Carswell's Guide to Being Lucky (2 page)

“Morning, Mr. Keller,” he said, calling up a friendly smile, “You look particularly vibrant this

morning,”

Jules stared down the length of his nose at him. The nose on which a sizable red pimple seemed to

have emerged overnight. That was one other thing about Jules. In addition to the height and the brawn

and the fuzz, his growth spurt had given him a rather tragic case of acne.

“I want my money back,” said Jules, one had still planted on Carswell’s locker.

Carswell tilted his head. “Money?”

“Stuff doesn’t work.” Reaching into his pocket, Jules pul ed out a smal round canister labeled with

exotic ingredients that promised clean, spot-free skin in just two weeks. “And I’m sick of looking at your smug face al day, like you think I don’t know better.”

“Of course it works,” said Carswell, taking the canister from him and holding it up to inspect the

label. “It’s the exact same stuff I use, and look at me.”

Which was not exactly true. The canister itself had been emptied of its original, ridiculously

expensive face cream when he’d dug it out of the trash bin beside his mother’s vanity. And though he’d

sometimes sneaked uses of the high quality stuff before, the canister was now ful of a simple

concoction of bargain moisturizer and a few drops of food coloring and almond extract that he’d found

in the pantry.

He didn’t think it would be
bad
for anyone’s skin. And besides, studies had been showing the benefit of placebos for years. Who said they couldn’t cure teenage acne just as effectively as they could cure an annoying headache?

But Jules, evidently unimpressed with the evidence Carswel had just presented, grabbed him by his

shirt collar and pushed him against the bank of lockers. Carswell suspected it wasn’t to get a better look at his own flawless complexion.

“I want my money back,” Jules seethed through his teeth.

“Good morning, Carswell,” said a chipper voice.

Sliding his gaze past Jule’s shoulder, Carswel smiled and nodded at the freckled brunette who was

shyly fluttering her lashes at him. “Morning, Shan. How’d your recital go last night?”

She giggled and ducked her head. “It was great. I’m sorry you couldn’t make it. Um. I just wanted to

say hi, and . . . you look real y nice this morning.” Blushing she turned and darted toward a group of

friends who were waiting near the water fountain. Together they broke into a fit of teasing chatter as

they flitted down the hal way.

Jules pushed Carswell into the locker again, yanking his attention back. “I
said
-“

“You want your money back, yeah, yeah, I heard you,” Carswel held up the canister. “And that’s

fine. No problem. I’ll transfer it over during lunch.”

Harrumphing, Jules released him.

“Of course, you’ll lose all the progress you’ve made so far.”

“What progress?” Jules said, bristling again. “Stuff doesn’t work!”

“Sure it works. But it takes to weeks. Says so right here.” He pointed at the label, and Jules snarled.

“It’s been
three
.”

Rolling his eyes, Carswell tossed the canister from hand to hand. “It’s a
process
. There are
steps
. The first step is-” He respectfully lowered his voice, in case Jules didn’t want the sensitive nature of their conversation to be overheard. “-you know, clearing away the first layer of dead skin cells. Exfoliation, as it were. But a real y deep, intense,
all-natural
exfoliation. That takes two weeks. In step two, it unlocks al the grease and dirt that’s been stuck in the bottom of your pores. That’s the step you’re in the middle of right now. IN another week, it’l move on to step three. Hydrating your skin so that it has a constant, beautiful glow.” He quirked his lips to one side and shrugged. “You know, like me. I’m telling you, it does work. And if there’s one thing I know, it’s skin care products.” Unscrewing the cap, he took a long sniff of the cream. “Not to mention . . .no, never mind. You don’t want it. It’s not worth mentioning at al . I’l

just take this back and-“

“Not to mention what?”

Carswell cleared his throat and dipped forward, until Jules had lowered his own head into their

makeshift huddle. “The scent is proven to make you more attractive to girls. It’s practically an

aphrodisiac, in aroma therapy form.”

A crease formed in between Jules’s brow and Carswel recognized confusion. He was just about to

explain what an aphrodisiac was when a third form sidled up beside them.

“Hey, Carswell,” Said Elia, the pep squad captain, slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow. She

was easily one of the prettiest girls in school, with thick black hair and a persistent dimple in one cheek.

She as also a year older and about four inches taller than Carswell, which wasn’t particularly uncommon

these days. Unlike Jules, Carswell hadn’t seen even a glimmer of a growth spurt yet, and he was really

starting to get fed up with waiting, even though none of the girls had seemed bothered by the fact that

they’d been outpacing him in the height department since their sixth year.

“Morning Elia,” Carswell said, slipping the canister of facial cream into his pocket. “Perfect timing!

Could you do me a favor?”

Her eyes widened with blatant enthusiasm. “Of course!”

“Could you tell me, what does my good friend Jules here smell like to you?”

Instant redness flushed over Jules’s face, and with a snarl, he pushed Carswell into the lockers again.

“What are you-!”

But then he froze. Carswell’s teeth were still vibrating when Elia leaned forward so that her nose

was almost, almost touching Jules’s neck, and sniffed.

Jules had become a statue.

Carswell lifted an expectant eyebrow.

Elia rocked back on her heels, considering for a moment as her gazed raked over the ceiling. Then –

“Almonds, I think.”

“And. . .do you like it?” Carswel ventured.

She laughed, the sound like an inviting wind chime. Jules’s blush deepened.

“Definitely,” she said, although it was Carswell she was smiling at. “It reminds me of one of my

favorite desserts.”

Jules released him and, once again, Carswell smoothed his jacket. “Thank you, Elia. That’s very

helpful.”

“My pleasure.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I was wondering if you’re going to the

Peace Dance next week?”

His smile was both practiced and instinctual. “Undecided. I may be cooking dinner for my sick

grandmother that night.” He waited expectantly as Elia’s gaze filled with swooning. “But if I do end up

going to the dance, you’l be the first I ask to go with me.”

She beamed and bounced on her toes. “Wel , I’d say yes.” She said , loking suddenly, briefly bashful,

“Just in case you weren’t sure.” Then she turned and practical y skipped down the hal .

“Well,” said Carswell, pulling the canister back out of his pocket. “I guess our business is all

concluded, then. Like I said, I’l return your payment in full by this afternoon. Of course, the retail price on this stuff just went up twenty percent, so if you change your mind later, I’m afraid I’m going to have to charge-“

Jules snatched the canister out of his hand. His face was still bright red, his brow stil drawn, but the anger had dissolved from his eyes. “If nothing’s changed in another three weeks,” he said low and

threatening, “I’ll be shoving the rest of this cream down your throat.”

Well,
most
of the anger had dissolved from his eyes.

But Carswell merely smiled and gave Jules a friendly pat on the shoulder just as the anthem of the

American Republic began to blare through the school speakers. “So glad I could clear things up for you.”

~~~~~~

He walked into literature class four minutes late, his book bag over one shoulder as he deftly

buttoned his blazer. He slid into the only remaining seat – front row, dead center.

“So nice of you to join us, Mr. Thorne,” said Professor Gosnel.

Crossing his heels, Carswell tipped back in his chair and flashed a bright smile at the teacher. “The

pleasure is all mine, Professor.

He could see her refraining from an eye rol but she punched something into her portscreen. The

screens built into the classroom desks lit up with the day’s assignment.
Great Dramatists of the First
Century, Third Era
, was emblazoned across the top, fol owed by a list of names and which of the six Earthen countries each dramatist had hailed from.

“For today, I want everyone to select one artist from this list,” said the teacher, pacing in front of

the classroom, “and choose a drama from their body of work that appeals to you. At half past, we’ll split into pairs and you can take turns reading the dramas you’ve found with your partner and discussing how

the themes in them relate to our world today.”

A finger tapped Carswell gently at the base of his neck, the universal symbol for “I chose you.”

Carswel struggled to remember who had been sitting behind him when he took this seat, and if it was

someone he wouldn’t mind being partnered with. Had it been Destiny? Athena? Blakely? Spades, he

hoped it wasn’t Blakely. Once she started talking it was difficult to remember what peace and quiet

sounded like.

He slid his gaze to the side, hoping he could catch his mystery partner’s reflection in the windows

before committing to the partnership, when his gaze caught on the girl beside him.

Kate Fallow.

His eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

Despite having been in the same grade since toddler primaries, he doubted that he and Kate had

spoken more than fifty words to each other their whole lives. He didn’t think it was anything personal.

Their paths just didn’t cross much. As evidenced at that moment, she preferred to sit in the front of the class, whereas he did his best to end up somewhere near the back. Instead of coming out to sporting

events or school festivals, Kate always seemed to rush straight home when classes where over. She was

at the top of their class and wel liked, but by no means popular, and she spent more lunch hours with

her nose buried in her portscreen. Reading.

This was only the second time Carswell Thorne had stopped to ponder one Kate Fallow. The first

time, he had wondered why she liked books so much, and if it was similar to why he liked spaceships.

Because they could take you somewhere far, far away from here.

This time he was wondering what her math score was.

There was a thud as Carswell settled his chair legs back on the floor and leaned across the aisle.

“You probably know who all these artists are, don’t you?”

Kate’s head whipped up. She blinked at him for a moment, before her startled eyes glanced at the

person behind her, then back to Carswel .

He grinned.

She blinked. “Ex-excuse me?”

He inched closer, so that he was barely seated on the edge of his chair, and dragged the tip of his

stylus down her screen. “Al these dramatists. You read so much, I bet you’ve already read them al .”

“Um.” She fol owed the tip of his stylus before. . . there it was, that sudden rush of color to her

cheeks. “No, not al of them. Maybe. . .maybe half, though?”

“Yeah?” Settling an elbow on his knee, Carswel cupped his chin. “Who’s your favorite? I could use a

recommendation.”

“Oh. Well, um. Bourdain wrote some really great historical pieces. . .” she trailed off, then

swallowed. Hard. She lifted her eyes to him and seemed surprised when he was still paying attention to

her. For his part, Carswell was feeling a little surprised, too. It had been a long time since he’d really looked at Kate Fal ow, but she seemed prettier now than he’d remembered, even if it was the kind of

pretty that was overshadowed by the likes of Shan or Elia. Kate was softer and plumper than most of the

girls in his class, but she had the largest, warmest brown eyes he thought he’d ever seen.

Plus there was also something endearing about a girl who seemed entirely floored by no more than

a moment’s worth of attention from him. But maybe that was just his ego speaking.

“Is there a certain type of drama you like?” Kate whispered.

Carswell tapped his stylus against the side of his mouth. “Adventure stories, I guess. With lots of

exotic places and daring escapades . . . and swashbuckling space pirates, naturally.” He followed this up with a wink and watched, preening inside, as Kate’s mouth turned to a smal , surprised O.

The Professor Gosnel cleared her throat. “This is supposed to be individual study, Mr. Thorne and

Miss Fallow. Twenty more minutes, and then you can partner up.”

“Yes, Professor Gosnel,” said Carswell without missing a beat, even as the redness stretched to

Kate’s hairline and a few students snickered near the back. He wondered if Kate had ever been

reprimanded by a teacher in her life.

He slid his gaze back to Kate and waited – five seconds, six – until her gaze darted uncertainly

upward again. Though she caught
him
staring, she was the one who instantly turned back to her desk, flustered.

Feeling rather accomplished, Carswell took to scanning through the names. A few sounded familiar,

but not enough that he could have named any of their works. HE racked his brain, trying to remember

what, exactly, he was supposed to be doing for this assignment anyway.

Then Kate leaned over and tapped her stylus against a name on the list. Joel Kimbrough, United

Kingdom, born 27 T.E. His list of works spil ed down the screen, with titles like
Space Ranger on the
Ninth Moon
and
The Mariner and the Martians
.

Carswell beamed at Kate, but she had already returned her attention to her own screen, without