For most things. Normal things.
Not this, though.
“I’m just unlucky,” I tell him, and hope he drops it.
“Buddy, getting struck by lightning is unlucky. Or by meteorite.”
“Meteorite? You’re making this shit up.”
“I’m not. My point is, whatever happened isn’t bad luck. Just life.”
“Well, life sucks.” And he has no clue what he’s talking about.
“There was also this guy who survived two atomic bombs. In Japan. Heard of him?”
“All right, shut up, okay? Shut up.”
He laughs again, drinks up the rest of his beer and lifts his hands in surrender. “I’ll leave you to your beauty sleep.” He gets up, shakes his head at the forest of bottles. “Man, can’t believe we drank so many.”
“Good thing you’re walking.”
“Yeah, Halo isn’t far. You should come.”
I don’t reply. Don’t wanna see the guys, talk and shit, though I know that, come Monday, I really have to go to the shop, pick up my training. Don’t want them asking questions, like Micah.
Rafe keeps asking how my knee got fucked up, Asher why I picked a fight with that guy the other night at the party, Zane wants to know what’s going on with Manon—which is exactly nothing, nada, zero—and the girls who have a sixth sense keep asking if I’m okay and if I’ve found a job.
I haven’t. Like I said, it’s not like I haven’t looked. I just can’t find one. I’ve tried everything, and got nothing. Yeah, they didn’t come out and say it, but even the freaking burger joints don’t want someone like me, and if I don’t find something… Shit, the thought of returning to the streets terrifies me.
“Bad luck,” Micah says, grabbing his jacket from the hook by the door, “afflicts people who believe in it.”
“And your point is?”
“Start believing you’re lucky, and you will be.”
“You serious? Want a fist in your face?”
“Kayla says that. Start believing you’re lucky. You should call her to cleanse your apartment or something. Read your fortune.”
“The only thing she’ll read will be the imprint of my fist on your stupid face.”
He’s still laughing as he lets himself out and closes the door.
But I’m not.
Fuck my life.
***
I’ve rolled myself into an old blanket on the sofa, half-dozing, the picture of my mom beside me. I thought I’d thrown it into the trash, but I found it straightened and flat on the table the other day.
Like a sign—though of what, I have no fucking clue. I can faintly see its shape in the half-dark. Ribbons of light from the street below cut through the slats in the window. I can hear distant music. A street party. Micah mentioned it. They were heading there after a few drinks at Halo.
I used to do that. Used to believe things would finally turn out all right. That I was free of the curse of my past.
What the fuck was I thinking? Now I’m avoiding the only family I’ve ever really had to escape the truth.
The truth, goddammit. A truth that will damn me in their eyes just like it does in the eyes of everyone who knows.