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

time to weep and mourn. My cheery red maple has lost its leaves. It will grow new ones, but they’ll be plain and green and look like every other tree. When I glance through my bedroom window, I’ll see something ordinary, and soon it will be hard to remember the exact watermelon hue of the leaves. No matter what happens today, I will never forget Palm Hill Middle School.
    The man at Magnolia’s security gate can’t find our name. Maybe God has intervened, erased us from this list, and Mom will have to drive me straight to my real middle school.
    Tears bubble up for the end of the maple. Why does it have to change? Why? Why? Why? I liked it the way it was—happy and energetic—the shock of those red leaves against the starkness of the white trunk. If it hasto wear green leaves, it’ll lose its mapleness. Tears spew from my eyes. Why can’t things ever stay the same?
    Mom hands over her ID. The security guard inspects it, studies Mom’s face, then talks into a headpiece.
    My eyes are thunderclouds swollen with tears. My mouth sucks in the last few breaths of freedom. My throat lumps up as I choke down my destiny.
    â€œHailee?”
    I try to say “What?” but it comes out all gurgled, more like, “Wharg?”
    â€œHailee!” Mom brushes my hair off my forehead and that’s all it takes. Tears wash down my face, drip off the edges, and soak into my white Magnolia Academy for Girls blouse.
    â€œMa’am?” The security guy hands Mom a clipboard.
    Taking it, she says to me, “I’m sorry, honey,” and then she works on a form while I silently cry.
    I pull down the visor and check myself in the mirror.
    Yes, I am miserable. Look how red my eyes are, my cheeks. Everything is wet or running, and strands of hair stick to the sides of my face. I watch myself sob, which makes me cry even harder because I see how forlorn I am.
    I wonder how the Magnolia girls will see me.
    I stop all the weeping, wipe my face, and stare at my reflection. My mouth pulls into a frown, but I force those muscles to relax because frowning’s the ugliest part of crying. My eyebrows squinch, giving off just theright degree of despair. Tears sparkle in my eyes and glide down my face in crystal drops. I could be a girl in a movie who was taken by robbers but escaped and now must find her way back home through a huge black city with skyscrapers and dark alleys. I look at
this
girl in the mirror. She doesn’t let tears stop her from getting home. She is noble and strong. I watch as another tear slides down her cheek.
This
is how I will cry from now on.
    â€œHere we go,” Mom says after collecting her ID from the guard. She fishes a used tissue from her purse, but the new me waves it away. Bravely, I fix my face forward, watching Magnolia appear before me as Mom pulls the van up the drive and parks in a visitor’s spot.
    I’m no longer in my body as it steps out of the van and hoists the official school backpack onto burdened shoulders. Another magnolia tree stands in front of the office building. The sweet scent of a goblet-sized blossom rides on a gentle breeze that encircles me, but I breathe out of my mouth to show that tree I’m not having any of it.
    The office is in a small, yellow, steepled building. There’s no cross on it, but it used to be a church when Orlando was nothing but orange groves; that’s what it says in the brochure Mom brought home. She tugs the handle on one of the arched, honey-colored wooden doors, but it doesn’t budge. “Oh, that’s right,” she says and presses an intercom button on the side. She squishes me in a side hug.
    A disembodied voice asks if it can help us.
    â€œI’m Kristen Richardson?” she tells it. “My daughter is starting school today?”
    I wish she wouldn’t talk in question marks—it makes her sound nervous. The voice tells her how wonderful it is that we’re here