sit on Lyra’s kitchen table, propped against the salt and pepper shakers. Eli holds an ice pack to his bruised left eye and another to his lower lip, where he was lucky not to have the ring pulled out. Popcorn is popping in the microwave.
“Okay, kitty, your turn.” Lyra enters the kitchen with a large plastic bin. “Time for some new clothes.”
Yes! I would pump my fist if I could.
Eli can’t hide his interest as she lifts the lid. “You have a separate compartment for each item of clothing? I’m in awe.”
“I was a little OCD when I was a kid, at least with the stuff that was important to me.” Lyra tucks a lock of her long dark hair behind her ear in a self-conscious gesture. “It’s been years since I even looked at my dolls, much less dressed them up.”
Eli puts down one of his ice packs and pulls out an orange boa. “Isn’t this from one of the Bratz girls?”
“Yeah, I owned, like, ten of those. So you must have a sister, huh?”
He holds the boa up in front of me.
Too much.
“I don’t have a sister,” Eli says without meeting her eyes.
She pauses in her search, then smiles. “You played with dolls? That’s so cool.”
He shrugs like it’s nothing, but the skin around his visible eye loosens in relief. “That’s one of the advantages to being dad-free: no one to force me to play with trucks or try out for football.” He places the boa back in the bin. “Mom didn’t care, though I think she was confused when I turned out straight.”
Lyra laughs. “I’m glad you turned out— I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with— I mean, I’m glad for my sake. Ugh, can we just pretend I didn’t say any of that?” She lifts a pair of golden slippers. “Fig must have new boots, if nothing else.”
And you thought you’d be alone if you ditched your fake friends. Ask her to hang out.
Eli picks up the other ice pack, but before pressing it to his mouth, he says, “What are you doing tomorrow night?”
* * *
Over the next six months, Eli plays a series of successful solo gigs, he and Lyra get serious, and he graduates magna cum laude. I play a role in all of these fortunate events, but only a developmental one. Mostly it’s his doing. Mostly.
During the summer between high school and college, Eli ramps up his appearance schedule, and after each performance, a music journalist or blogger sits him down for an interview. They ask the expected questions about his one-hit-wonder of a father, how Eli will avoid the same trap of overconfidence, how he’ll stay down-to-earth despite drowning in contract offers, each bigger than the last.
He always answers, “My friends keep me humble. They remind me that success doesn’t come from my efforts alone. Some of it’s luck, of course, and I feel very lucky right now.”
But each time he says it with less conviction. When they start asking about me, his “good-luck charm,” Eli gets antsy.
These days, we don’t talk much.
One night, after a standing-room-only concert at a local nightclub, a reporter with a different sort of angle wants to talk to Eli.
“Hi.” The lady is about thirty years old and carries a bag that screams organic living. “I’m doing a story about good-luck charms and successful performers—musicians, sports stars, that sort of thing. The article is called ‘Beyond Rabbit’s Feet.’” She sinks into a chair and signals the waitress. “Your little cat is quite the legend.”
“It is?” Eli glances over to the chair next to him, where I’m sitting atop his guitar case.
You just called me “it.” Not cool.
The reporter smiles at me. “So I’ve done some digging...”
“Great,” he mutters, reaching for his Coke.
“It is my job.” She flips a page in her notepad. “Turns out, your father was also known for carrying around a cat-shaped good-luck charm when he was with Boyz on the Korner.” She points her pen at me. “Is this the same one? Did he give it to you?”
Eli just sips his Coke and stares at her impassively, saying nothing.
She reaches into her bag. “I have pictures, if that would help.”
“Don’t bother.” Standing quickly, almost knocking his chair over, he sweeps me up and crams me into his inside jacket pocket. “For the record, yes, the cat was my father’s, but it’s just a gimmick. My girlfriend likes holding it during shows. It gives her something to do with her hands when she gets nervous for me.”
“If it’s just a gimmick, then why is it insured for over a hundred thousand—”
“I have to go. Good night.”
Her protestation fades behind us as Eli stalks out of the club.
Once we’re outside where it’s quiet, I ask him, Am I really a gimmick to you now?
He pulls out his phone to pretend he’s talking to someone else instead of the bulge in his coat. “Fig, I think next time you should stay home.”
* * *
I do stay home for the following gig, perched on his windowsill, angled so that I can also see the aquarium. As frustrated as Eli is with my influence over his life, he still takes the time for small kindnesses.
Just after 2:00 a.m., he pulls into the driveway. I can feel the slam of car doors from up here. Soon the stairs, then the floorboards shake with his footsteps.
The bedroom door jerks open. Eli dumps his guitar case on the bed, then paces, hands on his hips, shoulders lowered in defeat.
How’d it go? I ask, though I can guess.
“It sucked.” He sinks onto the edge of the bed. “I suck.”
You do not suck. That’s one thing I know for sure about you.
“Maybe you know, but I’ll never know. Not as long as...” He raises his head from his hands to stare at me. A look I recognize all too well comes into his eyes.
No...
He gets up and crosses the room toward me, slowly, as if I’ll bite. I wish I could bite.
“I have to do this.” Eli picks me up with the gentlest of touches, but I can feel the fury in his bones.
Don’t put me away. You’ll regret it.
“No, Fig, I won’t. Not in the long run.” He slides me into the envelope his dad sent me in. “I have to make things happen for myself. I don’t even know whether people like me because they want to, or because you’re making them.”
Fine. Let me stay here in your room. Just don’t put me away.
