MONDAY 7:12AM
Jerry ran four miles, showered, dressed, and was on his way to the Student Center for breakfast when his phone rang.
Busby!
His first instinct was to let it go to voicemail. She slapped and dumped him. What was to be gained by talking to her? But they’d be on the same campus for the next two-plus years. He was going to run in to her from time to time. Better to be mature and talk to her.
“Hey, Buzz.”
“What the hell, Williams? You didn’t wait twenty-four hours before going out with some cheerleader, but apparently that’s not enough, so you decided to destroy my whole family?”
“Slow down, Busby. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Spare me the lies. Sanchez saw you at dinner. She has photos and everything.”
“You broke up with me, Buzz.”
“At the hospital, I was upset. I copped to that. But let’s skip Miss Teen Vogue. Why’d you write that article about Rick?”
“I really have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Right. You have no idea how that story about Rick drinking before his accident ended up in The Underground.”
Jerry was genuinely confused. “Rick was drinking? What story?”
“Do not pretend this isn’t you. You write for The Underground. I saw the story about bad luck. Like you told it to me. And there’s that bit about the parking meters that you would not shut up about.”
Jerry sighed. Sam made it clear not to tell anyone else he was writing for The Underground, but Busby figured it out.
“Yes, Buzz. I wrote those stories. But I swear I don’t know anything about an article on Rick.”
“For your own good, take it down and print a retraction. Daddy’s very protective of the family. When he finds out, I don’t know what he’s going to do.”
“I’m telling you I didn’t write it. I’d be happy to look—”
Busby hung up.
“What a great way to start the day,” Jerry muttered.
He launched The Underground app and found the article. A video attributed to Priya Modi, Class of ’28, showed Rick arguing, leaving a crushed beer can on a car hood, and getting into a pickup truck. The story quoted an anonymous source stating that Rick imbibed multiple beers in the truck before the accident. A copy of the sheriff’s report on the accident accompanied the article.
Jerry never considered who else might be writing for The Underground. They had some genuine talent and real go-getters on staff. He walked the rest of the way to the Student Center in a funk.
Inside, he found Darla waiting for him near the cafeteria entrance. She wore a black blazer over a white blouse, a black skirt just above the knee, and black flats. Her hair was tied back in an elaborate braid. Glasses with oversized frames magnified her green eyes. A string of pearls hung around her neck.
Darla’s eyes lit up when she saw Jerry. She looped her arms and kissed him. She smelled like the candy shop again.
“How is the boy this morning?”
“Much better, now. And you look terrific, like—”
“Like the CEO of a Fortune 500 integrated chemical company that focuses on intelligent solutions and innovative products?”
“That’s exactly what I was going to say.”
Darla winked. “Dress for the job you want.” She fiddled with the collar of his rugby shirt. “On the other hand, do you have a closet full of these?”
“What? I like them.”
Darla patted his chest. “Clearly, I need to take you shopping.”
Jerry wasn’t thrilled with that idea, but no sense in bringing down Darla’s mood. They stepped inside the cafeteria, grabbed trays, and moved down the line. Darla loaded up with eggs, bacon, two slices of toast, and orange juice. Jerry grabbed a banana, a granola bar, and a milk.
“That’s all you’re getting?”
“I’m not that hungry.”
They carried their trays toward the center of the room, where Mike, Talia, and Veronica sat. As Jerry approached their table, a student he didn’t recognize handed Mike some money. Talia handed the guy a plastic bag. He waved and left.
Jerry and Darla took seats at the table across from the three.
Jerry looked at Mike. “Please tell me you’re not dealing pot in the Student Center cafeteria.”
Mike shook his head.
Darla leaned forward and asked in a conspiratorial whisper, “Adderall?”
Mike laughed. “Far from it. Show him, babe.”
Talia held up a plastic bag containing a turquoise blue egg-shaped object.
Darla squinted at the baggie. “You’re selling rabbit’s feet?”
Talia slipped the bag back into her purse. “Yep, bought out the complete inventory. They gave us quite a deal: seventy-five cents a unit. We’re selling them for ten bucks apiece. Jerry’s latest article in The Underground is really driving business.”
“Uh, I don’t write for them. Remember?”
“Sorry, dude.” Mike looped an arm around Talia and squeezed. “I couldn’t keep a secret like that from my business partner.”
Veronica rested her head on Talia’s shoulder. “And a good sister couldn’t keep that secret from me.”
“Great.” Jerry slumped in his seat. “Is there anyone who doesn’t know I’m writing for The Underground?”
“There you are!” a voice behind Jerry shouted.
He turned to see a red-faced Miranda shaking her finger at him. “Miranda, what’s wrong?”
“I get you and Busby are on the outs. But why do you have to ruin my life too?”
“What are you talking about? I told Busby I didn’t write that story about Rick.”
“Who cares about stupid Rick? I’m talking about this.” She thrust her phone in his face. The Underground app was open to a headline that read “Sophomore Writing English Papers for Football Team.”
“Let me see that.” Jerry reached for the phone.
Miranda pulled the phone back. “You don’t need to see it. You already wrote it. Why Jerry? What did I ever do to you?”
“Miranda, honest, it’s not me.”
“Bull. Busby told me you write for The Underground. You knew about the papers. Don’t lie to me.”
“Miranda, please, I’m telling you that’s not my article.”
“If the administration comes down hard on me, it will be ten times worse for you. You think Dmitri’s joking about having relatives in the Russian mob? You’ll see.” Miranda stormed off.
Jerry twisted his head around. Not only were his friends all wide-eyed, but the students at the neighboring tables were staring at him. “The article isn’t mine.”
Talia shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. If she’s really writing papers for the football team, she should get in trouble. The integrity of the university is at stake.”
Jerry narrowed his eyes at her.
“I’m serious, Jerry. Just like the football team, all of us on the cheer squad,” she pointed at Darla and Veronica, “we have to worry about practice, competitions, and travel on top of our classes. Why should the players get a break? Why allow that girl to devalue the degrees we’re all working so hard for?”
Jerry nodded. “You make a good point. But I can’t take credit for the story. It wasn’t me.”
Mike looked at Jerry. “Really?”
“Have I ever lied to you?”
“How about two days ago when you swore you weren’t writing for The Underground?” Veronica crossed her arms.
Jerry’s face burned red. “Yeah, the girl who runs it asked me not to tell anyone.” He pointed at the surrounding tables. “Now everyone knows. All I can do is ask you two,” he glanced at the twins, “to forgive me.”
Veronica shrugged. “I don’t care. I was trying to score debating points.”
“I’m more interested in who this Busby is.” Darla scrunched her nose. “I’ve heard that name before.”
“That’s Jerry’s ex,” Mike clarified.
Darla arched an eyebrow. “Really? Is she the American Girl?”
“Huh?” Confusion covered Mike’s face.
“Darla means the ringtone,” Jerry explained. “Yeah, that’s Buzz.”
“Interesting...I wonder...” Darla tapped her phone, then held it to her ear. “Voicemail? Jerry, turn on your phone.”
“Huh, why?”
Darla widened her eyes, pressed her lips into a thin line with a “just do it” look on her face.
“Okay.” He powered it up.
Darla tapped again. “And She Danced” by The Hooters blared from Jerry’s phone.
“Oh my God, that sounds so old.” Veronica mock shuddered. “Is that the Beatles?”
“I think it’s Glenn Miller.” Talia covered her ears with her hands.
“I can certainly shake the paint off the wall.” Darla hummed the tune. “I’ll accept that.”
Jerry silenced his phone. “Buzz called me this morning and said—”
“She’s regretting letting you go and wants you back?” Darla poked Jerry in the ribs. “Well, she can’t have you.”
“Not exactly.” Jerry recounted Busby’s rant.
“Sounds like someone on The Underground has it on for you. I bet it’s that Sam. She has the worst fashion sense.”
Mike held up a pair of fingers. “Make that two votes for Sam. I never liked her.”
“That’s crazy.” Jerry shook his head. “Sam wouldn’t screw me over. Plus, how would she even be aware of my connections to Busby and Miranda?”
“Dunno.” Mike shrugged.
“But I will ask her right now who wrote the articles. Hopefully, I can get this cleared up before Busby’s dad or Dmitri’s cousins have me whacked.” On his phone, Jerry typed out a message and sent it to Sam’s NeutrinoMail address.
“On a lighter note, we’re doing a test run on the jammer this afternoon.” Mike pointed around the table. “Can I count on everyone’s help?”
Jerry nodded. “I can do it after three-thirty.”
Darla checked her phone. “Three-thirty is good for me. But we have cheer practice at six.”
“We’ll be done way before then,” Mike assured her.
Veronica shook her head. “I’ve got pirate duty this afternoon.”
“Pirate duty?” Mike furrowed his brow.
“Yeah, Captain Morgan promotion. I’m one of the Morganettes.”
“She dresses up like a sexy pirate to encourage guys to get drunk.” Talia pantomimed downing a shot.
“To raise brand awareness of Captain Morgan Spiced Rum among the targeted demographic,” Veronica corrected.
“Should that really take priority the jammer?” Mike frowned.
“What are you paying?” Veronica held out her hand, palm up.
“You want to be paid to be part of a historical scientific achievement?”
“Of course.” She smiled.
“Can’t help you.” Mike pounded the table. “I really wanted to get this done today.”
“Let me ask Lucy.” Darla tapped her phone. “Good news. She’s in.”
“Great, everyone meet in my room at three-thirty.”
A girl in a pink T-shirt and jeans stepped to the table. “You’re the guy with the rabbits’ feet, right? I’ll take three.” She handed her money to Mike and grabbed the purchase from Talia.
“We’re going to make a fortune this week.” Mike stuffed the bills into his wallet.
“Yeah, Friday the 13th is just four days away.” Talia exhaled.
* * *
Busby spotted Miranda, checking her phone and leaning against an oak tree near the entrance to the Physical Sciences Building.
“Sanchez!” Busby waved to her.
Miranda picked up her backpack and hustled over. “Where were you this morning?”
They walked into the building and headed down the hall.
“Stuyvesant. I had to drive Rick to the lawyer’s office.” Busby frowned. “I’m looking forward to two months of chauffeuring him around.”
Miranda shrugged. “Make him take Uber. What did the lawyer say?”
“I don’t know. She met with him alone. Attorney-client privilege.”
“What did Rick say?”
“Some macho stuff about nothing to worry about. But I know when he’s lying. Daddy talked with the sheriff, even gave him a campaign contribution. Everything seemed all right. But now with Williams’s story in The Underground, everything’s blowing up. Rick is concerned. Maybe even scared.”
Busby and Miranda filed into the lecture hall, took their traditional seats in the back row, and whipped out their notebooks.
Busby looked around the hall. “What’s going on?”
A video camera was mounted in front of the lectern. A table had been brought on to stage. On it sat an animal carrier, three horseshoes, and a couple dozen small mirrors. A pair of trash cans flanked the table. Elsewhere on the stage were a pair of rocking chairs and at the far end stood an aluminum ladder.
At precisely five minutes past eleven, Professor Johnson, in his standard tweed jacket, took his position behind the lectern. In a booming voice, he announced, “I’ve prepared something different from my normal lecture today. But you’re still responsible for Chapter 8: Synclines and Anticlines.”
A few students groaned.
“Now for today’s unexpected treat. With the help of Beth Powers, President of the Van Buren University Skeptics Club,” He nodded toward a blonde in a white sweatshirt and white jeans, “we’re going to put on a little demonstration challenging our notions of superstitions.
“A website popular with some members of the campus community and specializing in the worst forms of yellow journalism has suggested that recent tragic events are the result of bad luck. What we hope to achieve today is to put a rest to such non-scientific thinking.”
In the front row, Vicky Tran raised her hand. “Is this going to be on the midterm?”
Johnson let out an over-exaggerated sigh. “No, Ms. Tran, let me assure you and your classmates that you will not be burdened in such a manner.”
Three students on the left side of the hall gathered their belongings and stood.
“However,” Johnson pointed at the three, “failure to remain for the entire presentation will count as an unexcused absence. And I might remind the class that starting with your second unexcused absence, each missed class will drop your final grade one letter.”
The students muttered to themselves and sat down.
“Ms. Powers and her skeptics have assembled for us a group of items that can be associated with bad luck: an umbrella to be opened indoors, a ladder to be walked under, a black cat to cross your path, and so on. Over the next fifty minutes, we will experience and challenge these superstitions, and explore why human irrationality has given these objects such power over ourselves and our lives. Today’s first example: felis catus, the common house cat. Ms. Powers, if you please.”
Beth opened the carrier. A black cat poked his head out cautiously. He flopped on the table and stretched out. She rubbed the cat’s tummy.
The professor left the lectern and picked up the cat. The feline went limp in his hands. He inspected the name tag. “Some unimaginative jokester, who no doubt watches too much television, has named this mouser Salem. How could such a lovely and delightful creature crossing your path result in misfortune?”
“Because it’s bad luck!” shouted someone.
The class laughed.
Professor Johnson scowled. “Actually, that’s my point. Should you be out and about, and a black cat crosses your path, then something untoward happens in your life that day. You’ll remember that and blame the black cat for your misfortune.
“But what if a calico, or Siamese, or Norwegian Forest Cat crossed your path, and the same adversity befell you? Would you attribute your bad luck to one of these other felines?
“Or consider the opposite? A Persian cat with one blue eye and one green crosses your path, then your significant other announces she won the lottery. Would you attribute this good fortune to the cat in question? Doubtful.”
Vicky sat up in her seat. “What are you saying, Professor?”
“I am saying that the luck, either bad or good, isn’t created by these objects, but by our expectations. They are social constructs, and their only power comes from the power that we attribute to them, for either good or bad.”
Johnson released the cat on the floor. “We’ll let Salem waltz around the hall. By the time lecture is over, none of you will be able to leave without crossing his path.”
Salem meandered toward Vicky. The cat sniffed her sneaker, then leapt into her lap. She stroked his fur.
“Ms. Tran, please do not monopolize dear Salem. He has a task to perform.”
The cat flipped onto his back and purred loudly.
“I don’t think he wants to be disturbed.” Vicky scratched his ears.
“I am reminded of the story of The Prophet, a cat, and a sleeve. Moving on.” Johnson grabbed a red-and-blue pack of cigarettes from the table, removed one for himself, and offered one to Beth. “Who would like to be third?”
“Third what?” someone called out.
“The third cigarette. A popular superstition informs us that lighting three cigarettes on one match will result in severe calamity.”
Vicky raised her hand.
“You are volunteering, Ms. Tran?”
“No, but isn’t this a tobacco-free campus?”
“These are marshmallow root.” Beth sighed. “I borrowed them from the Theater Department.”
Johnson glanced about the lecture hall. “No one wants to assist in the advancement of knowledge?” He paused. “What about for extra credit?”
Miranda’s hand shot into the air.
“Ms. Sanchez? Splendid. Please join us down in front.”
Busby glared at her. “Seriously?”
Miranda intoned sotto voce, “I know. I’m such a grade-slut.” She squeezed through the aisle, descended the steps, and took the proffered cigarette.
Professor Johnson produced a matchbook from his pocket. “Quickly, we don’t want to ruin our experiment.” He lit his cigarette, Beth’s, then Miranda’s.
Miranda inhaled deeply, held her breath, and blew three perfect smoke rings.
“Very impressive, Ms. Sanchez.”
“The rewards of a misspent youth.”
Johnson grabbed an ashtray and ground out his cigarette. “I think we’ve satisfied the conditions of the legend.”
Beth stubbed hers out.
Johnson held out the ashtray for Miranda. “Ms. Sanchez?”
“Hold on.” Miranda inhaled deeply. A look of concentration on her face, she puffed up her cheeks and exhaled. Smoke in the form of a heart emerged from her mouth and floated across the room.
The class gave her a round of applause.
“Thank you.” Miranda stubbed out her cigarette, took a bow, and returned to her seat.
“That’s not proof.” A guy seated near the front griped. “We have to wait and see if anything bad happens.”
“Or if something good happens.” Johnson grabbed one of the hammers from the table. “Who would like to break a mirror?”
No response.
“Surely someone in attendance would relish the chance to relieve the frustrations of Monday morning by smashing something?”
Mike Wimmer in the second row stood and walked toward the aisle.
“Mr. Wimmer, excellent. First, put on the eye protection. Then slip this make-up mirror inside one of the trash bags and break it over the garbage can so we don’t risk shards of glass all over the floor.”
The student did as instructed, grabbed the hammer, and swung. The sound of shattering glass filed into the lecture hall. A roar went up from the students. Salem leapt from Vicky’s lap, dashed up a few rows, and hid under an unoccupied seat.
“That’s the spirit!” Johnson encouraged the student.
With a grin on his face, Mike smashed another mirror.
“That’s fourteen years of misfortune!” Johnson yelled. “Who else would like a turn?”
Students formed a line and took turns with the hammer. When there were no more mirrors to smash, the students returned to their seats.
Beth swept a few shards that had slipped out of the bags. “It wouldn’t be bad luck if someone hurt themselves on broken glass. Only poor housekeeping.”
The demonstrations continued with students opening the umbrella, spilling salt, rocking the empty chairs, and so on.
When the wall clock read 11:45, Johnson pointed to the twenty-foot aluminum-folding ladder with an open can of paint with a stir stick on the shelf. “We’re almost out of time, but we still need someone to walk under the ladder.”
Busby raised her hand.
“Ms. Tilden? Excellent. Come on down.”
Busby shook her head. “I’m not volunteering. Not because it’s bad luck. It’s common sense not to walk under a ladder. Especially with that paint can up there.”
“Ordinarily, I might be inclined to agree with you, Ms. Tilden. But the order of the day is to dispose ourselves of these antiquated superstitions. Some minor risk is required.”
Professor Johnson glanced about the room. “Still no takers? Then I shall perform the service myself.” He approached the ladder, bowed his head slightly so as not to hit the spreaders, and passed through.
“No problem at all.” Johnson reversed direction. As he stepped under the ladder, the hall was plunged into darkness. The emergency lights did not flick on. Startled screams came from a couple of the students, followed by a terrible crash, like the ladder falling. Students put their phones in flashlight mode, dimly illuminating the lecture hall.
“Professor?” Beth cried. “Professor Johnson, are you all right?”
Students murmured and shuffled toward the exit.
The lights flicked on. The ladder lay on its side, the can tipped over, and red paint spread across the floor. But Professor Johnson was nowhere to be seen.