Free The Higher Power of Lucky by Susan Patron Page B

Brigitte was a little bit upset, like the time Lucky accidentally squeezed most of the French mustard out of the tube, she clicked her tongue and said, “Oh, la-la.” When she was frustrated, like the time Lucky spilled dry Jell-O on the floor and a trillion ants came inside during the night, Brigitte said, “Oh, la-la, la-LA, la-LA!” And when she was pretty mad, like when the monthly check came late, Brigitte said, “Oh, la-la, la-LA, la-LA, la-LA!”
    Lucky continued, even though the four la-LA s made her nervous. “Is it because I bother you and make you itch? Do I give you bumps on your skin?” Rubbing the back of her neck with ice, Lucky moved toward Brigitte.

Brigitte slammed closed the lid of her computer with one hand and stood up, blocking Lucky’s view of the booklet. “Lucky, I cannot think when you talk so much bêtises …silly stuff.” Brigitte yanked a ragged wire-mesh fly-swatter from a peg and slapped it hard against the table edge. A fly took off from the spot and circled overhead. Brigitte tried to swat it in flight. “That stupid fly,” she said. “She always escapes!” She clapped the swatter back on its wall hook.
    Thinking that a real mother would never be so mean and that a real mother would share all her secrets, especially the secret of her mysterious lessons and the secret of her passport, Lucky took the flyswatter, waited until the fly landed, tapped it lightly, and scooped it up, fluttering. She opened the screen door and shook the fly off into the hot night.
    Hooking the swatter back on its peg, Lucky said in a dignified voice, “I’m going to bed now. And by the way, a fly is ‘it,’ not ‘she.’”
    “Pfff,” said Brigitte, and shrugged, turning back to her laptop. “Lucky, I cannot stop following this lesson right now. Go to bed. I check you later. Bisous .”
    “Pfff ,” said Lucky, and got a look at the booklet over Brigitte’s shoulder. The top part was in French, so Lucky skipped down, where underneath were the words:
    Certified Course in Restaurant Management and Administration with Diploma from the Culinary Institute of France in Paris
     
     
    That was how Lucky learned for sure why Brigitte was planning to return home. She was getting an online diploma from some French school in running a restaurant. This explained all those times Brigitte talked about how much she wished she had a job. All along Brigitte had been telling Lucky that what she really wanted was to go back to France and run a restaurant.
    Lucky sat on her bed thinking this over. Some tears came out of her eyes, and she wished Brigitte would come—not so she could sit on her lap and let herself be hugged, but so that Brigitte could see what a sad and abandoned child she was, an orphan whose Guardian was too busy for hugging. As soon as she began imagining the shocked and concerned look on Brigitte’s face if Brigitte were to see her crying, Lucky cried some more. HMS Beagle, who slept on the round rug beside the bed, came to lay her head on Lucky’s pillow.
    “Poor, poor HMS Beagle,” Lucky whispered. “When Brigitte goes back to France you will have to go live with Short Sammy, or with Miles and his grandma. I doubt the orphanage in L.A. will admit dogs.”
    Sadly, lonesomely, she got into her hot bed, kicking the sheet away.
    Lucky lay on her back, her pillow feeling as hot as if it had been baked in the oven. She decided to run away very soon. If she ran away, Brigitte would have to call the police, and the police would call her father and tell him he had better have a talk with Brigitte about doing her Guardian job a little better than that . Lucky liked the idea that by running away she could make people do things they wouldn’t do otherwise.
    Brigitte was entirely wrong as a choice for a Guardian, Lucky decided. Even though she had come to California right after Lucky’s mom died to take care of Lucky, she was just too French and too unmotherly. She should have had lessons or some