Lucky for Good Read online

  Lucky for Good

  ATHENEUM BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales

  are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the

  author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or

  dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2011 by Susan Patron

  Illustrations copyright © 2011 by Erin McGuire

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  ATHENEUM BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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  Book design by Sonia Chaghatzbanian

  The text for this book is set in Berkeley.

  The illustrations for this book are rendered in pencil.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  0711 FFG

  First Edition

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Patron, Susan, 1948–

  Lucky for good / Susan Patron; illustrated by Erin McGuire. — 1st ed.

  p. cm.

  Summary: The residents of Hard Pan, California, come together to help Brigitte and Lucky

  when the County Health Department threatens to close down the Café, and in the meantime

  Miles’s life is complicated by his mother’s return.

  ISBN 978-1-4169-9058-1

  [1. Restaurants—Fiction. 2. Interpersonal relations—Fiction. 3. Community life—

  California—Fiction. 4. Mothers and sons—Fiction. 5. Christian life—Fiction. 6. California—

  Fiction.] I. McGuire, Erin, ill. II. Title.

  PZ7.P27565Lvf 2011

  [Fic]—dc22 2010022040

  ISBN 978-1-4424-0944-6 (eBook)

  encore pour René de mon coeur

  contents

  1. enemies

  2. a clipboard

  3. a cross

  4. a boy named miles

  5. triple T

  6. courage

  7. just say oui

  8. depending on your point of view

  9. ollie martin

  10. the principal’s office

  11. a prickly tree

  12. elder futhark

  13. evidence of your credentials

  14. a lonely little boy

  15. murdock and tyson and all the others

  16. a french ado

  17. a glitch

  18. an unexpected outcome

  19. a very old story

  20. when god was six

  21. how lucky would cope if she had to

  22. safety first

  23. mucus

  24. getting into heaven

  25. saving on kleenex

  26. small talk

  27. a heart problem

  28. no matter what it is, it won’t be right

  29. something discovered about triple T

  30. a masterful communication

  31. two problems

  32. climbing upstairs to heaven

  33. serenity

  34. lucky for good

  Lucky for Good

  1. enemies

  The enemies invaded the trailers. Many crept in alone; others arrived in organized platoons. They concealed themselves and built secret tiny nests and lairs. Some of them bit, stung, and pinched; others clogged, soiled, smudged, and polluted.

  Lucky’s mom, Brigitte, faced these foes like a general in World War III. She mopped, swept, vacuumed, scoured, scrubbed, washed, polished, and sterilized. She was okay with the work. It was just part of living in the little desert town of Hard Pan, Pop. 43, which Brigitte had adopted as her home when she adopted Lucky as her daughter.

  Lucky herself had a live-and-let-live attitude toward Brigitte’s enemies, those mice, ants, flying ants, tarantula hawk wasps, scorpions, beetles, crickets, spiders, flies, and moths, plus sand, dust, dirt, grit, and dog hair. The creatures were all just doing their jobs, trying to eat and not get eaten, make a home, have children, live their urgent tiny lives. Lucky tried to help Brigitte see things from their point of view, but it was no use. Brigitte did not care one bit about the point of view of a bug.

  So Lucky was pretty conscientious about keeping the screen door closed and not tracking in dirt. She wiped down the tables on weekends, when Brigitte’s Hard Pan Café was open for lunch, and she bused and washed dirty dishes. But the problem with bugs is that they don’t care if a certain area “belongs” to you, like a shelf in your bedroom or a corner under the sink; all they know is, it seems like a good place to settle down. So Lucky had to be vigilant and keep up her guard, hunting and capturing the larger insects and releasing them outside.

  She did her best. But sometimes all that cleaning and enemy-fighting wore Lucky out. It made her wish she were back at her old job at the Found Object Wind Chime Museum and Visitor Center, which she’d given up because of having too much else to do. For that job, she just kept the patio clean and raked; she didn’t have to worry about dust or insects.

  And then a certain realization bonked Lucky over the head: Nothing stays clean. Sooner or later the thing will have to be cleaned again. The floor, the stove, tables, pots, forks, napkins, feet, paws—the never-endingness of cleaning made a quick little what-if thought spring into her mind. The what-if was like an online pop-up, which you’re forced to look at even if you don’t want to. It wasn’t a wish that she hoped would come true, but still, there it was, blinking at her from the corner of the screen in her mind.

  It was this: What if, for some reason, Brigitte’s Hard Pan Café just—poof—disappeared? Well, life would be way different. There would be so much less work! Brigitte could get a regular job. And they would have weekends just for themselves, to do fun things instead of working.

  But then Lucky reminded herself of the good parts. Like that Brigitte wasn’t homesick for France, because here in California she had a strict boss—but it was herself. And every day when Lucky got back from school, she was greeted twice: first with a dog-kiss from HMS Beagle, who was waiting at the bus drop-off, and then with a hug and a mom-kiss from Brigitte. Plus, Lucky was proud that Brigitte’s cooking was famous for miles around, and all on their own, they were making the Café a success. Tourists who found them told their friends, and local people from Sierra City and other towns started coming every single weekend. It was a kind of miracle, and Brigitte said it could never have happened without Lucky. So Lucky felt ashamed about what-iffing the Café’s disappearance, even for a second. She put on her yellow rubber gloves and got to work.

  But then a new enemy appeared, and started a different kind of battle.

  2. a clipboard

  At first Lucky thought it was just another hungry person, the man who pulled up in a truck with INYO CO. HEALTH DEPT. STATE OF CA stenciled on its door.

  “Early customer,” Lucky joked, it being Friday afternoon and the Café not open until tomorrow noon. She watched from inside the kitchen trailer as the man stood by his truck, looking at the tables and at the A-frame sign:

  Brigitte’s Hard Pan Café

  Open for

  Lunch/Dejeuner

  Sat—Sun & Holidays

  “Non,” said
Brigitte, also peering out the high window. “This man has a clipboard, and that is never good.”

  Bending down to use the toaster as a mirror, Brigitte applied lipstick and checked her hair before stepping into the open doorway.

  “Afternoon, ma’am,” the man said, reaching down flat-fingered to let HMS Beagle scent his hand. He eyed Brigitte from under the bill of his cap, looking suddenly less official and more like a big clumsy friendly bear, but not sure as to the correct etiquette and wanting to make a good impression. Lucky, unnoticed, smiled to herself. Brigitte often made that impression on people, even in her thrift store hospital scrubs, her hair in a hasty ponytail: They wanted her to like them. The man held his clipboard partially behind his leg, like when Lucky’s friend Miles tried to hide a stolen cookie.

  Brigitte smiled brilliantly at him and then looked apologetic. “We are not open today,” she said, glancing meaningfully at the sign, “but maybe you return tomorrow for lunch?”

  The man removed his cap, then didn’t seem to know what to do with it. He put it back on his head, the bill a little lower, as if to look more serious. When he raised the clipboard, Lucky knew he was only pretending to read it. She crossed her arms and brought one bare foot up to rest on the opposite calf of her jeans. She wanted to show the man that he couldn’t just drive up any time of the day or night and expect the Café to be open. And he couldn’t come around and try to scare them by acting so official. Maybe Brigitte was afraid of burros and snakes, but she was totally fearless about people. This made Lucky herself feel brave. She frowned at Mr. Inyo County Health Department mightily.

  He cleared his throat. “Brigitte Trimble?” he asked, his voice deep. He planted his feet apart like a cop about to make an arrest, the clipboard now in both hands like a shield.

  “Lucky, please look in the drawer to the left of the stove and bring to me the red folder,” Brigitte said, not taking her clear, defiant gaze off the man. “I show you my business and fictitious name permit,” she said to him, “if that is what you have come to check.”

  “Well, okay,” he agreed, as Lucky darted up the steps to the kitchen trailer. “But this is about Regulation Number 1849. I’m Stu Burping from County Health. Mind if I have a look at the kitchen?”

  Brigitte did not react, but as Lucky dashed back out with the folder, she thought, Stu Burping, who works for the county health department? Stu Burping? She imagined telling this tidbit of information to her best friend Paloma, and the two of them actually dying from laughter overdose.

  “The clerk in Independence has assured me that my papers are in order,” Brigitte said, lifting her chin, “but of course you may see the kitchen. We have no vermin or bug if that is what you wonder.” Lucky hoped strongly that this man hadn’t found out about the time she’d accidentally left a jar of tomato worms under a café table.

  Brigitte went on, “The freezer and fridge are kept always at the correct temperature.” Lucky glared at the man. He would never find a cleaner kitchen, that’s for sure, and Brigitte was extremely strict about following the guidelines of the online Certified Course in Restaurant Management and Administration with Diploma from the Culinary Institute of France in Paris.

  Stu Burping was a little hunched, Lucky noticed, and she realized he was older than she first thought, maybe as old as fifty-five or sixty-five—anyway, in that extreme age zone where the backs of their hands and their necks are wrinkled and they get ear-hair. Grandfather age. Lucky loved the idea of grandfathers and sometimes imagined how she would have enjoyed one or two of her own. But Stu Burping wasn’t here as a grandfather. She could tell from the way Brigitte had shifted to a mood where she was one-third angry, one-third insulted, and one-third just too busy. Stu Burping would not realize this about Brigitte, who seemed polite and cooperative on the surface, but Lucky read it easily in Brigitte’s posture, voice, and attitude. She was not pleased.

  “Pardon?” Stu Burping asked. “Kept always at what?” It was because “temperature” is written the same in French and in English, one of those words that Brigitte pronounced the French way, so with her accent it sounded like tahmp-air-a-TURE instead of TEM-pra-chure.

  “The correct temperature,” Lucky supplied.

  “Oh!” Stu Burping said. “Right. TEM-pra-chure.” He smiled at Lucky, then at Brigitte, who waited with a neutral expression on her face. She had been about to make a baba au rhum dessert for tomorrow, and this man was wasting her time.

  “Um,” he said, and used the edge of the clipboard to rub the back of his neck, papers fluttering. “Hmmm. It’s more about Regulation Number 1849. No commercial cooking from a residence.” He extracted two sheets of paper from the clipboard and offered them to Brigitte, who did not reach for them.

  “Is your, ah, Café, operated out of your residence?” Stu Burping asked in an apologetic, only-doing-my-job voice. He smelled like V8 juice, and his brown leather shoes looked tired, as if they would rather be resting in a closet.

  Lucky began to worry that this was a very bad situation, especially because of Brigitte’s silence. It was obvious that Lucky needed to intervene. “No!” she said, trying to look as grown-up and serious and knowledgeable as possible. “Of course not! That would be a violation of Regulation Number 1849! This”—she gestured toward the kitchen trailer behind her—“is our kitchen trailer. Naturally we don’t live there!” Lucky rolled her eyes exaggeratedly at Stu Burping to show him such an idea was ridiculous. “We prep and cook in the kitchen trailer, and we live in the other trailers that are connected to the kitchen trailer. So all the specimens—my dead insects and spiders and owl pellets—they’re all safe in their Altoids tin boxes in my bed-room.” Lucky gestured to her canned-ham trailer on one end and Brigitte’s Westcraft at the other end. The three trailers had been soldered together in a shape like the curve of an arm, with the outdoor tables of the Café nestled in its crook.

  “Lucky,” Brigitte said. The way she said it meant: Stop talking to this man immediately and let me handle it. Lucky pretended she hadn’t understood Brigitte’s warning. “Come on in and look,” she said, “so you can write down on your clipboard how this kitchen trailer is not our residence.”

  Brigitte took a deep breath, something between a snort and a giving-in. HMS Beagle ambled over to her side. Lucky watched Brigitte raise her eyebrows to the man, shrug, and tip her head to show he may enter. And Lucky glimpsed something else on Brigitte’s face, something rare: a kind of beseeching look, a vulnerability.

  This was so weird and unusual and wrong, Brigitte looking vulnerable, that Lucky felt worry churn and churn in her stomach.

  Stu Burping nodded slightly, tucked his clipboard under his arm, and said, “Thank you,” following her inside. Everything seemed friendly and fine on the surface, but Lucky agreed with HMS Beagle, who sniffed the ground where the man had stood and then looked, her tail low, at his truck. “I know,” she told her dog softly. “What if he says we’re breaking the law? What if you can get in trouble for something you didn’t know was wrong? What if he ruins everything?”

  But the Beag had no answer to what-ifs. So the two of them went crowding inside to find out what would happen next.

  3. a cross

  The official Inyo County truck had been spotted, and word of it got around town fast. On that April Saturday at noon the Café tables were loaded with customers who had heard rumors that the county health department was going to shut down the place. Brigitte went from table to table, explaining with a laugh and a shrug that she was pretty sure Regulation Number 1849 was just a technicality, not such a terrible thing.

  Lucky’s friend Miles, a certified genius even though he was only six and a half (genius being one of the few things in life, Lucky had discovered, that was not age-related; you could be one even when you were a baby, apparently), had also heard the rumors. So Miles wanted to be there in case the sheriff came to arrest Brigitte and take her to jail. He said he would dash over to the sheriff’s car and climb up onto the hood to stop the
m from taking Brigitte away. Lucky decided he was overreacting because his own mother had been in prison on a drug charge ever since he was very little, and she explained that whatever happened, they wouldn’t actually arrest Brigitte. But Miles insisted on coming over to the Café to hang around, just to be sure; plus, he didn’t want to miss any excitement, because excitement was pretty rare in Hard Pan.

  Lucky watched and listened as she did table setups, noticing that the worried look on Brigitte’s face from last night had been replaced by her confident smile. But Lucky also knew that Brigitte had stayed up late, reading over and over the official papers Stu Burping had left, finally slapping them down on the table and flinging her pencil against the trailer wall. From her bed, Lucky heard Brigitte go outside in the night, moving among the tables and neatly aligned chairs, her footsteps crunching on the gravelly sand in a way that had sounded sad and hopeless to Lucky.

  Inside Lucky’s canned-ham trailer, Miles sat on the bed, out of the way of the kitchen bustle but with the connecting door open so he could talk to Lucky as she flew in and out. He thrummed his heels soundlessly against the bed, reading Amazing Dinosaurs and licking celery sticks stuffed with peanut butter. Occasionally he’d peer out her porthole window, checking to see if the sheriff had arrived.

  Lucky carried glasses and a half pitcher of water to table four, where two customers sat with their backs to the other tables, their helmets and leather jackets and gloves piled in a heap next to a giant Harley-Davidson. The woman, small and compact compared to her lanky, tank-topped companion, had a short, boylike haircut, with a tattoo on the back of her neck. Lucky wanted a closer look at that tattoo. They both turned as she approached, but she was able to see the design: a cross.

  “Hi,” Lucky said. “I’ll bring the blackboard menu over in a sec.”

  They looked back at her and the woman squinted a little, like someone who has lost her glasses. “That’s okay,” she said in a high-pitched voice. “He’ll have a burger with everything and I’ll have a salad.”