Chapter 6: Rob

Through the night and in school on Tuesday, all I could think about was how I was going to get Art’s key without telling him I wanted it. Finally, we were at lunch and I was down to the wire. Laura needed the key in less than an hour and I still didn’t have it. All I could think about was that Art was wearing a pair of tight yellow pants that contrasted terribly with the orange tiles and general décor of the lunchroom.

Art loved those yellow pants, and thought they showed off his unique sense of style perfectly. I thought they were as terrible as the orange tiled and painted lunchroom itself. I suppose at some point in time that color orange must have been in style for decoration. But at this point, the only thing it did was make the food taste better in comparison. And no, school lunch at St. James Academy is not good. It’s probably lots better than most schools, but it’s still school lunch. The corn was still too sweet. The hamburger buns were stale. And the carrot sticks were rubbery.

Trudy and Art don’t talk much on any occasion, but they were really quiet today. It made me wonder what Art had done lately to annoy her.

“The soccer team is awfully lucky this year. Everyone who plays against them gets injured,” I said. “Not that it’s any different than last year. You’d think after a while that everyone would refuse to play us at all. Even in the Luck League.”

“Probably something about proving themselves,” said Trudy.

“Yeah, egos,” said Art.

“Maybe we pay them to play us, and it’s worth it in the end. It does make it boring to watch, though,” I said.

And that was the end of that conversation, which was the third thing I’d tried.

Mabel and Arlee, Trudy’s friends, got up to dump their trays. I like both of them, but they seem intimidated by me and Art so they never talk much at lunch. I have the feeling they’d rather sit on the far end of the lunchroom instead of the middle, but Trudy always motions them over to us. Even with me here to bring down the average, we are probably the luckiest table at the school.

I felt dizzy and breathless at the thought that this time tomorrow Laura might have told everyone the truth about my luck. If I didn’t figure out how to get her Art’s key, Trudy would never have a chance to hear my side of the story. Maybe Laura even had that secret test I’d taken all on my own. My parents, of course, would never have let anyone test me. It would have been insulting to the family to suggest I needed it. But I’d figured it out by the time I was twelve.

The lunchroom has always been an unlucky place for me personally. In elementary school, I remember going to recess dripping food on many occasions after various “accidents.” When I got home, I always made a joke out of it. Mom and Dad bought it for some reason. Dad tried to tell me that being the class clown wasn’t going to do much for me in the long run, in terms of career. As if I didn’t already know that.

But in this case, being the class clown again might just work to get Art’s key.

As Art and I headed over to dump our trays, I let myself slip on the tile floor. It wasn’t hard. Normally I had to work at it to make sure I didn’t slip. This time, I just let the crack in the tile grab me.

I was holding a nearly full container of chocolate milk and it went flying in the air. The results were rather more spectacular than I had intended. For one thing, I cut my face on the way down, my cheek snagging on the bench. Trudy made a sound of strangled surprise.

She ran up to me and helped me to my feet.

I stood and turned back to look at Art’s yellow pants covered in chocolate milk.

Bullseye.

I had ruined his favorite pair of pants, a pair that no one else would ever try to bring off at St. James. And I had done it for Laura Chevely. It made me feel more than a little nauseated.

“Smooth, Rob,” said Art.

“Yeah,” I said. My head was pounding and I could taste the blood at the back of my throat. “I think I need to go to the bathroom to clean up.”

“You and me both,” said Art.

“You sure you’re going to be OK?” asked Trudy. She reached a hand to touch my head.

I stepped back. I could already feel the goose egg rising there and I didn’t want her probing it. It might give her too much information if she felt how big it really was. So I told Trudy I was fine, then followed Art into the bathroom.

He had already taken the pants off and was rinsing. Apparently today was one of the days he had decided to come commando. I think most days were like that. Art didn’t do laundry often. Mostly he waited until he took all his clothes home on our long furlough weekends once a month. His parents lived on Long Island in a huge mansion with tons of servants, so he always came back with all his laundry clean. When I tried to send my clothes out to a service, they came back shrunk or over-bleached, so I had given it up. It wasn’t something I wanted to explain to my parents or anyone else.

“Now how am I supposed to get these dry enough to wear?” asked Art, after he’d rubbed the chocolate milk stains out in a couple of minutes. It would never have been that easy for me. It was almost like the stains wanted to come out for him, because of his luck.

“I guess you’ll have to wear them wet,” I said.

“Only the problem with that is that when wet, they are a little—um—sheer,” said Art, blushing.

“Sheer? That sounds like a word no self-respecting man should know,” I teased, all the while thinking—hurry up, hurry up—this has to finish up quick or Laura will go directly to the principal’s office and make her stupid announcement.

“If your clothes are the example of self-respecting male fashion, I think I will pass,” said Art stolidly. “How many pair of jeans do you have that are that exact same style and color?”

I looked down. “Ten or twelve,” I said. That was what I had figured out was the best way to avoid fashion disasters. Mom thought it was bizarre, but with the same pair of jeans, people didn’t notice how often they got wrecked or dirty. Ditto with all the same shirts.

“Come on,” I said, and waved at his pants. Would he take the offer? If he didn’t, I was going to have to rip them off him. Or something. “Let me trade you. It’s my fault your pants got stained, so I’ll wear them. You can wear my jeans instead. Unless you’d rather wear wet pants?” My jeans weren’t that bad, were they?

Art looked me up and down, dubious.

“We are nearly the same height,” I said.

“I’m a full half-inch taller,” said Art.

“All on the upper half,” I put in.

Art nodded. “It’s the larger head, to hold my enormous brain.”

“To hold your enormous ego, you mean,” I said, and started undoing the fly of my jeans. I handed him my jeans and he shrugged and handed me his yellow pants.

“This is the reason you wear underwear,” I said. The sheer yellow pants would show my tighty wighties, but they wouldn’t show what was under them.

“I guess I’ve depended too long on good luck to keep me safe,” said Art. He sounded too curious. What if he guessed?

My heart was beating loud enough to make my ears throb. What if he grabbed back his pants and took out the key first?

But he didn’t. And as soon as I put his pants on, I could feel the keys in the front pocket, heavy and wet. His pants were cold.

“Don’t let Trudy see you in those,” Art joked, as he tugged up my jeans. We walked out of the bathroom together. I worked hard to walk normally, despite the squelching sensation of Art’s wet pants.

We headed to our lockers, and then the bell rang and Art sprinted off to class. I went to the library to give Laura the key.

Our library at St. James has to be the biggest high school library on the planet. I think I heard that there are one million books in it, and there are ladders all around to climb up to get them. Unfortunately, almost no one ever touches the books. We all have our own laptops for school work and for all our school books. Plus anything you want to read for fun is on ebook now. The labyrinthine sandalwood book shelves of the library are mostly for finding friends and talking to them quietly enough that the librarians don’t hear.

Laura was waiting patiently for me at our old spot behind the shelves of romances, which I once thought was a romantic place to meet but now thought was kind of creepy.

“Nice pants,” she said. “Art’s?”

“It was the only way I could think of to get his key,” I said.

“Ah, the vicissitudes of living without luck,” said Laura.

“Like you care. Why didn’t you get the key yourself, if you’re so lucky?”

She shrugged. “What fun would that have been? Rob, darling, don’t you have any idea why I dated you for so long?”

“Because you loved me?” I said. I knew it had never been that. Even when we were dating, I knew that.

She smirked at that. “I dated you because I wanted to see you cover for your lack of luck as often as possible. You are the most creative unlucky person I have ever met. It’s really extraordinary. It was so much fun and you know I’m all about the fun.”

A sick kind of fun. “Well, I’m glad I’m extraordinary in one way, then,” I said. She had known all along, from the very first? “Tell me I’m not going to regret this. Promise me,” I said, nodding to the key, before I handed it over.

“I promise that Art will never suspect you,” said Laura, and she slid the key out of my hand before I had a chance to think over her words.

They weren’t exactly comforting, were they?

I watched her press the key into a mold of some sort. She handed it back to me and I held her gaze for a long moment. Her eyes seemed to tell me that she was worried about something.

“Laura, I wanted to ask you something. Was I a good boyfriend? I mean, before we broke up? Did I give you cause to be jealous?” I asked.

“Not once,” said Laura. “But I always knew that you were holding something back from me.”

“You mean about the luck,” I said.

“Not just that,” said Laura. “Something else. Your whole self. Your soul. You didn’t trust me. How could you, when you lied about everything to yourself?” She walked off again and I thought a lot about her words.

I needed to learn to tell the truth to everyone. But my whole life had been a lie.

I wished I had been born to parents like Trudy’s. She wouldn’t say anything about them, but I knew she’d grown up without luck and it must have been great. You’d always know your parents really loved you then, no matter what happened later in life.

Art’s pants were dry by the end of the day, and we switched back. His keys were in the pockets, so there was no need for him to ask about that. I was relieved.

I kept thinking about Trudy and the need to tell her the truth. Laura wouldn’t out me at least for a little while, now that I’d caved to her blackmail. But even if I thought Trudy would never find out the truth on her own, I knew I should tell her. I just had to get the courage up. Somehow.

I called her, just because I wanted to hear her voice. I asked if we could get together. I needed to see her and reassure myself that I’d been right to dump Laura for her.

“I can’t,” she said.

“Too much homework?” I asked. “I could just come over and sit quietly while you worked. I swear I wouldn’t bother you.”

“I really need some time alone,” said Trudy. She sounded upset. “Don’t come over to my dorm room unless you call me first. Promise me, Rob.”

I promised her distantly, wondering what in the world was going on. I’d never heard her so panicked. I couldn’t imagine any test worrying her this much, not with her luck.

She said she’d talk to me tomorrow at school, and I reminded myself that if either of us had something to complain about, it was her. I was the one who hadn’t told her the truth yet. But I would. In good time. After this thing with Art and Laura got figured out and I found the right moment.

There was a knock on the door and I answered it, thinking it had to be for my roommate Colin, who was in his room with the music on full blast. But it was Jake, the Student Body Vice President.

“Hey, can I talk to you for a minute, Rob?” he asked. “It’s important.” He looked angry and his words came out clipped.

I steeled myself for the worst. Laura had outed me anyway. Jake was here to ask me to resign as Student Body President so he could step into my position.

“It’s about Trudy,” said Jake.

I let out the breath I’d been holding and stared at him. What about Trudy?

“There are rumors going around and I thought someone who was a friend should be the one to tell you,” said Jake.

“Rumors?” I got out.

“You know the make-out alcove up on the second floor? By academics?” said Jake.

“Yes,” I said. I did not see where this was going. Why did I care about the make-out alcove? What did it have to do with Trudy?

“A bunch of people saw Art up there.”

“So?”

“With Trudy. Yesterday,” said Jake.

“That probably means nothing,” I said, or tried to say. I could barely hear my own words. “They talk to each other sometimes. They’re friends.”

Except they weren’t friends and I knew it. They only spent time together because of me. Or that’s what I’d always thought.

“They were up there for thirty minutes. They were awfully close. A couple of people saw Art kiss her.”

“What? I don’t think so,” I said. But I didn’t recognize my own voice, it was so high. Trudy not wanting me to come over to talk to her—could that mean she wanted to break up with me? Was she in love with Art? All my effort at keeping Laura from telling the truth so I could stay with Trudy and this happens? No way, it couldn’t. But it would be just the sort of thing my bad luck would cause to happen. Was this why Trudy and Art hadn’t talked to each other at lunch? They were hiding this from me? It made a sick kind of sense.

“It’s the make-out area. Why else would they be there?” said Jake.

“Then someone else saw Trudy going into Art’s dorm room last night. She was there for almost two hours,” Jake added.

Two hours? Wait a minute. Last night. I’d called her on the phone to tell her I loved her. But she hung up really quick. She hardly said anything back. Just a couple of murmurs and that she felt the same. Had Art been there the whole time, listening to it and laughing at me? Had she hung up and laughed with him about me? I said to Laura that Trudy wasn’t the jealous type, but it seemed that I was.

“I think you should ask Trudy about it. Make her tell you the truth about what happened,” said Jake. “It shouldn’t come second or third-hand.”

“Fine. I will ask her. I’m sure it’s nothing. I’m sure there’s a good explanation for all of it.” But I wasn’t sure. Not at all.

Jake put up his hands. “Fine, man. I know this must be hard. I’m not trying to make it any worse for you. Just think about it for a while. Talk to her, if you need to. Talk to Art, too. See if you can get the truth from either of them.”

It seemed that maybe I wasn’t the only one who had trouble telling the truth.