Lucky Now and Zen

LUCKY NOW AND ZEN

By Melissa Yuan

Published by Olo Books

Smashwords Edition

In association with Windtree Press

Copyright 2011, Melissa Yuan-Innes

Dedicated to Brian Yuan

Cover photo © 2008 D. Sharon Pruitt. Used with permisson.

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Epilogue

Prologue

I am the luckiest guy I know, but I don't enjoy it.

When I draw a scratch and win card out of my cereal or scrape the disc out of the Coke bottle cap, it's never SORRY, TRY AGAIN. I always get a prize. Not the grand prize, but at least a free drink or movie, or more usually twenty to fifty bucks.

If I like the look of a girl and offer to buy her a drink, she always says yes. Or she makes the first move. Like yesterday, I was riding the Hamilton city bus with my friend Claude, and a petite brunette handed me her number on her way out. She winked at me as the rubber-lined doors sealed behind her.

My sister Susie used to say this wasn't luck. What's the big deal? They like the way you look. Why shouldn't they ask you out or whatever?

I know better-looking guys who get shot down once in a while. Not me.

Not ever.

Chapter 1

Claude Dubel was my best friend. As of today, he was also my Bowerbank University roommate. They make all the first years share a double. They must not have enough single bedrooms, the cheap bastards, said Claude, tossing a wool sock at me. Ah, well. As long as you don't fart too much, we should be all right.

I caught the sock automatically. At least it was clean. Up yours.

In your dreams, buddy.

We both laughed.

We staked our claim in room 234 of Ridley Hall and started unpacking our stuff. Mine was jammed in mismatched boxes from the liquor store that advertised everything from raspberry vodka to Pinot Noir. Claude's had been packed by professional movers. But I got unpacked first and threw myself on my bed. I'd picked the side of the room next to the stairs. I figured I'd rather listen to people running up and down two flights than hear our neighbors snore.

The mattress was a bit saggy, but not too bad, considering it'd been used by 2000 students before me. I scraped at the white-painted brick wall. Hey. There's a piece of gum here. They painted right over the gum!

Save it for Nicole, Claude muttered. He hates his stepmother.

In the old days, I'd laugh, but instead, I left the gum embedded in the wall and said, Are you gonna be done soon?

Relax, he said, slicing open a box and lifting out a bottle of aftershave. I want to have a shower first.

Spare me, I said, turning head to toe, so my head pointed at our only window. Claude possessed more bath products than some of my old girlfriends.

He tossed the transparent square bottle in the air and caught it again, one-handed. It matters to the ladies.

The ladies. I guessed we were getting older, because we used to call 'em girls.

When exactly did I start to notice girls? One day, they were playing basketball with us or trying to rile me by chanting, Hey, Luke! You make me puke! The next day, I could hardly sit still in my chair because these girls, who I knew my whole life, were suddenly really there, if you know what I mean.

They even smelled different, under the hairspray and makeup and perfume so strong, Susie told me they sprayed it in the air and walked through the cloud instead of spraying it right on their wrists.

Suddenly, girls were hanging out by my locker, flouncing their hair as they talked to me. The phone rang on Saturday afternoons, and when Mom called me to the phone, girls would giggle at me before they hung up. Someone left a note in my jacket, folded into such a small triangle, I almost didn't notice it until I hunted for spare change. Luke!!!! U R the Q-test!

Claude's the opposite. He's the one who goes after the ladies. He launches his heart and mind, spinning it like a pizza crust and tossing it in front of the girl. He'll stay up until sunrise with her, discussing the Middle East, great Canadian eccentrics, vanquished family pets, tiramisu vs. Jos. Louis, last night's game, whatever.

He's not a crowd-pleaser with the girls, the way I am, but they'll be each other's everything for at least a month or two.

Claude adjusted his bangs with a fancy comb that looked like it'd been made out of endangered turtle shell and, considering his family's money, it probably was. He said, I met this girl.

Saved or not saved? Most of his conquests took place at church, which makes it easier for our unofficial pact not to touch each other's prospects.

His eyes glinted and met mine in the mirror. Not saved, Luke. Definitely not saved. He tossed the comb across the room where it bounced off his desk into his garbage can.

Before Claude could go for the comb or tell me more about whoever she was, a roar reverberated along the hall, through our closed door. GET UP, FROSH!

WTF? I jumped to my feet.

We'd already met our two residents' associates, an athletic Asian guy named Mark and a really short girl, Pat, whose wheat blond hair reminded me of the hair my sister used to have. Neither of them bellowed.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Stumbling noises.

Stifled laughter.

The call grew louder as more people took it up. GET UP, FROSH!

Our door and frame rattled. Artillery couldn't raise the Richter scale. "GET UP, FROSH!"

An ogre flung open our unlocked door and glared at me.

I'm five foot eleven and built like a runner.

He had to be six foot three and looked like he could bench press 250. He was also bald and reeked of beer, probably because he was carrying a blue plastic mug of the stuff. He looked a like bald Fred Flintstone pumped up on 'roids.

He wedged his free arm in our doorway like he owned the building. Then he jabbed his beer mug at me, sloshing the liquid toward my face. What are you, DEAF? Get your asses out here, you faggots!

The RA, Mark, waved us into the hallway from behind Flintstone. The hall was clogged with frosh, most of them wearing the butt-ugly Ridley Hall T-shirt with Till the World Ends! emblazoned on the back

I couldn't help thinking that if I really was the luckiest guy in the world, I wouldn't be stuck with a drunken mob welcoming committee. Girls in bikinis, that's more my style.

Claude cackled and bumped my shoulder with his. Watch this.

I knew that laugh. I grabbed his arm. Dude—

Claude wrenched his arm away. He sprang forward and knocked the beer out of Flintstone's hand. Flintstone jerked back. The beer sprayed my closet and soaked into our grey felt carpet.

Claude ducked under Flintstone's arm, into the hallway.

You little— Flintstone reached for Claude's neck, but Claude ducked behind Mark and grinned at him over our RA's shoulder.

Relax. Mark grabbed Flintstone's arm. It was an accident. Right, uh, Claude?

Flintstone's biceps bulged. One flex and Mark would crash into the hallway plaster before Flintstone crushed Claude's head.

I scooped up Flintsone's mug and handed it back to him to distract him.

He snatched it. Fuckin' Frosh! I'm going to kick the shit out of you.

Mark laughed. Chill, man. It's all right. Plenty more beer where that came from.

Flintstone used one hand to squeeze the mug so hard, the plastic splintered. He twisted and launched the pieces at Claude's face. Get me another beer, you—

Claude took off down the hall.

I winced. He should've sprinted left and taken the stairs.

Hey. You come back here! Come— Flintstone pounded down the hall after him. In the distance, I could see Claude knocking people over and cackling while Fred F yelled, Come here! I know where you live!

Yeah. And in case he forgot, our names were pasted to our door in orange and blue construction paper bubbles. I swiped our own orientation mugs from our desks. I'll get some more beer.

Don't bother, said Mark. Now it's personal.

I looked at him. Mark's eyes crinkled with laughter. You guys picked the wrong guy to piss off. Now Fisk is really gonna come after you.

I jammed on my running shoes and laced them without bothering with socks. Claude needed me.

Mark called to my back as I took off after Fisk, still carrying the mugs. If your roommate commits suicide—which he kind of just did—

I sprinted down the hall and barely managed to avoid a head-on collision with a girl in pigtails. She giggled.

—they automatically pass you for the term. There's an upside to everything! Mark hollered.

I almost flashed him the finger, but then I stopped dead at the bend in the hallway.

Fisk glowered as he bore back down the hall toward me.

I've never been stalked by a bull, but I think it would look a lot like Fisk lowering his head so he could survey me from under his monobrow.

What's going on? a white girl in dreads asked me, but I just shook my head.

Fisk paused about ten feet away, near the fire alarm. I could smell his sweat from here.

He smiled at me. It was a dangerous smile. All teeth. Hey, roomie.

I didn't answer.

His mouth opened and he issued a command. Strip.

I stared at him. Two beer mugs still dangled in my hand.

Are you deaf? One of his teeth, the bottom left canine, was gold-plated.

I didn't move.

He advanced three more steps. Strip down to your shorts. You're allowed to keep one sock on. He glanced down at my feet jammed in my dirty Brooks running shoes. His thin upper lip curled.

I glanced at my RA's. Mark crossed his arms and leaned in the doorway like this was great entertainment. Pat bit her lip and looked from me to Fisk, but she wasn't about to call the cops.

I was wearing old tighty-whities because I'd accidentally packed all my boxer shorts. Not only were they the Y-front, but they were so old, the material had turned yellow. There was no way in hell I was going to strip down in front of my new dorm mates and show them.

But I said, Okay and reached for my waistband.

Fisk grinned.

I hurled the beer mugs at his head, threw the stair door open, and whipped down two flights.

Come back here, you little chickenshit—you little FUCK—

His bellowing echoed up and down the stairs like we were trapped in a tin can together, but by the time I heard him battering down the stairs, and people hooting over his shoulder, I was already yanking open the ground floor door and sprinting off the concrete steps on to the grass.

I had no idea where I was going.

The good news was, I didn't have to worry too much about cars. Bowerbank was a self-contained, mostly car-free campus ringed by parking lots and some trees. Ridley Hall bordered on Cootes Paradise, a forest they're conserving right at the western border of campus. But I didn't feel like crashing out into the forest, slipping on the fallen leaves and mud, and breaking my leg. I'd be better off taking my chances with Fisk.

So I zigzagged between buildings, heading for the big brick one. The Commons. It was the major cafeteria. Fisk would be less likely to sever my neck or, worse, strip me down bodily in front of a bunch of visiting parents and angry cooks. I hoped.

I looped around an old, ivy-covered stone building where some guys were running around on the lawn bare-chested. It was the guys-only residence, Matthews Hall. Maybe I should lose my T-shirt and blend in. But then I heard Fisk blare from maybe a block away, Come back, you little shit!

I took off again, weaving through the darkness. I was already getting blisters on both my little toes and the balls of my feet, from running without socks.

I heard a flare of girlish laughter, closer now. Do you see him?

A guy covered his mouth and ululated, OooooOOOOoooOO-O! like a kid playing the Indian against the cowboys.

Fisk had sent the entire floor out to track me down.

Chapter 2

I ran. My breath rasped in my throat. My left side