Page 136 of With a Little Luck

I don’t care if I’m the butt of every joke from now until graduation.

All I care about is that I am here. On the stage, in the spotlight, microphone in hand, proclaiming to the world thatI am worthy…

Of love. Of attention. Of glory. Of romance. Of adventure. Of magic.

And yet … I have been found wanting.

“Nice try, simp,” someone shouts. Then another voice—“Play some music!”

“Jude?” says Trish. “You all right, sweetheart?”

I nod and give her a sheepish smile. “Sorry about that,” I say. “I guess that didn’t go according to plan.”

She takes the microphone from me. “It was a valiant effort. If I were Ari, I’d feel pretty damn lucky.”

I smile, but my heart isn’t in it.

Trish starts the music again as I stumble off the stage. I remember my dice at the last moment. Looking back, I see it there, twinkling innocently by the sound equipment. On top? A sad, golden number one.

Critical fail.

Betrayal hits me in my gut as I grab the dice and stuff it back into my pocket. I don’t look at Maya or Pru or any of my friends. The crowd parts for me as I stagger toward the exit.

“Jude?” says Pru, chasing after me. “Are you okay? We can drive you to Ari’s house. We can—”

I spin toward her. “No, Pru. I’m just going to walk home.”

She frowns. It will take an hour on foot. “We can take you …”

I shake my head. “Thanks, for everything. But I just need some time. Enjoy the dance.”

I nod at Quint, wave at Maya and the others.

And I go.

339

Chapter Forty-Three

I don’t go home. Not right away. At first I just wander. But itmust be easier to wander downhill, and in Fortuna Beach, going downhill usually leads you to the ocean, which is how I end up at the boardwalk. And then—Ventures Vinyl.

I let myself in through the back door using the keypad that Mom had installed because Dad has a bad habit of forgetting his keys at home. I make my way to the front of the store. For a second I just stand in the doorway, looking out into the shadows. There’s enough light coming through the front windows that I can make out the peaks and valleys of the bins and shelves, the merch tables, the framed posters with glass that glints when a car passes by outside.

I have never been here when it was so quiet. There’s always music playing, and the constant drone of work and laughter and family and, on the best days, Ari. Humming to herself, always.

I turn on the lamp on the counter, leaving off the overhead lights. It’s still dim, but in a way that’s cozy and serene.

And right next to the lamp, haloed in its golden sheen, is Ari’s record.

Araceli the Magnificent.

I don’t even want to touch the record, for fear it will burst into flames in my hand.

I make my way around the counter. Past the hanging T-shirts with the logos I designed. The concert posters and Beatles memorabilia on the walls. The vintage Ventures clock with the hands made to look like surfboards.340

I run my fingers over the records in their bins. Jazz. Blues. Alternative.

I stop when I get to the end of the aisle and look at the stage in the corner. The microphone. The amps and speakers. The acoustic guitar is set on a stand in the corner—what was once my guitar, during that brief stint when I took lessons years ago. Dad held on to it, and has had it available in the store for years now, in case a customer ever wants to just pick it up and strum some music—which is an idea that absolutely terrifies me, but you’d be surprised how many people do it. At least once a day, some stranger picks up that guitar, sits on that stool, and plays a song. Like it’s nothing. Like they aren’t terrified of being judged, ridiculed, mortified.

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