The-Lucky-List-Rachael-Lippincott

there.
“Winston,” Blake commands, and Winston immediately stops car washing my face, dropping down
onto all threes and sitting with a loud, obedient thump.
He stares up at Blake, his tail keeping time on the chilly concrete floor. She stares back at him, her
face serious for a few seconds before cracking into a big smile. Winston immediately launches himself
at her in a similar greeting.
We follow the smell of pizza up a set of metal stairs. Framed house blueprints Blake’s grandfather
must’ve drawn are hung carefully along the wall. Winston hops noisily up the steps behind us, the last
few giving way to an open living room and kitchen. I peer up at the high ceiling, the decor right out of
Pinterest, everything simple in a neat and trendy way, from the potted plants, to the pillows on the
couch, to the pictures hung on the wall.
e only thing out of place is the pile of moving boxes sitting in the corner, Sharpie-covered labels
indicating their contents.
Our dads are right in the middle of the room in full lounge mode, mine on the leather couch,
Johnny in an armchair that clearly prioritizes style over comfort, beers in front of the both of them.
“Hey, girls,” my dad says, looking over at us. “How was—”
“Took you two long enough!” a voice says, cutting him o. A glass door across the room swings
open as Blake’s grandma trots in from the huge balcony, a cane clutched in her hand. She looks frailer
than I remember, her cheeks gaunt.
She nods to the two pizza boxes on the glass coee table, her white beehive of hair refusing to
budge even an inch. “The pizza almost went cold!”
“I got stuck at work,” Blake says, covering for our stop at Hank’s as she gives her a hug hello, the
tiny woman’s body disappearing from view. Winston peers up at Blake, sning the air like he senses
the lie. She shoots a glare at him.
“Besides, Grandma, the pizza probably went cold on the delivery driver’s way out here!” Blake’s
grandmother smiles warmly at her before nodding in agreement. I stifle a laugh at Winston’s lie
detector of a nose, giving Mrs. Carter a quick hug before plopping down beside my dad on the couch.
I gaze around the brightly lit room, taking in the fireplace and the view of the sunset. is place is
even cooler inside than it is outside, the concrete floors accenting the sleek kitchen design. “is is a
really great house, Mrs. Carter.”
Blake’s grandma laughs, the tan skin around her eyes wrinkling at the corners. “Oh, not you too! It’s
all Blake ever talks about,” she says. “Good thing my husband isn’t here to hear this. His head would be
too big to fit in this house of his.”
We grab some plates and eat our pizza, and as usual the simplest thing has Johnny diving straight
into storytelling mode. Today it’s tomato sauce.
“What year was it, Joe? Tenth grade? The Cafeteria Incident?”
My dad smirks, taking a swig of his beer. “Yep. Tenth grade. It was lasagna day in the cafeteria, and I
sent a sauce-covered brick of it across the room at Luke Price. It exploded all over his white shirt.”
“All hell broke loose,” Johnny says, setting the scene. “In an instant, food was everywhere. Kids
diving under tables for cover. e lunch ladies barricading themselves in the kitchen.” He grins at me,
touching his cheek. “Your mom hit me square in the face with a tuna sandwich before running o to a