The-Lucky-List-Rachael-Lippincott

fiction books, and World War II history, and, finally, the foreign language section. He taps two
enormous bookcases as the bell rings noisily from the front desk, an eager customer waiting to check
out.
“If it’s anywhere, it’ll be here,” he says, giving my mom’s copy back to me with a wink before rushing
to the front of the store to make his sale.
Blake takes a step closer, putting her hands on her hips as she cranes her neck to look at all the
books.
I push a small stepladder over to her, nudging her lightly in the side. “You start on the top shelf, I
start on the bottom?”
She nods, her eyes narrowing at the challenge. “Deal.”
We work in silence, siing slowly through the mishmash of books, titles and covers blurring
together, whites and yellows and blacks and blues. is would be way faster if Mr. O’Reilly organized
by language, but they’re all just piled together, Mandarin next to Italian next to Portuguese.
I have a couple of close calls, and I know Blake does too, tiny intakes of air followed by a mumbled,
“Never mind.”
We’re about halfway done with the second bookcase when Blake triumphantly holds up a faded
white book, nearly teetering off the ladder. She steadies herself, then holds it out to me. “Found it!”
I look down to see an identical book to the one in the Ziploc bag, completely intact except for a
small tear in the cover. I flick quickly through the book to see that the missing pages are still there. I
could kiss her.
I grab it, flying through the aisles to the front of the store, butterflies swarming my stomach. Mr.
O’Reilly looks up in surprise when I plunk it down on the counter next to his ancient cash register.
Then a twinkle of excitement sparks in his eyes.
“You wouldn’t happen to speak French, would you?” I ask as he begins to ring it up.
He shakes his head. “I could do Latin and some Spanish, but I don’t speak a word of French.”
My stomach sinks ever so slightly as I hand over the money in exchange for the book. I think I was
hoping to keep this pure, like how my mom did it, but I could still figure it out with an app.
Google Translate, maybe? It would take a while, but I guess it’s better than nothing.
“Thanks, Mr. O’Reilly,” I call as we head out the door. I’m relieved to see the rain has stopped.
Blake opens her mouth to say something, but I grab her hand, excited to get to work. e postrain
humidity instantly clings to my arms and legs as I pull her down the steps and across the street.
“Strategy meeting at Hank’s. Blake, we’ve got some French to translate.”