Why are my eyes so green, and why is my hair so red? Who is my mother? Where is my mother? Lucky asked herself these questions all the time, but she never voiced them aloud anymore because her father didn’t answer her. Lucky would see mothers and daughters out in the world and understand that not always, but sometimes and really quite often, a mother was a soft, safe, beautiful thing. She didn’t have that. And she ached for it.
She thought of the stolen items in the bottom of her backpack: a Discman, a trendy watch, some dangly earrings. Why had she hidden them from her father? He knew she stole; he didn’t care. But these things felt like they were only hers. She didn’t want him to see who she really wanted to be.
She was hiding something else from him, too. But it was time to reveal it.
““I know I haven’t been in school for years, since we were living with… when we were in Bellevue,” Lucky began. “But I’ve been studying. I’ve kept up. I want to find out if it’s been good enough. So I want to take my high school equivalency—and then, if I do well, I want to take the SAT. And then… I want to apply to college.”
Her father nodded slowly. He didn’t seem surprised. “You’ve really thought this through.”
“It’s all I think about these days.”
“And I guess what you’re hiding in your backpack is more books.”
“Yes,” she lied.
“You didn’t need to hide this from me. I understand. And it’s fine. I’ll take care of things. You focus on studying.”
“I could still set up a tarot table, down at the wharf. Do that one day a week?”
“Nah, nah. That’s small potatoes. If you’re going to be attending college, I’m going to need some real money. But don’t you worry about it. Like I said, I’ll figure it out.”
She couldn’t believe it had been this easy. She had been sure he would say no, get upset and tell her she couldn’t just resign as his partner. But he didn’t seem bothered. And now she was going to start taking steps, on her own, to be a regular person with a regular life. That meant studying; that meant school. Diplomas and jobs.
Her father turned in a small circle on the tiny deck. “This place feels like it’s full of possibility,” he said.
And for once, Lucky had to agree.
* * *
John got a job at a seafood restaurant called the Sandbar, an iconic spot perched over an area of the beach littered with oyster shells glittering like broken and discarded treasure. He said his name was Johnny Starr, that he had wanted to be an actor, once—easy to believe, with his good looks, which never frayed at the edges the way his clothes did. He and his daughter, Alaina, had moved here from L.A. for a quieter life after a favorite uncle died and left him the boat.
It was still the low season, but the restaurant had a steady clientele of executives and local politicians. There was money to be made, John told Lucky, and as far as Lucky could tell all he meant was tips. He was working at a real job. She would sit on the deck of their boat, layered in sweaters, and study, and he’d go off to work. Maybe he had been right. Maybe this was it. Their home.
When she looked back on this time later, it was as one of the happiest in her life.
Her father would come home at night with bags of leftover food from the restaurant—mostly sandwiches, omelets, fries, and salads, but sometimes a prawn, a crab cake, a pile of steamed Manila clams hidden beneath a leaf of butter lettuce, or a decadent pan-seared scallop atop a tangle of pasta. He’d count his tips while they ate, then hide the money in a lockbox he kept in the berth of the boat. She knew it wasn’t going to be enough to pay for college tuition, though.
“Maybe I’ll get a scholarship,” she mused.
“You just worry about passing those tests first, and I’ll take care of the rest.”
“I want to help out, Dad. It’s bothering me. I can’t study twenty-four/seven. Maybe I could work a few days at the restaurant. Do they need a hostess?” The weather was getting warmer and the restaurant busier. John agreed that a little extra money might help. He talked to his boss and got Lucky two shifts a week seating guests at tables and helping the bussers to clear them after.
One afternoon when Lucky and her father were both working at the restaurant, a striking, elegantly dressed woman with black hair pulled back in a severe French twist came in for lunch. She had a girl with her about Lucky’s age who looked sullen and shy, shoving her hands in her pockets and toeing the welcome mat with scuffed combat boots.
“I want table eight,” the woman said to Lucky. “That one. By the window.” Lucky felt irritated, but the owner of the restaurant said the customer was always right—and table eight was empty. It was in her father’s section. Lucky rolled her eyes at him after she seated the two guests, and he shrugged and smiled.
Hours later, long after the lunch rush was over, they were still there. The girl was looking out the window, apparently bored. The woman was laughing as John stood by their table, talking animatedly.
“Got myself another job,” her father told her later as he counted his tips and Lucky sat on the boat’s deck, munching on slightly soggy fried clams from a takeout container.
“That awful woman who came in today?”
“What was so awful about her?”
Lucky shrugged. “I dunno. Thought she was kind of rude.”
“Her name is Priscilla Lachaise. She was with her associate, Marisol Reyes.”
“Associate? I thought it was her daughter.”
“Nah, they work together.”
“Doing what?”
“Some sort of call center. Sounds like a good business, a lot of opportunity for growth.”
“Is it legit?”
He didn’t answer the question. “They need a manager. Good money, too. High commission.”
Weeks passed, and her father started spending a great deal of time with Priscilla and Marisol—whom he called Reyes and treated like a kid sister, or a second daughter. He didn’t like to talk about whatever it was Priscilla had him doing at a rented office that he would only tell her vaguely was “downtown.” Once Lucky and her dad had been partners. Now it often felt like they were strangers. She spent her days alone on the boat studying, or sitting on the beach, her nose buried in her books.