Lucky Girl by Jamie Pacton (novels for beginners txt) 📕

Closing the closet door, I walk out of Mom and Dad’s room—no, just Mom’s room—and walk toward my own.

MY PHONE DINGS WITH A TEXT A FEW MINUTES LATER.

BRAN: You hanging in there? Worried about you.

JANE: I’m fine. Just need some time to think.

BRAN: What are you going to do? I’m working all day, so I can’t hang out.

JANE: Not sure, but I’ll text you when I figure it out. <3

Once I put my phone away, I ask myself the same question: What am I going to do? I can’t stay at home and stew all day.

My eyes fall on the Whale Watcher sweatshirt that Holden gave me.

Suddenly, today has a goal: find a spot where I can burn this wretched thing. I stuff it into my backpack (after I take off the whale enamel pin Holden gave me; that goes in the trash) and grab my phone and a lighter.

Before I leave my room, I check that the ticket is still in its hiding spot. Yep. Still in Sea Change, still on my bookshelf. Maybe I should take it with me? But then, what if I lose it? Or get mugged?

Mugged? Good grief, Jane. This is Lakesboro, not New York City. No one is going to mug you.

Fine. Fair point. It can go with me, and given Holden’s deadline, I feel safer somehow having the ticket on me.

I stuff Sea Change into my backpack as well. Then I head downstairs, navigating around the piles of stuff, praying nothing new has popped up since last night to trip me.

I stop in my tracks on the way to the kitchen. Where the one wedding dress we found on Big Junk Dump day once hung, Mom has added the other one we found at St. Vinny’s. But somehow, that’s not all. The wedding dresses seem to be multiplying. Now five more wedding dresses, all in various states of disrepair and decay, hang in the living room.

My house is officially Miss Havisham’s parlor. I half expect Mom to be sitting in the middle of the dresses, eating moldering wedding cake and shouting at me. Something about all these wedding dresses undoes me.

Like, I knew Mom was a hoarder, though we never really said the word. And I knew this was a problem—I even looked up why people hoard, and it all has to do with mental illnesses that can be addressed through therapy—but somehow this room full of wedding dresses, which she clearly went back to the thrift store in Madison for and she clearly spent hundreds of dollars on, is evidence of how sick Mom really is.

Would she even let me help her? Is her obsession with saving other people’s cherished things and memories really harming anyone? If I don’t mind living among her mess and it’s not unsanitary, is it that big a problem?

I don’t have answers to those questions, and I’ve got big enough problems of my own. At least for today.

I fill an old pop bottle with water and throw the last granola bar in the cupboard into my bag. The cabinets are empty except for a bag of rice and an old ramen package. I put that in my backpack too. Who knows how long I’ll be out today.

Head full of possibilities, I slip out of the house and into the chill of a late October morning. The grass is wet with dew, which soaks into my sneakers, but the sun is out, promising it’ll warm up a bit later. Snatching my bike from the pile of other bikes Mom has “rescued,” I pedal away from the house as fast as I can.

A FIFTY-TWO-MILE BIKE PATH RUNS THROUGH MY TOWN AND THEN INTO the countryside. The path was carved out by glaciers long ago, and it’s one my favorite places to disappear into nature. I steer my bike through town, heading toward the trailhead. I pedal quickly so I don’t run into anyone I know. I have my hood up, and there’s no reason anyone should recognize me. But still, a raw edge fires my nerves as I turn left at the main stoplight in downtown. If I’m lucky, I won’t bump into anyone I know.

But of course, I’m not that lucky. As I’m waiting at the stop sign on Main Street for my turn to go, a car pulls up beside me. I glance over quickly, and Holden’s eyes meet mine.

Shit.

He starts to unroll his window, mouthing something, but I don’t want to hear it. All I feel when I see him is rage. Whipping my bike around, I head left before it’s my turn to go. A station wagon with a headless deer carcass tied to the top (because hunting season in Wisconsin, ew) nearly runs me down. The driver slams on his brakes and honks at me.

I wave an apology and pedal as fast as I can to get off the street before Holden can follow. It takes some darting around town, but I make my way to the bike trail without Holden catching up to me.

And then, as I steer my bike onto the long stretch of hard-packed dirt and gravel, something in me lifts. I pedal hard, putting my body into it as I race away from town. I’m heading east. That’s all I know and all I care to know. Above me, the trees are a fire-bright tunnel of orange and red, and the wind makes them creak like ships on the water.

Harder, faster, I pedal, putting every worry, fear, care, and anxiety into the simple motion of my feet. Up, down, forward. Always keep moving forward. It’s not a race, but yes, it is. A race to stay away from those who would hurt me. Who would take what I have. Who want to use me for what I can give them.

I skid to a halt all of a sudden, scaring a gray squirrel running across the path. My breath comes