Curse of the Luckpenny

By Dwayne Mosby

Heads, You Win, Tails, You Lose!

Sixteen-year-old Ellen Willis has lived a life of constant misfortune and humiliating loss, and she is sick of it. Everything she tries to do is a complete disaster: she can never measure up to her beautiful and accomplished sister; boys avoid her like the plague; and her lifelong dream—the one thing she is actually good at—is taken from her by a horrific accident. She believes that God has cursed her life to be a sad comedy of errors and puts to him the challenge that if the power of fate were in her hands, she would be the one to do what he obviously isn’t: make all things right with the world.

But Ellen gets more than she bargains for when she meets a mysterious woman named Tyche, who gives her a penny from the town’s wishing well, promising that her luck will change. Ellen doesn’t believe it at first, but when a series of miraculous fortune befalls her—seemingly at the hands of the penny—she is convinced that the power of fate is finally in her hands, and whatever divine favor God may have for her is no longer needed or wanted. Yet it is at this challenge that events take a drastic and frightening turn—again seemingly at the hands of the penny, when it is now severe bad luck that comes against Ellen with a terrifying vengeance that nearly costs her her life. Ellen has no idea what is happening, and in a desperate attempt to research the penny’s origin, she learns that she has reopened a centuries-old curse, one that only she can reverse, and the shocking true identity of Tyche. Spurred on by this new revelation, Ellen fights to defeat the penny’s evil, but before she can do so, it is stolen by vindictive teen heiress Linda Levenson, who also knows of the penny’s power and plots to use it against those innocent ones who have disrupted her plans for world domination, the result of which promise deadly consequences. Ellen must get the penny back and disarm it soon, for if she fails to do so “ere midnight the Witch’s Sabbath next,” the forces of darkness will prevail, and whatever evil the penny brought forth will remain forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 3, 2022
• ISBN: 9781685705947

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Curse of the Luckpenny

Dwayne Mosby

ISBN 978-1-68570-593-0 (paperback)

ISBN 978-1-68570-594-7 (digital)

Copyright © 2022 by

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing

832 Park Avenue

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter One

Monday morning provided a sky of overcast gray mercilessly spitting cold rain at the earth, no hint of sun in the foreseeable future. That’s how the world greeted me when I bolted out of the house, almost knocking the storm door off in the process. I was late. My ever-reliable watch had recently picked up the habit of displaying time appropriate for another zone, waking me a half hour behind schedule. The results: a flash shower, a cursory breakfast, and virtually hopping into my clothes and out the door in the same move. The bus stop is a little more than a quarter mile from my house, and I had to clear that distance in the next fifteen seconds or make my way to school on foot. And wouldn’t you know, the hyperdrive on my half-worn-out sneakers was totally out of commission.

I tore down the street at a weird angle, struggling to slip my jacket and backpack on, as all of Suburbia tumbled by in a lopsided view. From this view, I, indeed, caught sight of the bus and what appeared to be the last three kids climbing aboard, and at that, I flung myself more or less in an upright position and charged for the stop. Globules of hard rain smacked into me like bullets; and the backpack—now half off my shoulders—slapped my behind like an oversized jockey whip as I mad-dashed like a thoroughbred going for the Triple Crown. It would be a photo finish. The last kid just stepped inside as I closed in twenty or so feet from the bus. Ten feet, the driver’s hand clutched the door handle. Five, the doors began to converge; then when I hit three, at the last possible second, I leapt for the narrowing doorway, hitting the first step in a crouching position. Immediately, I yanked myself upward and pulled myself inside when the doors suddenly clamped shut behind me, closing me into the bus with inches to spare.

I was in.

The driver shifted the bus into gear, and we were off. My grateful lungs let out a congratulatory sigh, and I waited there a few seconds to catch my breath before stepping up into the bus. But when I moved, I felt a sharp jerk from behind and fell back against the doors. For a second, I thought I’d tripped, so I started again. Bang! I fell back again. I was locked. Seriously, I couldn’t move one inch forward. The only logical explanation, it seemed, was that the backpack must have been caught on something; so I reached behind me, trying to get it off whatever snagged it and be on my way.

Only problem, though: the backpack wasn’t there.

That wasn’t possible. The straps were still hitched to my shoulders, but no pack. I reached behind me again, still nothing. No matter how much I moved my hand around, the only thing I could feel was door—the backpack was nowhere to be found. It was just then that it began to sink in what had happened. A wave of nausea swept over me as I cautiously looked to the right, out of the door’s window, and my suspicion was confirmed. Sure enough, in the rear view mirror, I saw my backpack on the outside of the bus, pressed up against the doors, getting drenched by the second in the pounding rain. Thus, the official results were in:

Doors by a nose.

I sighed. If there was anyone on this planet who could do something as idiotic as getting trapped in the doors of a school bus, it was yours truly, Ellen Willis. The interesting thing was, the bus driver—who must have been new, given that this was the first time I’ve ever seen her—must have been totally oblivious to the whole incident, for she cast nary a glance in my direction while the bus cruised down the road. It seemed a little revelation was in order here.

Excuse me, I piped.

The bus driver, a woman three dress sizes over portly, whipped her head in my direction; the astonishment that lit up her face was almost comical. Hey! What’re you doin’ down there? The bus creaked to an abrupt halt. Don’t you know you’re supposed to be behind the white line? She pointed to the line painted on the floor just after the top step and then at the official notice on the dashboard that prohibited driving while someone was in front of said line.

I tried to sympathize with her position. Yes, I know…but you see, I’m kinda stuck here.

The driver looked more confused than ever. Whaddaya mean, stuck?

I pointed my thumb behind me. The straps of my backpack are caught in the doors. I’m in here, and the pack is waiting for me outside. Nothing like a concise analysis to resolve a predicament, I always say.

At this, the driver let out a laugh, sounding like a duck having a psychotic episode. She turned her superplus-sized frame a half one-eighty and called back to the seats behind her, You hear that? Girlfriend’s got herself trapped in the doors!

Heads started popping up over the tops of the seats, and the minute they saw me, the laugh fest was underway.

God, somebody shoot me.

It took only a second or so more for the bus driver to get it out of her system, then she opened the doors to release me. Cold wind and rain swept into the bus, tearing into my flesh with icy talons like some ticked-off bird of prey, chased by the heat of rank embarrassment surging through me with a vengeance. I stood there momentarily, quietly staring at the driver, who was trying to get over some residual chuckles, apparently to no avail. From this, I figured that there was no point in telling her off about embarrassing me like that; so I just slipped off the water-logged pack, carried it by the handle up the rest of the steps, and went to find a seat. I pretty much looked at the floor on my way down the aisle, trying not to make eye contact with those who were still giggling away as I passed by. I caught a vacancy about halfway down next to a boy who was totally engrossed in a video game app on his phone—apparently having missed the whole incident—and there I slumped down with a sigh. With my eyes closed, I tried to shut myself out from what was obviously developing into another of a long history of disagreeable days, as the bus shifted into gear and resumed the journey on to school.

I must have sat there for slightly over a minute when my eyes suddenly snapped open. Something was quite wrong here. I looked around me, and only then did I notice that every kid in the bus seats was some two to three years younger than what they should have been, and not one of them any I’m used to seeing on the way to school. A point obviously overlooked while I was held captive by the doors. I carefully looked at my watch which showed 7:35. That, I was sure, was the right time…but if it were, my regular busmates—kids I’d known since kindergarten—should have been there with me on the bus. Not one could be found. A hideous wave of revelation swept into my consciousness, and I turned to the kid sitting next to me with the video game and fingered three quick nervous taps on his shoulder. I desperately had to check this out.

The boy swatted my hand away without breaking stride with the game. He was into this thing, no question about it. Both eyes bulged to the point of popping the sockets; all known veins surfaced in the skin of his hands as they gripped the smart phone for dear life, thumbs pressing away at those buttons with absolute fury. Somebody’s soul was on the line for this game, and no one or nothing was going to infringe upon it. But the emotional stability of a young woman was at stake here, warranting a sacrificial interruption. I tried again.

What, woman?! The look this kid shot me screamed about a thousand or so violations I must have committed against the video game ethics code, chief of which: the sin of interrupting the game of a zealous player. I waited a second or so to collect myself before answering.

Excuse me, could you tell me what time it is, please?

The boy’s mouth stayed open from the previous exchange; and without closing it, his eyes slid over to my left wrist, apparently noticing the watch strapped to it. You’re already wearin’ a watch, and you’re askin’ me what time is it?

I know I must have looked brain-dead and then some, but I pressed on. Uh, yeah, I know I already have a watch on, but I think there’s something wrong with it. Can you tell me what time it is?

The boy flipped his left wrist over, looked at his watch momentarily, and then nearly pressed the watch in my face. Eight thirty-five, was the answer that came from both him and the display. Then he retracted his arm and resumed his most interrupted game.

I, however, was on the verge of a heart attack. It all made sense now. Not being able to recognize the driver, the younger kids all around me. It could only mean one thing: my watch had awaken me not just a half hour late but a whole hour; and instead of being on my regular bus on the way to high school, I was actually on the later bus being shipped along to junior high. Suffice it to say, I wasn’t just late, I was wicked late. I was also wicked dead. For the class I should be in now started a half hour ago, and this particular class was ruled by a particular teacher who had no patience for tardiness and no ear for mitigating circumstances. I slumped back in my seat again, face in my hands, head shaking, the picture of absolute despondency. As stated earlier, the day couldn’t have been better.

The ride to Dayville Junior High takes about fifteen minutes, and all during that time, I sat a bundle of anxiety, waiting for the bus to make it there. When we finally arrived, I jumped into the isle and dashed for the door, hoping to be the first one off. This seemed to be the goal of the other thirty or so kids with me, who in their rush swept me out of the bus like a raging current and pretty much splattered me onto the pavement. Down on my knees, I crammed myself into a ball, shielding all known body parts from the flow of eighth-grade feet and legs, stepping on me, stomping on me, knocking into me, as the line of kids poured into the awaiting doors of Dayville Junior. When the last kid had passed, I picked myself up and checked the damage. A few smudges on the knees from the wet pavement, soiled hands from breaking my fall, back and butt smarting a little from the stampede, but all in all, nothing serious. I had a much more dire concern at hand than minor aches and pains, and time was not on my side. Hunching the backpack on, I turned and sprinted off. Around the bend, and about five hundred yards away, Dayville High sits on the other side of a massive playing field which at this time was covered with rainwater. For the second time this morning, I had to haul butt with Olympic speed in flu season weather and this time across a terrain that might as well have been a residential ocean. In coming days, I could look forward to a steady diet of Pepto-Bismol and Sudafed.

By the time I reached school, my lungs were having a slam dance in my chest. I staggered inside the main lobby, whose ghost town emptiness amplified my every huff, puff, and wheeze a thousand times or so; and I leaned against the doors waiting for intermission to be called in my respiratory system. That done, I rounded the corner and headed upstairs to the second floor. I didn’t even bother to stop at my locker to ditch my jacket but wanted to get right to up to room 1030 before Mr. Ampersand had my face profiled on America’s Most Wanted. Ampersand, my aforementioned English teacher, was Dayville High’s resident Gestapo agent, whose standard of excellence was the kind only a Kryptonian emigrant could appease. A trait apparently carried over from a prior career in the army, where he had a stint as a top sergeant in Desert Storm. Coming a half second after the bell was just one of the many heresies in the Ampersand Universe. Here, possession of Cliff’s Notes warrants an automatic bump in grade, bathroom privileges were limited to one a semester, and to pull down less than an A plus average indicated absolute contempt for your future in general and your most honored teacher in particular. Excuses were the stuff of the undisciplined, and even though I rehearsed mine about thirty times over, I pretty much knew my fate had been sealed.

Incidentally, Ampersand was in the process of doling out disciplinary action when I arrived. Through the door window, I noticed him sitting on his desk, almost soundlessly chewing somebody out; and whatever the offense was, expression and posture told me it wasn’t frightfully minor. I figured I’d wait a few seconds before going in; catching Ampersand in middiatribe isn’t too smart even if your butt isn’t on the line. While I waited, I decided to pray; despite the fact that our relationship was on the rocks, I hoped that the Lord, having seen all the effort it took me to get here, would be gracious enough to cut me a break with this whole thing. I closed my eyes.

"Father…I ask by your grace that you don’t let Ampersand chew me out for coming in late. You know I tried my best to get here on time, Lord, and I pray that you make him understand about the watch malfunctioning so that he’ll be lenient toward me. In Jesus’s name, amen."

When I opened my eyes, I did a double take. Through the window, I noticed that Ampersand had redirected his attention and now focused it on me. I froze. The chilling gaze that so distinguished this teacher bored right into me with the hypnotic power of a cobra; and I stood there in stone-cold paralysis, unable to flinch, unable to breathe, as I watched Ampersand slide off his desk—still holding his gaze on me—advance to the door, and open it.

At that moment, I wanted to do nothing more than bolt for the nearest exit. I mean, to see Ampersand at a relative distance was intimidating enough, but standing right next to him up close, he was downright imposing. Stretching to a full six-foot-four height, Ampersand towered above everything that moved and breathed in Dayville High. Sporting an athletic frame trimmed to GQ specifications, he was forever outfitted in black slacks, white shirt, and black tie, pressed always with military precision. His face seemed permanently set in no-nonsense mode, with black-brown eyes that bored right through adolescent b.s. with repressive power. Were Ampersand not a teacher, I might have accepted him as strikingly handsome—I happened to know a number of girls who confessed a questionable crush on him, but any potential girlish infatuation on my part were always squashed by this one fact:

the man was not to be messed with.

Ampersand didn’t say one word but continued to stare right at, no, right into me, as we stood at the door. I don’t know if he expected me to say something—to explain myself or apologize for being late—for we stood like that for what seemed a quasi eternity without a sound passing between us. Then, what seemed like out of nowhere, Ampersand simply, almost robotically, raised his right hand in silent admission.

I tried not to move too quickly but took each step with extreme caution as I entered the room. Ampersand was still locked in cobra mode; I could almost feel the heat of his anticipation burning into me, waiting for me to make that first false move or wrong flinch, and he would strike, biting into me with venomous teacher chastisement. Pin-drop silence gripped the air in a virtual stranglehold; the tension level stood at critical mass. Not one of the twenty-three occupants of room 1030 blinked or breathed as they watched me mince my way to the desks, waiting for the snake to pounce and down this hapless prey in the slightest gulp.

"Miss Willis."

I stopped. Every part of me tensed, waiting for the attack. Eyelids pressed shut, upper teeth jamming into my bottom lip. Here it comes.

Nothing happened. The verbal assault that was supposed to obliterate me was apparently delayed, but through the darkness, I heard heavy footsteps approach and the feeling of wind brush past. I opened my eyes slightly. Ampersand had moved from the door and taken a seat on his desk. The door, however, was still open. That wasn’t a good sign. Ampersand never left the door open after the period bell sounded, and this stepping out of character meant that some serious stuff was yet to come.

Ampersand folded his arms and shut his eyes almost as if he were in painful concentration. I knew I’d had it. This posture was classic in the Ampersand experience when a serious offense had been committed and must be brought to the class’s attention. Anyone here want to remind Miss Willis about what we discussed at the beginning of the term?

For a few seconds more, all remained quiet. The silence wicked intense. That all ended when one hand went up. I let out a groan. Not so much because a hand was raised but because of the person it was attached to. Way down in front, Linda Levenson held up her hand as if she were poised to be sworn in for testimony. She would be Ampersand’s perfect witness. Early in the term, she had gained his admiration through budding intellectual prowess and a spotless attendance record. From this admiration, Ampersand had granted her the anointed seat at the head of the class, directly across from his desk. As far as students went, Linda was his chosen one.

The upstretched arm remained raised until Ampersand nodded his acknowledgment. Permission granted, the arm lowered briskly, and Linda rose in proper etiquette. She was going to play this up right. A little smoothing of the junior miss power suit, arms folded behind her back, her frame Homo sapien erect. She was ready.

Mr. Ampersand… she began her opening statement with the requisite dramatic pause, at the beginning of the term, you made it very clear to all of us that once the bell had sounded, the door will be locked for the rest of the period. She paused again. Drama apparently was a big thing here. Anyone who comes in late must go to the office and get a tardy slip, or she/he will not be admitted to class.

Ampersand gave Linda a barely perceptible nod. Thank you, Miss Levenson. Taking her cue, Miss Levenson nodded back.

"Thank you, Mr. Ampersand." That done, she properly took her seat, properly folded her hands on her desk, and properly cast a curt smile at me.

Ampersand turned to me again with the expectant gaze. Without his saying a word, I fully understood what I had to do. And though this was my first offense, there would, of course, be no reprieve. As cautiously as I had come in, I backed out of the room and headed downstairs to the office. Well, another prayer unanswered, I huffed internally, shaking my head as if to whip the disgust and humiliation from my consciousness. Ampersand could have done enough damage just reminding me of the rule himself, but it seemed Linda was just the right hammer to drive the nail harder. When I got to the office, just as I walked in, the secretary put the tardy slip in my hand before I even had a chance to open my mouth. She told me that Ampersand had called ahead to inform them that I was on my way down. That figured. Slip in hand, I headed back up. When I got back to the room, the door was, of course, closed, and I could see Ampersand through the window addressing the class again. Though he wasn’t smiling, something in his face and demeanor told me that he was pleased with whatever he was talking about, not a usual Ampersand moment. I carefully knocked on the door. Ampersand turned and, upon seeing me, momentarily cast what was unmistakably a disappointed look in my direction. He then quickly turned back to the class and started talking again. He was going to make me wait. However long it was going to take to finish his speech, he was going to make me stand out there with the tardy slip until he was ready to deal with me as I deserved. I didn’t have to wait too long. Ampersand just that quickly ended his talk, then came to the door. When he opened it, he paused a second, letting his wry but stern look take time to adequately burn into me.

Nice of you to rejoin us, Miss Willis, was the unsettlingly calm greeting. I silently handed him the slip; he took it with equal silence. I started in, but Ampersand suddenly spoke again, catching me before I could make it to the first row. Don’t bother to sit down, Miss Willis. He had resumed his position in front of the class. I was just coming to you.

I didn’t quite understand his statement. "Me…sir?" I asked meekly.

Yes, you, Ellen. I was just collecting papers.

I swallowed. Throughout this whole episode, I had totally forgotten about the midterm paper that was due. Due today. I had also totally forgotten that I had only three-quarters of it done. Last night, after struggling till midnight with a key point that would properly complete the paper, I gave in to the fact that I just wasn’t going to be able to finish it in time and worked on figuring out what I was going to tell Ampersand. Then that plan was inadvertently shelved due to this morning’s watch malfunctioning incident. As previously indicated, Ampersand wasn’t too pleased with me coming in late; God only knew what he would do to me now.

Most of the class was courteous enough to hand in their papers on time. Miss Levenson gave me hers a few days ago. While waiting for your return, I was telling the class how appreciative I was for her usual punctuality and continued excellence.

No wonder Ampersand appeared somewhat happy when I saw him through the window in the door. He always seemed to light up a bit when speaking of his finest student.

What about you, Miss Willis? Certainly, you remembered that this was the day the paper was due?

Something in his tone said he very well knew I knew it was. Uh, yeah, I did. I did just then, actually.

A mock surprise jumped in Ampersand’s face. Really? And should I assume that you have the paper with you now?

Well, yeah, I’ve got it with me…, I tried to stammer out my explanation. But I’m not quite finished yet. I’ve got three-quarters of it done. If you’ll just—

Ampersand held his hand up and shook his head wearily. Don’t bother, Miss Willis. Don’t even bother. You’ll have a chance to refine your excuse in detention this afternoon. Ampersand sighed, his face resigned disappointment. The apple has certainly fallen far from the tree, hasn’t it, Miss Willis?

At this, I shut my eyes tight. The icy hurt wrenching my chest and corroding my heart forced my head down at what I knew was coming. That hurt so strong it wouldn’t release the plea that could only form on silent lips.

Please don’t.

Ampersand continued, When your sister was in my class, she was a pure delight. Her standard of excellence demonstrated an undeniable respect for her future, and her achievements are proof positive of that. If you learn from her example, Miss Willis, you may have a future as well. He paused, apparently to let this last point have its proper sting. "In either case, as I told the others, I will have your completed paper in my hand by Monday, or you will fail. Is that clear, young lady?"

My voice was compacted in my throat. So I just nodded.

Good. The period bell sounded. No one moved. We all knew better than to flinch before Ampersand gave his blessing. I want chapter ten in your books read and the exercises at the end completed for tomorrow. Dismissed.

At that, every kid bolted out of his chair and dashed for the door like racehorses out of the gate. Ampersand returned to his desk and started going through the papers. I, however, held my place for a few seconds, not wanting to be swept away in the rush, and still numb from the last emotional assault. When the last kid passed, I started to move but stopped when Ampersand’s voice came up from the desk.

Miss Willis…

I didn’t turn to look at Ampersand but could see out of the corner of my eye that he’d put down the paper he was reading and was looking at me. Apparently, he had another attack ready.

I was curious about your performance in your other classes as well as this, and when I spoke to your other teachers, I was surprised to learn that you were once an above-average student. Would you like to share what happened?

That’s when I did slowly turn my head to look at him. What I did and didn’t see in his face was just what I did and didn’t hear in his voice. The expectation of a teacher whose main concern seemed to be final reading of a report card, not the compassionate consideration for what may have led to it. And using my sister to make that point. I could feel the resentment burning my face as I finally found my voice that was strained by the struggle to maintain some level of forfeited respect. No…, I said, slightly shaking my head. I wouldn’t.

Ampersand didn’t say anything or make a move for a few seconds, his eyes just seeming to search mine for the mark that his diatribe had made. No telling if he’d found it. Then I suggest that you talk to someone or work it out on your own, Miss Willis, because as I said if you don’t, you fail. He turned back to the papers not saying another word. I took this to mean that I was free to go, and I marched out of the classroom, the upped pace spurred by hot resentment I tried to corral in the worst way. Thankfully, my locker was just around the corner… I just wanted to get out of my wet jacket, dry off, warm up, get to the next class, whatever that was, and try to shake off the emotional beatdown. No such luck. Because when I turned the corner, I noticed that the combination knob of my locker had been smeared all over with gum, and chances are, it wasn’t of the nonstick persuasion. I sighed deeply. The trials were piling on thick today, and we were still north of lunch. I reached in my pocket for a handkerchief and just worked the combo, planning to call the janitor to have the knob sandblasted later.

Hey! What happened to you?!

I turned. Patricia Addison had come up from nowhere without me seeing her. I guess I was just too engrossed in the gum problem. Plus the fact she was a good three inches shorter than me didn’t help, either. Were you sick? I missed you on the bus and had to trek it in alone which was kind of a downer. You know the ride in has fewer laughs without my bus buddy.

I finished the combo then stripped off the backpack and jacket, throwing the jacket in the locker. Nope, I said, closing the locker and slipping on the pack. Wasn’t sick. Just my watch acted up again, waking me up a half hour late, and I ended up unknowingly hitching a ride with the bunch from Dayville Junior.

Get out! Patricia raised her eyebrows, looking mildly animated. I continued.

And that’s not all. In my sad attempt to make the bus that I ultimately found out was the wrong one, I jump in just as the doors were closing, and though my body makes it in, the backpack doesn’t, and I’m trapped there, the pack locked in the doors, without anybody seeing me. When I let the bus driver in on my dilemma, she makes a laughing stock of me in front of every midschooler on board, and when I get to Dayville Junior, I nearly cough up a lung rushing here to get to Ampersand’s on time. Didn’t quite make it, though.

Patricia blew slightly. Wow, wrong bus, caught in doors, and coming in a half hour late—which is an unpardonable sin in the Ampersand universe. I wish my mornings could start off as thrill packed as yours.

Ordinarily, Patricia’s sarcasm would make me laugh. This wasn’t one of those times. This isn’t funny, Patricia.

I’m sorry, El.’ She slightly grimaced recognizing the screwup, but I caught a hint of a smirk straining in the right side of her mouth. So how did Ampersand take it?

I leaned back against the locker feeling the hurt of Ampersand’s words still tearing within me. The pack set me at an uncomfortable angle, but I barely noticed. Not good. First he commissions Linda Levenson to remind me of the rule for being late, then makes good on that rule by making me get a tardy slip from the office before letting me in. Then he sentences me to detention without even hearing the explanation for me being late, plus for not having the paper ready that was due today. I paused a minute, inhaling deeply at the thought of relaying the next scene. But that wasn’t the worst of it. Not only does he feel it necessary to browbeat me in front of the whole class, but he just had to shove Shannon’s record in my face to shame me for good measure. I raised my fingers, air-quoting Ampersand’s soliloquy, topped with requisite voice modulation. ‘Your sister’s standard of excellence demonstrated an undeniable respect for her future… If you learn from her example, you’ll have a future too.’

Patricia made an offhanded shrug. Yeah, that’s Ampersand for you. Not one to miss a chance to blast you out in front of a studio audience. And his star pupil and big sis’s record were the weapons of choice, huh? Always a crowd-pleaser.

I sighed. Why does he have to be like that?

Patricia shrugged. Who knows? Being named after a punctuation mark could have something to do with it, but that’s just my guess.

Abject frustration slammed my arms to my sides. My God, Patricia, I’m really trying, you know! I hit a rough patch that threw my whole life outta whack, and I just can’t seem to get it back together! I just wish people would give me some space with it! I paused, catching my breath as the hurt swelled. Oh, and then Ampersand decides to tell me that he had a confab with my other teachers, finding out that I was at one time a pretty good student and wanting to know just what could have possibly sent my performance south… I paused for a second closing my eyes, my head lowered. Like the whole world doesn’t know. The hurt of memory strained my voice to a whisper that I didn’t know if I intended to be heard or not. Patricia, however, apparently deciphered it, voicing the issue I was unwilling to speak of.

London?

Just the name of the city was a knife in my stomach. Even though it was a year ago, the hurt was still there. Had it been anything else, I would have considered it just another one in a long line of disappointments in my life—another botched opportunity that chances are I didn’t have a prayer of making, anyway. But this was different. This opportunity had my name written all over it. One that was right in line with a skill I totally owned that almost no one in my sphere of influence could match me in, including my perfect sister, and I had that chance to showcase it on the world stage. It looked as if God had finally given me my purpose in life, a purpose that would not be overshadowed by someone else and would grant me honor and prestige to boot. But in the cruelest of ironies, the Lord snatched that opportunity right out from under me, and that while I was in service to him. I didn’t speak, but a defeated sigh was all that was needed. In the dark, I felt Patricia’s soft and reassuring hand on my shoulder.

Want to pray about it?

I opened my eyes slightly, the sarcasm was completely gone from my BFF’s face, replaced with sincere compassion. I took a second to consider her offer, and then I shook my head. As of late, my prayers seemed to have hit a no-reception zone, and the notion of again seeking a sympathetic ear from the Lord that chances were I wasn’t going to get was another strain my heart didn’t need. Even our time of morning worship, which we have two hours before I get up, I merely trudged through. Spiritually, I had nothing left. I’m all prayed out, Patricia. I moved away from the locker, her hand sliding from me. Though I was walking absently, partially zoned out, I knew I was heading to the girls’ room around the corner; there was the matter of my post mad-dash-in-the-rain appearance I had to attend to before I went to the next class, which was music. I heard Patricia’s steps close on my heels but didn’t hold the door open for her, wanting to get to the mirrors and give myself the once over as quickly as possible. I was briefly shocked at the image that met me. My hair, by now a pathetic mass of wet black strings, lay plastered on my head, face and neck, lingering rainwater, giving it a dull sheen. My face, lackluster chocolate drained of all moisture, with tired eyes tracked with pencil-thin lines of red. And this was the image I put before Ampersand. I sighed. I pumped out a length of paper towels from the dispenser and wiped my hair dry, pushing the wad into the nearby trash bin. The comb was in my jacket pocket, and I took it out reluctantly, not feeling the upcoming cosmetic struggle. Patricia stepped into the mirror slightly to my left, also giving herself the once-over. Taking hold of her white headband, she adjusted the lifelong counterpart to her own girl-next-door neck-length black bob. That done, she then tinkered with the button sitting crookedly on her shirt, a combo of the Cross with the smaller Star of David sitting on its center, setting it just right. She looked to me, still wearing the compassion she brought in from the hall.

You know, if we pray about it, El, it’ll be a lot easier to work through it. She smiled and half shrugged. You know, ‘where two or more are gathered together in My name…’

This is what I loved about Patricia. Though she could get on my nerves sometimes with her sarcastic deadpan quips, whenever I needed a word or a shoulder or a prayer that would warm my heart or reboot some depleted faith, Patricia always delivered. This has always been the case with her since we first met when we were both five. My family had gone to the church picnic at the park, and Mom got Shannon and me ice cream cones from the truck, Shannon taking hers to the swings while I took mine to the merry-go-round as Mom kept tabs close by. No other kid was there, which I was pretty glad for, so I could just sit and enjoy my ice cream in solace. But when I took just one lick of my only scoop, my characteristic clumsiness showed up; and I licked too hard, knocking the scoop right off the cone, sending it to the ground. But before I could bawl my eyes out, I looked up, and suddenly, a little girl with dark hair and a white headband stood right there in front of me, seemingly out of nowhere. She, too, had an ice cream cone but with two scoops, as opposed to my one. Wow, that’s a bummer, she said plainly. Then she brightened, holding out her cone out to me. But you don’t have to cry! Here… She said I could have her top scoop, all I would have to do was touch the top of my cone to it and take it off. She assured me that it hadn’t been licked yet, so there was no chance of cootie infection. I gave her my thanks and took a cautious lick, making sure the scoop was secure. She then asked me what seemed to be a pretty weird question, that if I knew I was an answer to prayer. She said that she had been watching Shannon and me and that she had been asking God for a sister all her life but if that wasn’t in the cards, a best friend would do, and if that was the case, put her right on this merry-go-round. And here you are! said cheerily. I’m Patricia, and you’re my new best friend! C’mon! Patricia promptly grabbed my free hand without asking my name or saying anything further and proceeded to drag me to a bench where a dark-haired woman with a similar headband was sitting. Mom! You and Daddy don’t have to give me a sister anymore! God’s given me a best friend! I don’t know her name yet, but I prayed for her, and here she is! And that’s how it started. The sharing of an ice cream cone began an incredible friendship with a girl who never had a brother or sister but stuck far closer than one. All the way from Barbies and princess movies to lipstick and talks about boys, Patricia stood by my side and had my back through every mishap that characterized my life. When people dogged me out for costing my team points in volleyball, kickball, or whatever, she always stuck up for me. When no one wanted me to sit next to them on the bus or in the cafeteria, she always had an open space ready. When I would share with her some plan for the future that others wrote off as impossible or not for me, she would say that if it’s the Lord’s will, go for it. Then, of course, there were the multiple sleepovers, lunch overs, her going to church with me or me going with her, and then the obligatory sharing of clothes and girl gear. There was even the time when she stood between me and Roberta Samms, the leader of Dayville’s premier girl gang and her crew. For more times than I remember, Patricia has always been a bright star in my universe, and I ultimately came to accept that our meeting was, indeed, the hand of God. And we officially confirmed our BFF status years ago, when we gave each other friendship bracelets from the True Blue Jeans company promotional campaign, which we were still wearing to this day. The blue bands were etched with the slogan Forever Blue, and from that, Patricia and I created a tradition derived from the classic pinkie swear. If one of us sought to confirm the loyalty, camaraderie, and love for the other, she would raise her hooked pinkie and ask, True blue? to which the other would hook her own pinkie to hers and respond with the words etched in the band, Forever blue. And true blue is exactly what defined all of what Patricia was. But even so, the pain from the blow I was dealt was still well in play, and even Patricia’s offering was not enough to set it right. I can’t, Patricia. I shook my head, putting the comb back in my pocket. Not this time. I headed back out. Patricia was right on my heels again and stopped me with a hand on my shoulder.

Hey, hold on a minute!

I turned an annoyed look at Patricia, not wanting to be bothered with more, but she just returned to me the face of compassion. I didn’t mean to bum you out back there, El. You know I’m just looking out for you. But you know what… She took off her backpack, opened it, and took out a yellow envelope. I was going to save this for later, but you look like you could use it now. Happy birthday, El’!

Just like that, I had forgotten. My birthday. My supposed sweet sixteenth birthday to be exact. All the mess I’d gone through today totally blew it off the top shelf of my mind. I had totally forgotten my own birthday. And particularly, a birthday that legend held was supposed to be a pivotal time in a young girl’s life, that special time of flowering from girl to womanhood. Poetry has lauded it; recording artists have sung praises to it; major motion pictures have been named for it. All of this emblematic of what this occasion should be and how does mine go? As a pathetic fiasco that could have been featured on Cartoon Network. But like I said, as always, Patricia stepped up with gestures like this to cheer me.

Thanks, Patricia. I smiled at her warmly. I took the card out of the envelope, which showed on the cover a drawing of a church scene and a girl sitting on a pew who looked arguably and eerily like Patricia. She looked out to the reader and said, I heard you were praying that I would give you a special gift for your birthday. Well, remember… I opened the card, which showed no scene, only the words, God answers every prayer, and sometimes the answer is no! And under this in red Patricia script: Happy 16th birthday, El! Patricia.

I closed the card and looked at Patricia, who shrugged, wearing a questionably innocent grin on her face. I could feel the annoyance climbing back into mine. Thanks, Patricia. I really needed that! I turned away, but Patricia caught my arm again.

I’m sorry, El! Her words were muffled by a mouth full of muted giggles, her cheeks rosy. You know I wouldn’t rip you like that! Here… She reached into her pack again and pulled out a multicolored wrapped package.

I took it, not taking my eyes off her; there were still some leftover giggles tugging the sides of her mouth that I didn’t trust. But when I opened the package, the suspicion drained, brightness refilled. It was a combo DVD—four classic swashbucklers: The Sea Hawk with Errol Flynn, Mark of Zorro with Tyrone Power, The Three Musketeers (Gene Kelly version), and finally The Princess Bride. A must-have for classic adventure movie buffs and fencing enthusiasts, of which I was both, as Patricia well knew. A slight pang of hurt jabbed in the middle of appreciation, though, the gift a reminder of the issue I told her I didn’t want to recount. But I swallowed it, my heart shifting back into appreciation mode for the girl who once again proved worthy of the title BFF.

Thanks, Patricia.

She smiled warmly and raised a hooked pinkie to me. True blue?

I chuckled slightly and hooked my own pinkie to hers. Forever blue, Patricia. Forever blue.

We then folded each other into a warm hug. When we broke, Patricia asked, So, did the parental units plan a party?

Probably. I shrugged. But if not, I’m okay with it. I’m really not into it this year.

Patricia seemed relieved. That’s kinda good because I couldn’t make it, anyway. I’ve got the black belt test tonight at karate finally. Can’t miss it! I’ll finally be a certified butt kicker!

I nodded. This is one of the reasons Patricia wasn’t intimidated by the likes of Roberta Samms. She then sidled up to me and nudged me in the side, her eyes knowing and voice quasi-confidential. "Not like I actually got an invite, anyway." She winked at me, but I blew slightly.

Remember, I said before we didn’t know what we were going to do, Patricia.

She chuckled. I know, El’. I was just checking." She gave me a slight slap on the shoulder, and that’s when the PA went off.

Attention, attention, attention! Remember, the long-awaited state championship girls’ basketball game between the Dayville Lions and the Uptonville Raptors is this Sunday! Tickets are still available, but they’re going fast, fast, fast!

At this, every occupant in the hall, as well as those in the unseen regions of Dayville, let loose a rousing cheer and applause that shook the whole school to its core. Again, the PA: So all you true-blooded Dayvillians be sure to gather here—yes, right here—to cheer on our girls as they go for the shot of the first state championship title in the Dayville High’s thirty-year history!

Again, the halls thundered with applause, along with the obligate woof, woofs from the numerous jocks, both male and female scattered amongst the crowd. A few of their more enthusiastic members let loose with Lions rule! at way beyond the top of their lungs. I should have been able to put in my own exuberant two cents, given that I was on the team, but given that I spent most of my Lions career on the bench, it was pretty hard to share the joy. Once again, the PA: Remember, today is also the last day to purchase tickets for this year’s Spring Formal! Tickets are on sale now in the cafeteria, so make sure to get yours while you still can! And last but not least, celebrating a birthday today are… A cheesy drumroll played over the PA. This is the part that piqued my interest. Every day, Dayville High announces the birthday of both students and faculty who had informed the office at least two weeks in advance. It sounded like something incredibly special to have your birthday proclaimed over the airwaves, and I submitted mine the minute I first heard of this at the beginning of the year. Now after all these months, it was my turn.

The PA continued, Linda Levenson, Stephanie Babson, Kumiko Uyehara, and Eileen Willis.

I felt my heart drop, my stomach knot. Eileen Willis. That was the name he called. Eileen Willis. Not Ellen Willis, my name. My name as written on my birth certificate and copied down clearly on the statement I’d given to the office. A simple name. Ellen Willis. A name that I wrote in both bold black letters and completely in caps so that there’d be no possible chance of blowing it. But, of course, he had. I guess I should have expected it. Most times in my life, when my name was called, it was usually mistaken for such favorites as Helen, Ellie, Edna, Ethel, and the aforementioned Eileen. Ellen never seemed important enough to remember. At least not when I’m the Ellen wearing it. This latest episode further evidenced it. Frustration just overtook me, and I slapped my hands down on my sides and sighed. Figures.

I’m sorry, El. Patricia slipped her arm around my waist, pressing me in a warm hug as we continued on.

They couldn’t even get it right. The disgust was tight in my mouth. "Ellen Willis—I mean, how hard could it be?! How could they get Kumiko Uyehara right and blow it on Ellen Willis?!"

Patricia gave me a few sympathetic pats on the shoulder. "Well, I wouldn’t worry about it, El. The important thing is that the truly important people in your life—namely yours truly—know that it’s your special day and don’t need some public broadcast to consider you special."

I shrugged, sighing. Maybe. But did you notice how Linda Levenson’s name was mentioned first? All the other names—even the imposter subbing for mine—were in alphabetical order, but Linda’s? As always, granted her usual spot at the head of everybody.

Patricia shrugged herself. Well, what’d you expect, El’? I’m mean, after all, she is the Princess of Dayville, remember?

I nodded silently. Of course, Patricia was right. Princess of Dayville was just the title for her.

The nod as Ampersand’s star pupil just barely scratched the surface of Linda Levenson’s m.o.… As heiress apparent to Dayville’s richest family, Linda enjoyed the sweet reality us ordinary female carbon units could only dream of. The billions earned from Levenson Industries, a Fortune 500 corporation, allowed the Levensons to own over two-thirds of Dayville, with holdings in banks, hospitals, corporate real estate—not to mention the mortgages of small businesses and almost every home in town. All of this financial muscle gave the Levensons de facto power