Page 80 of With a Little Luck

Maya frowns. “What’s Mary Day?”

“No idea. Something to do with Mother Mary? I think it’s in August? But I get around that one by just never giving anything away.”

“You literally just gave away a four-leaf clover,” I point out.

“Crap. Didn’t think of that. Anyway … it’s not Mary Day. I’m pretty sure.” He looks at Ari. “So what do you got?”

She considers. “Let’s see. It’s unlucky to sweep dirt out of your front door. Or decorate with seashells. Or travel on a Tuesday. And you should never step on a grave …”

Ezra rolls his eyes. “That’s unlucky everywhere.”

“Oh! You’re also not supposed to watch a dog … um … do its business.” Her cheeks go scarlet. “It will give you pimples.”

We all stare at her, and when it’s clear she’s serious, we burst into laughter.

“Classic,” says Ezra. “That explains some things.”

“How about black cats?” I ask, thinking of the creepy feline in the fortune teller’s tent. “That’s definitely unlucky, right?”

Ari nods her head. “Very.”

“Wrong,” says EZ. “They’re lucky to us.”

I draw back, surprised. “Really?”

“Oh yeah. Be good to the cats, man. They’ve got sorcerer’s powers for sure, and they can use them for good or evil. But if you’re good to them, they’ll be good to you.”

I can’t tell if he’s joking. I also can’t tell if EZ is trying to flirt with Ari, or if she’s trying to flirt with him back, and I’m weirdly relieved when a205short, curvy woman thumps the microphone, pulling our attention back to the stage.

“Hello, everyone! Are we having a great time at the Condor Music Festival?”

The crowd cheers. Though there’s significantly fewer people than there were for the last group, it’s still a good-size audience. And the setting couldn’t be more beautiful. The rolling grassy hill, the horizon of towering pine trees, the approaching dusk giving an orange tinge to the festival at our backs.

Suddenly, my fingers twitch in a way that hasn’t happened in a week or more.

I should draw this.

I’ve felt pretty uninspired since my lame attempts to sketch something new that would be worth submitting to theDungeon.It might be nice to sketch out a scene that has nothing to do with fantasy or fandom for once. Something low-pressure.

Onstage, the woman is explaining the songwriting competition and how entrants from all over the country submitted music in nine different musical genres. I pull the sketchbook and pencil from my backpack while she goes on about their esteemed panel of judges, all professionals in the industry, and the harrowing task they were given to narrow the entries down to just ten finalists.

I draw the stage first. The scaffolding on either side, the backdrop, the lights, slowly working my way out to include the trees in the background, the audience out front with their coolers and blankets.

“And what a treat we have for you today,” says the host. “Of our ten finalists,sevenwere able to join us here at the festival, and they are going to be performing their songs for us live! What an amazing opportunity to hear some up-and-coming talent!”

The crowd applauds.

“Before we get to the live performances, we’re going to play the videos from the three finalists who could not join us in person tonight.”206

A screen behind her lights up with a projected video.

A boy around our age sits at a grand piano. He introduces himself and his song, then begins to play.

The song is good.Reallygood, actually. The lyrics all about chasing a dream that seems just out of reach.

Next is a college-aged woman with a soulful voice. Her song is poetic and profound and has something to do with sailors and gold and taking a chance and … Honestly, I don’t really get it, but it sounds cool.

Lastly, an older man with a ukulele sings an achingly sad love-lost song about someone named Georgine.

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