Go lightly, their father had implored them. But they had never been shown how, so they had simply gone. Well, Lucky thought, leaving the stoop to make her way to the meeting on Saint Marks Place, maybe she could change that now.
She reached the address, squinting up at a faded red awning with the name of a theater written on it. Steep, crumbling stone steps led to an open door. Lucky remained planted at the bottom, as though assessing a mountain she was not sure she could scale. A bald man dressed in a glittery purple neck scarf and round Hockney-esque glasses strolled up. He looked her up and down.
“You going in, honey?”
Lucky glanced at him, panicked.
“I don’t know.”
He smiled, his glasses flashing in the sunlight.
“First time?”
Lucky tentatively nodded.
“You know what happens every time someone goes to their first meeting?”
“An angel gets its wings?” she said gloomily.
“A person is restored to dignity,” he said.
And they never have fun again, she thought. She hated the platitudes, hated this weird language everyone in AA seemed to use. Avery was the worst culprit. Fellowshipping. In program. What did that even mean? It made it sound like some elite college course, not a free self-help group for people stupid enough to destroy their lives.
“I don’t believe in God,” she said suddenly. “And I’m not going to.”
“Oh, that’s not a prerequisite.” He gave her a little wink. “But the fact you’re here tells me that something sure as hell believes in you.”
And with that, Lucky followed him up the stairs.
Inside, the room was small and shabby. A stained gray carpet covered the floor; a circle of old wooden chairs had been set up in the center of it. To the left was a small kitchen with a coffeepot and paper cups set out next to the sink. Lucky turned back to the door longingly. They may as well have hung a sign above it that said The End of Fun.
A man came toward them from the far end of the room, carrying a stack of blue books in his hands. He looked to be in his early thirties with a swoop of thick, dark hair and wire glasses. He wasn’t bad looking, she observed, in a nerdy Harry Potter way. She immediately felt relieved—attractive people went to AA too!—then like an asshole for caring.
“Hey, good to see you, man,” he said to the bespectacled man who had walked her in.
“Cooper, this is— What’s your name, honey?”
Lucky told him.
“It’s her first meeting.”
“Wow,” Cooper said, dropping the books on a chair and rubbing his hands on his jeans. “Welcome. That’s so cool. Welcome. I just said that.”
Cooper twisted his head suddenly toward his right shoulder and produced a rapid-fire series of clicks between his tongue and teeth. He turned back to her and blinked exaggeratedly.
“Thanks,” said Lucky, glancing toward the door again.
“You want to read How It Works?” he asked, picking up a laminated sheet of paper and handing it to her. Lucky turned it over in her hands; it was printed densely with text on both sides.
“I’m good,” she said, passing it back to him.
Another head twist and series of loud clicks. He turned back to her.
“I have Tourette’s,” he said, between blinks. “And no worries about reading. It’s just great you’re here.”
Lucky took a seat and stared at her feet as Cooper and Hockney Glasses busied themselves opening packets of cookies to accompany the coffee and placing a book on each seat. Cooper handed one to Lucky and she opened it, pretending to read. She could feel a sinking inside of her, like a plug had been pulled at the bottom of her stomach, her insides circling down it. It was such a familiar sensation, though one she had not felt for years. It was the feeling of being back at school.
Unlike brilliant Avery and naturally academic Nicky, Lucky had not been good at school. Even Bonnie, who raced through the school day like a meal she did not enjoy in order to get to the dessert of boxing, had been better than her. Lucky never raised her hand to participate, never called attention to herself in any way that she could help. The worst part was when they would go around the class reading aloud. Usually, she found a way to go to the bathroom to avoid it, but one time the teacher had forced her to stay. Her heart racing, she counted the students in front of her, trying to work out which section would be hers to read. When it came to her turn, her voice came out small and shaking. She kept her eyes on the page, but she could hear students swivel around to look at her. She read as quickly as she could, trying to get it over with, but that only caused her to lose her breath. Her heart hammered inside her chest as she realized with mounting panic that she couldn’t catch it again. She sat there gasping for air like some monstrous sea creature suddenly expelled onto land. A couple of students began to titter and whisper. Lucky can’t read! More heads turned to stare at her.
No one expected her to be shy, looking the way she did. They didn’t expect her to be particularly smart either. And there she was proving them right. Eventually, the teacher gave her a perturbed look and asked the next student to pick up where she had left off, and the class continued. Lucky kept her burning face close to the page as other voices filled the room one by one. The only relief she could find was the knowledge that Nicky was somewhere down the hall in her own class. Just the thought of her sister was like slipping an ice cube under her tongue. She found her between periods and told her what had happened as students rushed past them in the hallway.
Of course you can read, said Nicky hotly. You just refuse to do it on command.
They think I’m stupid, whispered Lucky.
She turned her face toward the locker, trying to hold back tears. Nicky pulled her in for a tight hug.
Don’t, said Lucky, afraid people would see. But Nicky just squeezed harder.
You are not stupid, Nicky whispered fiercely in her ear. You’re a rebel. And rebels are always misunderstood by their peers.
Lucky pulled away and rubbed her palms roughly over her wet face.
It didn’t feel very rebellious, she said in a small voice. It felt like drowning, but in air instead of water. Nicky paused to think.
Well, fuck ’em, she said eventually. Who cares what they think? Myopic provincials. Nicky was studying for the SAT and was using the vocabulary words every chance she got. Just call them that if they try to mess with you.
Myopic provincials. Lucky had repeated the phrase to herself for the rest of the school day and, somehow, she survived until the final bell. The following year, Nicky went off to college and Lucky started modeling full-time. It was a relief to be able to study for her GED alone while doing a job that rarely expected her to open her mouth. Except for one time early on in her career when she’d had to read lines for that sleazy photographer, which she tried hard never to think of again, she’d spent the remainder of her life avoiding public speaking or reading. And now here she was sitting in this dingy little room, preparing to be humiliated all over again. No, thought Lucky. No, thank you.
