Page 52 of With a Little Luck

I change into one of my new tees as soon as we get home, then hurry to get set up for the campaign.

We converted the basement into my bedroom when Pru and I were nine years old. The bunk beds we’d shared up to that point were passed down to Lucy and Penny. The spiders were swept out, and carpet was put in. The room still feels pretty dated, with wood paneling on the wall and ancient light fixtures that may or may not start a fire at any moment. But the resulting space feels equal parts sanctuary and dungeon.

Which is fitting, given that the group and I usually host our campaign nights here.

I set up two card tables and throw a black sheet over them, then bring down the chairs from the dining room. I make popcorn and empty a bag of Fritos into a big mixing bowl. Usually I let the rest of the group grab a drink from the fridge and bring it downstairs with them, but this time I dig a cooler out of our garage and fill it with ice and nestle in some sodas130and sparkling waters. I debate ordering pizza. I debate asking Mom to bake us some cookies. I debate a lot of things.

Usually, our D&D nights are relaxed and laid-back and fun.

I am not relaxed right now. I am not laid-back. I am not having fun.

I hadn’t really thought it through when Maya asked if she could come play with us. I got hung up on the whole idea of her wanting to spend time with me, and maybe even being interested in this hobby that I really love, and in that excitement I ignored some big-picture things I probably shouldn’t have ignored. Namely, the fact that Maya still scares me on a very visceral level, and can I really be an effective Dungeon Master with her sitting at the table?

Maybe this is what Pru was trying to warn me about. Not just that Maya would be hanging out with my admittedly oddball friends. Not just that we would be playing make believe for hours, giving her an unfiltered view into my own imagination, which, let’s face it, is a little bit like giving someone a front-row seat to your subconscious, and all the good and bad therein.

But there are also little considerations that, at the moment, don’t seem little at all.

Maya is going to be at my house. In my bedroom.

What if she doesn’t like the snacks we serve? Should I order pepperoni on the pizza? What if she’s vegetarian, or gluten free? I should know these things, but I don’t. Why didn’t I ask?

And she’s going to meet my little sisters, and Ellie hasn’t learned enough about social constructs to realize when she shouldn’toohandaahover her big brother’s possible new girlfriend and ask inappropriate things like, “Are you going to get married?” and “Are you going to have children?” and “Do you love my brother?” and is it too late to encourage them to all go out for ice cream or something? It would make me really happy if no one else is here when Maya arrives.

“Whoa,” says Pru, standing at the bottom of the basement steps with a laundry basket balanced on one hip. “This is the cleanest I’ve ever seen this room.”131

I look around, at the made bed, the shelves I’ve spent the last three hours dusting, the carpet I actually vacuumed. “Is it too obvious that I’m trying to impress her? Should I, like … mess things up a bit?”

“No, no, I like it. It’s cozy.” She glances at the card table. “The pumpkin spice candle is a bit much.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” I blow out the candle.

“I folded your laundry,” says Pru, setting the basket on my bed. “You seemed stressed, so … you’re welcome.”

“Thanks.” I start shoving the clothes into my closet. “Have you talked to Mom and Dad? Asked them to, you know, not make a big deal of this?”

“Jude, you’re making a way bigger deal out of this than anybody else.”

“After that encouraging speech you gave me yesterday about what a colossal mistake it is for me to include her in the game, I might be feeling a little on edge.”

“Sorry,” says Pru, and I almost think she means it. Like, she is sorry that I’m so nervous, but she also hasn’t changed her opinion. Pru is not, generally speaking, an opinion-changer.

With the exception of Quint, I guess. Shereallychanged her opinion about Quint, after spending our entire marine biology class last semester complaining about how lazy and inconsiderate he was. Turns out she was wrong … and she was even willing to admit it (eventually). So maybe there’s hope for her yet.

“Okay,” I say, slamming shut the last drawer and taking in a deep breath. I look around, debating if I should hide the Funko figures on my shelf, but decide against it.

Be yourself, be yourself, be yourself.

How can such common advice feel so uncommonly useless?

My attention lands on the table. The black sheet, the bowls of snacks, the Dungeon Master’s privacy screen, the grid boards, the tiny pewter figurines of goblins and dragons and orcs, half of which I painted years ago before I started getting bad hand cramps.132

“Is it too late to cancel?” I say, a hint of a whine in my voice that I’m not proud of.

Pru looks at me. Opens her mouth. And …

The doorbell rings, its distant cheerful melody echoing down the staircase.

Pru’s look turns empathetic. “You’ve got this.”

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