Free A Whole Lot of Lucky by Danette Haworth, Cara Shores

flats—pinch my toes and have slippery soles.
    â€œThis sure is a long drive,” I say.
    â€œI don’t mind,” Mom says. “I kind of miss my morning drives.”
    Does she have to be so cheerful about it? It’s easy for her—she’s not the one facing a world of strangers. Not only did she wear her best dress when she went on the tour, she also wore makeup. Blackened eyelashes, creamy foundation, pink pearly lips—she’d done more for Magnolia than she does for God every Sunday. I even smelled her perfume.
    The Lake Eola fountain shimmers in the morningsunlight. Little kids swirl down the curly slides of the playground. I wish I could join them. Tall buildings flank us as we come up to the corner. People in business clothes walk quickly on the sidewalks, wearing earpieces and talking into the air. Mom turns, and then the downtown Orange County Public Library is on our left. The best library ever. It’s probably as big as the Library of Congress and has just as many books. Plus, it has elevators, a snack bar, and a basement, which is rare in Florida.
    Mom frowns at the library. “I don’t remember passing that before.”
    â€œAre we lost?” Because if we are, just park so I can run past the scary people who hang outside the library and dash to the children’s section for the latest Margaret Peterson Haddix book.
    â€œNo, we’re not lost. I have to figure out the side streets.” She pulls up to a metered space and unfolds a map. By the way she squints at it, I can tell the words are playing musical chairs with her eyes. Leaning over, I spot the street we’re on and the address she’s got circled.
    â€œJust go straight,” I say, “then go right, right, left.”
    â€œRight, right, left.”
    â€œRight,” I answer.
    â€œI thought you said left.”
    â€œNo, I—”
    She breaks into a smile. “Just kidding. Right, right, left.”
    â€œHar, har,” I say. Normally, I would think of something funny to say back, but my stomach’s upset and my fingers feel twitchy.
    We’re heading into the heart of downtown. We pass houses with wraparound porches and second-story balconies. Antique tea roses sit in groups, pale pink and cream, like old ladies at church. They bow their heads as a light breeze snuffles over them.
    As Mom makes the turns, I see the wrought-iron fence that surrounds the grounds of Magnolia. My heart starts beating for real. Only a few short minutes separate me from my fate.
    A huge magnolia tree anchors one corner of the lawn. Under it, a girl about my age sits prettily with a set of paints and a sketchbook. The breeze flutters her paper, then tickles the top of the grass, leaving the velvety green tips to settle in an entirely different direction than before.
    Mom glances through my window. “She might be one of your classmates.”
    True. I consider the girl, so entranced in her work that she takes no notice of our van as we pass. Two more girls come out from the side door of a nearby building, and the three of them twitter like birds, their wings fluttering as they arrange themselves in a circle on the grass. They don’t look like they’re in school; they look like they’re having a picnic. I almost think,
They’re so lucky,
before I remember I hate Magnolia.
    â€œShould they be out here by themselves, Mom? It doesn’t seem safe,” I comment innocently.
    â€œThey’re okay—they’re fenced in. Besides, the building’s right there.”
    We’re here. Drums beat in my chest and echo in my arms and head. Heat flashes in my face. Sweat pops out of my skin even though the rest of me feels cold. Mom pulls up to the main entrance gate. All my brain cells scream,
NO! NO! NO!
    The Bible says there’s a season and a time for everything, including a time to weep and mourn. Casting my eyes upon Magnolia Academy, my heart decides it’s