With a Little Luck: A Novel by Caprice Crane Read Free Book Online

part out.
    “What?” I say. “He heard me on the radio? He came into the restaurant? He thinks I’m an even bigger loser than he apparently already thought I was, hence the never calling me? He was with a girl? A prettier and skinnier girl? What did she look like? I hate her already.”
    “Berry, I’m so sorry, sweetie.”
    “She’s a supermodel?
What
?”
    “He’s dead.”
    I blink a few times as it registers.
He’s dead? How? Why? When?
(The “when” is key. The “when” is my ego wondering if he died on his way home and that’s why he never called. But, no, it’s five days later. That can’t be how it happened.)
    “They had a memorial service for him tonight,” she says. “A bunch of musician-type people. They reserved the back room at the restaurant. It was packed. Celebs and everything. They had these great flowers—”
    “Nat!” I interrupt. “
How did he die?
Did he die driving home from my apartment?” This would be worse than I even thought. Forget that bad “open an umbrella indoors” luck—I might have essentially killed him by sending him home! “Please tell me my decision to not be a slut didn’t kill him.”
    “You didn’t kill him. He died the next day. I got the whole story.”
    “Well, what? What happened? Oh my God, I can’t believe he’s dead.”
    “It was stupid. He was being stupid. He was shooting a video with some friends. Some band. They were drunk and racing go-karts, and apparently he stood up in his go-kart to celebrate his victory as he crossed the finish line. I guess he took off his helmet as he stood up in his seat, not realizing that he was putting all his weight on the accelerator, and … he crashed into the concession stand.”
    “That’s … unbelievable.”
    “I know.”
    “Awful,” I say, still trying to wrap my head around it.
    “I know.”
    My breath catches, and I look at Natalie with dread.
    “Oh, Jesus, here it comes,” she says, falling back in her seat.
    “It was the umbrella he opened indoors,” I say. “I knew it. I knew it!”
    “Next thing you’ll tell me is you weren’t wearing your lucky bandana because you had a bout of too much head sweat.”
    “I don’t have head sweat.”
    “Everyone has head sweat at some point or another. I get it at the hairdresser when they highlight. I can’t help it—all that pawing over my scalp, blech. And by the way, I notice you’re not wearing your evil-warding bandana. So …”
    “So what?” This is about to turn into an inquisition, but I’m trapped.
    “So what is it? Lucky shirt? Belt you were wearing when you won five bucks in an instant lottery scratch-off game? Pants you wore to see the Dalai Lama at the Hollywood Bowl and got a group blessing? Or some hidden gem—like a lucky suppository?”
    I look away. It’s a sore subject, meaning she’s right, but it irritates me to have it talked about, almost as though her mention of it is leaching away the power. I hold up my arm and rattle my wrist.
    Nat nods, waits. She wants to hear it. She always wants to hear it.
    “The bangles I was wearing when the cable company gave me free premium channels for a year to apologize for accidentally shutting off my service.”
    “I was going to mock you, but that really is lucky. My cable company usually says they’re sorry for my inconvenience and to please stop calling. At least stop calling and breathing into the phone and hanging up. I guess everyone has caller ID these days.”
    She’s trying to lighten my mood, and it’s working. She motions for me to show her the wrist again, and traces the bangles.
    “Still, this hardly qualifies as lucky clothing. I don’t think you’re holding true to your principles.”
    “I can accessorize. Who says accessories can’t be lucky?”
    “True,” she says. “My road bike came with a racing-seat accessory, and sometimes that makes me feel like I’m getting very lucky.”
    “Stop it. You can’t tell me you don’t at least see the