

  29. something happened to lucky

  30. safe

  31. a goofy smile

  32. lincoln and paloma

  33. one way to see stars in l.a.

  1. a broken brooch

  Eleven, Lucky thought from her seat at the back of the school bus, eleven, eleven, eleven, and the idea of it, the sound of it, threw off sparks in her head. You start with one, two, three: those clunky one-syllable beginner-ages like wooden blocks that toddlers play with. Keep going and you get to eight, nine, ten: the plodding steps you have to climb until, at last, you arrive. Finally, finally, you reach the best age, the one that, when you say it out loud, sounds like a little tap dance or a drumroll.

  And now Lucky was almost there, about to turn eleven, a dazzling change. Not the thud of ten, but flouncy e-lev-en, with its sophisticated three syllables. Write it as numerals and you have a pair of ones, side by side; a fearless two-part beginning, the door to becoming a teenager. She pictured 11 as a swinging double door, a saloon door in an old Western; you push the sides open, bam, with both hands and stride through before they flap shut again, your childhood behind you. And her secret 11: the two straps of Lucky’s brand-new bra, her first.

  As the whole miraculousness of eleven sparked in Lucky’s brain, the big bus with its three passengers in the very back seat jolted along the highway toward Sierra City; it was the last day of the first week of school. Lincoln, smelling of pencil lead, frowned over a complicated, much-creased diagram; it looked like the pattern for an intricate weaving of some kind and was accompanied by numbers and letters of different colors. Lincoln didn’t seem to have changed when he turned eleven half a year ago; he still tied knots, always practicing and learning new ones. Miles, by the window, clutched a bubble-wrapped object in his small, grimy hands.

  “Lucky,” Miles said, leaning forward to peer around Lincoln’s diagram, “look at my show-and-tell. It’s a wing!”

  Lincoln raised his paper without taking his eyes off it, allowing Lucky to reach across for the object. But Miles jerked back. “Nobody can touch it,” he said, “because it’s from the Found Object Wind Chime Museum, and Short Sammy said I should borrow it because my only other show-and-tell was a piece of vacuum hose, but I had to promise no one would touch it, even Miss B.”

  “Well, I can’t really see it, Miles. You’ve got it all covered up with bubble wrap.”

  “Yeah, so I’ll do the ‘tell’ part now and the ‘show’ part when the bus stops, and you can look close but you still can’t touch it.”

  Lucky knew that Miles took his responsibilities very seriously, for a five-going-on-six-year-old. “Okay,” she agreed.

  “Okay,” Miles echoed happily, settling back into his seat, cradling his object.

  After a minute, Lincoln folded his diagram and said, “So what is the ‘tell’ part? What did you mean, that it’s a wing?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Miles said. “It’s part of a brooch that got shot in half by a miner called Burro Bob about a hundred years ago. You probably don’t know what a brooch is. It’s a pin.”

  “A pin?” Lucky asked.

  “Yeah, like jewelry. Ladies wear them on their”—Miles’s cheeks suddenly turned deep red—“here.” He pointed a dirty-looking finger at his chest. “So this woman, her name was Paloma, got killed by a bullet right in her heart. She got fought over by two miners, Burro Bob and his partner, Frank the Fuse. Anyway, her name means ‘dove’ in Spanish, and that’s why Burro Bob made the pin in the shape of a dove. He made it out of garnets and quartz and some other thing, I think amnesia, all from mines around Hard Pan.”

  One corner of Lincoln’s mouth twitched at the word “amnesia,” a tiny smile Lucky knew was meant for her, but not Miles, to see.

  “And Bob and his burro were digging this well for water, only they never found any. But Frank tried to take Paloma for himself, so Bob plugged him”—Miles formed his hand as if it were a gun, aimed at the front of the bus, pulled the trigger, made the sound of a gunshot, and fell back in his seat from the recoil—“but somehow the bullet got Paloma instead.” Miles jumped up to enact the part of the wounded Paloma, making agonized death sounds while clutching his chest to stop the bleeding.

  “Get back in your seat, Miles!” Sandi the bus driver shouted from the front.

  Miles slid onto his seat, still dying. “I am in my seat!” he shouted back.

  “So,” said Lucky, “she died?”

  “Yeah. The bullet went right through the brooch and got her in the heart. It broke the pin in two. Sammy says the piece they found”—Miles held up the wrapped object—“is the wing of the dove, and the rest of the brooch is at the bottom of the well, which was—what’s it called when they give up and quit working, like at a mine, and close it?”

  “Abandoned,” Lincoln said. “Or condemned.”

  “Yeah, abandoned.” Miles carefully slid the bubble-wrap-covered pin into an empty plastic Band-Aid box, snapping the lid shut. “Burro Bob and Frank the Fuse disappeared and never got caught, but Short Sammy says lots of people have tried to find the rest of the dove brooch, its head and stuff, by climbing down into the old well.”

  “Abandoned or condemned,” Lucky repeated softly, thinking how sad those words sounded, how lonely. They could be words about wells, and they could also be words about people.

  “They should seal up those old wells,” Lincoln said, gazing out the window. “They’re dangerous.” His mother had named him Lincoln Clinton Carter Kennedy because she wanted him to grow up to be the president of the United States. Lucky noticed that he often looked and sounded like a future president, grave and serious and diplomatic. She remembered when they were only seven and she teased him to make him ch
ase her, then tripped and fell smack on her chin. The bright red gush of her own blood on the ground scared her. Lincoln had yanked off his T-shirt and pressed it hard against her chin. “Stay put and keep pressing,” he’d said before going for help, already talking in that presidential way. And Lucky ended up with a little three-stitch scar on the underside of her chin, a scar like a tiny upside-down L.

  Miles looked at them. “Anyway,” he said. “There’s bloody murder and no kissing, so it’s a good show-and-tell story.”

  When they got off the bus, they piled their backpacks on a bench and Miles opened his Band-Aid box, slid the bubble wrap out, and very carefully unrolled it. Lucky, more interested in the museum’s bugs and birds, had never noticed the little piece of jewelry. She bent over the mosaic of gems, bordered by a band of silver in a wing shape, intricate and beautiful.

  “Wow,” Lucky said as Miles rewrapped the pin and put it back into the box. “I wish we could see the rest of the brooch. Imagine the glory if we found it ourselves.”

  Lincoln frowned. “Don’t even think about it,” he said.

  “Yeah,” Miles said, the worry about the dangerousness of abandoned wells on his face. “Forget about it, Lucky.”

  But Lucky was considering how, when you’re eleven, you’re interested in love and murder, blood and glory and kissing, things that are precious and fragile, things that are abandoned or condemned. Because eleven is much more intrepid than only ten.

  2. a secret

  “Lincoln,” Brigitte said in her tired-feet voice from inside the kitchen trailer. “First, push that little stool over here so I can get my feet up. Then you will tell me what is this big knot project that you carry everywhere in the black sack.”

  Just outside, squatting in the wedge of shade cast by an A-frame sign, Lucky listened through the open windows. In a cheerful welcoming curlicue way the sign’s bright red letters said:

  Brigitte’s Hard Pan Café

  Open for

  Lunch/Dejeuner

  Sat–Sun & Holidays

  So before the weekend when she would be busy helping Brigitte, Lucky was searching for worms on a row of potted tomato plants that bordered the little cluster of Café tables and chairs. Part keen-eyed hunter, part keen-eared listener, she, too, wondered about Lincoln’s secret project, which he carried slung over his shoulder in a big Santa Clausy sack. Except Santa didn’t carry his stuff in an extra-large, heavy-duty black plastic trash bag the way Lincoln did.

  “It’s for a contest,” Lincoln said, “of the International Guild of Knot Tyers.”

  Lucky already knew that much. She herself had tried to pry the secret of what the thing actually was out of Lincoln, but he wouldn’t tell. Lucky had her own private theory about it but hoped she was wrong. Lincoln had a doofus-dorky side that was kind of sweet, but there were limits. She couldn’t believe that he would spend weeks making a fishing net. Not in the middle of the Mojave Desert, where there wasn’t an ocean for zillions of miles around. However, each time Lucky had stolen a glimpse of the thing in the black plastic trash bag, it had always looked exactly like…a fishing net.

  Lucky examined the underside of a large stem, sniffing its unripe-tomato smell.

  Lucky would have liked to probe into the compartment of Lincoln’s brain where he kept his secrets, using one of those special scientific-medical instruments that have a teeny tiny camera on the very end. In some ways she felt that she already knew quite a lot of what was in his brain, but lately he’d become sort of different—not older, exactly, but a little bit more reserved. Without knowing exactly why, Lucky worried about this slight and gradual change in Lincoln, and she hated not knowing the particular secret about whatever he was making for the knot contest.

  At least she did know the secret of tomato worms, which is camouflage. Since they are exactly the same color green as tomato leaves and stems, and since their bodies have little angular notches to resemble branches, they look just like part of the tomato plant and are hard to see. Lucky understood about creatures blending in with their habitat because she herself had skin, eyes, and hair exactly the color of the sand and rocks of Hard Pan, California, where she lived. But she had seen the all-time best example of an animal camouflaging itself on a program recently: caterpillars in Japan that looked exactly like bird droppings! Lucky pictured the whole thing: the predators going, “Eww, don’t eat those—they’re bird droppings!” while the caterpillars lie around laughing. Her hero, Charles Darwin, had been dead for way over a hundred years, but she knew he’d love the caterpillar story, and she held a little conversation with him in her mind, telling him the whole thing.

  Her worm-hunting technique had to do with the fact that tomato worms go to the bathroom just like everyone else. So she put white paper on the soil underneath where branches stuck out from the barrel. Eventually little black dots appeared on the paper, which meant there was a tomato worm directly above. The black dots were his droppings. So then you made your eyes travel all along every branch and leaf above those black dots, very carefully and thoroughly, especially on the underneath sides—and sooner or later, if you were patient, you’d spot the worm.

  As Lucky searched, she heard Brigitte say from inside the kitchen trailer, “And if you are winning that contest, then perhaps you will go to the headquarters in England for the big convention of the Knot Tyers?”

  “Well,” Lincoln said, “yeah, but it’s even better than that. I’d go to England, and one guy who’s been helping me, Mr. Budworth, he’s the best knot tyer alive—he’s written more than a dozen books on knotting—he and his wife offered to put me up for the summer, that’s how they say it over there, ‘We’ll put you up,’ so I’d have a place to stay for free. Mr. Budworth knows everything; he knows the entire history of knots, and how the same knot will show up in different countries. He says I could help him with Knotting Matters, which is even more cool than Knot News; it’s got articles and stories by knotters from all over the world. Going to England is really why I want to win the contest. My dad says if I do win, he’ll pay for the plane ticket. Plus—” Lincoln broke off.

  “Plus what?” Brigitte asked.

  “Well, Mrs. Budworth wants me to stay on with them and go to school in England for a year. She says I need much more challenge than I’m getting here, and she thinks I’d love the school where their own kids went.”

  A bad feeling came over Lucky. The thought of Lincoln being gone next year, or even just for the summer, made her stop hunting worms and sit back on the ground, not caring about getting the seat of her jeans gritty. Lincoln would become this contest-winning world traveler, meeting all sorts of interesting people, living in a real city with the most famous knot-man in the world, probably skipping a grade when he finally came back home because he’d be so far ahead of everyone here. And Lucky herself would be…abandoned. And condemned; condemned to a bleak, lonely life, without—without any other person her own age in Hard Pan.

  And that was when a thought like a gas bubble in the La Brea Tar Pits seeped up, murky and foul. The thought had to do with Lincoln somehow not winning that contest. It came from Lucky’s anxiety gland, which could get overactive. She forced herself to concentrate on tomato worms.

  Inside, Brigitte and Lincoln had begun to discuss food. Lucky knew that a bunch of geologists had made a reservation at the Café for lunch on Saturday, and Brigitte had told Lincoln about the soups and salads and sandwiches on her menu. She’d just asked Lincoln if there were something else he thought geologists would like.

  “Hamburgers,” said Lincoln.

  “Ah, non,” Brigitte said, but not in her tired-feet voice. This was her I-won’t-change-my-mind voice. “They can get their hamburgers anyplace. The Hard Pan Café does not have them. The Café is a little bit Californian, but also it is a little bit French, and that is why people like to come. But never, never, never do I cook the hamburger.”

  They had had this conversation before. There were even a bunch of Hard Pan advisers helping Brigi
tte with her studies to become an American citizen. She wanted, she said, to learn the kinds of things that they don’t have on the test, things that would make her more like a real Californian. The advisors included Lincoln, Lucky, Miles, Short Sammy, Dot, the Captain, and actually just about all forty-three residents of Hard Pan. Most of them had told Brigitte, in addition to other tips, that she should serve hamburgers at the Café. So Brigitte practiced making the th sound, which she said was very hard for people with French tongues, and she tried to understand the rules of baseball, and she learned how to turn avocados into guacamole. But to hamburgers on her menu, she always firmly said non.

  3. delicious little animals

  Lucky spotted a worm, a big soft fat one. The word for not wanting to touch a big soft fat worm is squeamish, which has a built-in sound of exactly the feeling in your fingers as they reach for that worm. Being, like Charles Darwin, a scientist, Lucky un-squeamished her fingers. Worms grasp their branch strongly, so you have to get a really firm grip on their bodies in order to pry them off.

  She didn’t kill the worms, first because they were gooshy and mushy and she did not want to see them bleed; second because she was fine with protecting the tomatoes from them but at the same time she was not a cold-blooded worm murderer; and third because she was saving them in a jar as a present for the Captain’s chickens. Most of the old LUSCIOUS TOMATOES label was still on the jar, so in a funny way it was exactly right for a temporary tomato worm home.