Page 1 of With a Little Luck

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Chapter One

Writ upon these hallowed pages is the epic tale of the greatwizard Jude. His power was rivaled only by his immeasurable charm. His life was a series of grand adventures—battles won and battles lost, evil vanquished and goodness restored. He was a true hero of legend. His story, as penned on this brittle parchment, is a worthy one—a quest for the ages. A destiny built on fortune and misfortune, blessings and curses … and a love that has inspired the music of bards across the centuries.

Or, depending on your interpretation, it could also be the story of a sixteen-year-old boy, halfway through his junior year at Fortuna Beach High School, who works four days a week at his parents’ vinyl records store. The sort of boy who draws comics when he’s supposed to be taking notes on the Industrial Revolution. The sort of boy who isn’t sure he’ll ever be able to afford college … or a car, for that matter. The sort of boy who would rather take a lightsaber to his non-drawing hand than risk the rejection that comes with asking out a girl he likes and, thus, has never asked out a girl, no matter how many times he’s imagined how it might go if he did. The possible good … and the far more likely, almost inevitable, bad.

But it’s fine. I’ve got a decent imagination, which is almost as good as epic quests and true love. Imagination surpasses real life … what?2Ninety percent of the time? Tell me I’m wrong. You’re the one with your nose in a book right now, so I know you agree with me, on some level.

“The Temple of Torna Gorthit?” says Ari, startling me from my targeted destruction of the fourth wall. (Theater joke—don’t worry about it.) She’s reading tonight’s open mic night flyer over my shoulder, the flyer I’ve been doodling on for the past ten minutes. “Sounds ominous, Jude.”

“It is rife with danger,” I say. The ballpoint pen scratches across the white paper, transforming the clip art of a vinyl record into a black sun hanging over a tree-studded horizon. I’ve altered the letters inOPEN MICto look like an ancient temple, crumbling from time. “I’m still working on the name. Naming things is hard.”

Ari leans closer. She has her hair pulled back in a loose, messy bun, but one strand falls out, brushing across my forearm before she reaches up to tuck it behind her ear. “Is that supposed to be me?”

I pause and study the flyer.Ventures Vinyl presents … Open Mic Night! 6 p.m., the first Sunday of every month. All musical styles welcome.The bottom half of the page used to be taken up with a line art sketch of a girl playing a guitar, but I’ve changed the guitar to look more like a medieval lute, lengthened the girl’s hair, and given her a cloak and riding boots. Very medieval chic.

“Um,no,” I say, tapping the drawing. “This is Araceli the Magnificent—most renowned bard in all the land. Obviously.”

Ari widens her eyes knowingly and whispers, “I’m pretty sure that’s me.”

I lift up the page and turn it to face her. “This is a lute, Ari. Do you play a lute? Do you?”

“No,” she says, studying the drawing before adding, “But I bet I could.”

“Yeah. Araceli the Magnificent likes to show off, too.”

Ari laughs. “So what happens in this creepy temple?”

“A group of bards compete in a music competition.To the death.”3

“Yikes.” She hops up onto the counter. She’s short, but somehow she makes it look easy. “Do lots of bards sign up for that?”

“It’s either compete in the tournament or have your video go viral on YouTube and be subjected to the comments of a hundred thousand trolls. Literal trolls. The smelly kind.”

“I see,” says Ari, legs swinging. “Death sounds preferable.”

“I thought so, too.” I pick up my pen again, adding vines and foliage around the base of the temple. “I’m actually still figuring out the magic of this temple. I know there’s going to be a statue in the last chamber, and I’ve got this idea that maybe there was a maiden who was cursed and turned to stone, and only someone deemed worthy can break the spell. If they succeed, they’ll get bonus points on future skill checks. Like—magic that gives you uncanny good luck. But if they fail … I’m not sure yet. Something bad happens.”

“Humiliation by smelly internet trolls?”

I nod earnestly. “It’s a slow, painful death.”

The record player clicks off. I’d forgotten it was playing, but I start at the sudden absence of music.

“You’re a really good artist, Jude.” Ari reaches for the beat-up guitar case leaning against the counter. “Thought any more about art school?”

I scoff. “I’m not lucky enough to get into art school.”

“Oh, please,” she says, unclipping the latches on the side of the case. “You have to at least try.”

I don’t respond. We’ve had this discussion half a dozen times over the last year, and I have nothing new to add to it. The people who get into art school on full-ride scholarships are incredible. Like, the sort of people that BeDazzle their own bodies with Swarovski crystals, call them blood diamonds, and host a faux human auction in the middle of Times Square in order to make a point about immoral mining practices. They areartistes—French pronunciation.

Whereas I mostly draw dragons and ogres and elves in kickass battle armor.

Ari pulls out the acoustic guitar and settles it on her lap. Like most4of the clothes Ari wears, the guitar is vintage, inherited from a grandfather who passed away when Ari was little. I’m no expert, but even I can see that it’s a beautiful instrument, with a pattern of dark wood inlays around the edges of the body and a neck that looks black until the light hits it in just the right way to give it a reddish sheen. The glossy finish has been rubbed away in places from so many years of play, and there are a few dings in the wood here and there, but Ari always says that its historic patina is her favorite thing about it.

While she tunes the strings, I lift the lid on the turntable and slide the record back into its protective sleeve. The store has been slow all day, with just a few regulars stopping in and one tourist family, who didn’t buy anything. But Dad insists that we always have music playing, because wearea record store. I’m reaching for the next record on the stack—some ’70s funk band—when Dad emerges from the back room.

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