How Lucky: A Novel Read online

  Jennifer hadn’t thought much about any of that before Ai-Chin vanished. “I should have been nicer,” she says. She seems about as nice as humans get, to me. I suppose she’s still probably right.

  “I just want someone to find her,” she says. “I want her to get to give me another chance.”

  Travis puts his arm around her. “You know . . . we’ve actually been looking into this a little bit ourselves,” he says. She looks at me, and I give her the Groucho, and she smiles and then she and Travis sort of walk off to the side, out of earshot. Our circle of sort-of, would-be, kinda knowledge has expanded to an attractive woman Travis is talking to, which is probably where it was always going to expand first, all told.

  I look over at Ai-Chin’s parents. They are surrounded by dozens and dozens of people. We have attracted quite a crowd. But I’m not sure her parents have moved an inch since we got here. They are just standing, looking at the ground, as if they might find her there, as if that place makes as much sense as anything else here.

  I sit and stare at them longer than I should. Marjani comes up behind me. “It is so, so sad.”

  Ai-Chin’s mother looks up, and she wipes her eyes and flicks something off the shoulder of her husband’s jacket. She takes out a handkerchief and hands it to him. He blows his nose without lifting his head. He hands it back to her. She puts it back in her pocket and turns to her left.

  She sees me, still staring at her. She gives me a little smile and raises her right hand. Hello. She lowers it and goes back to looking at the ground. Her daughter said hi to me the exact same way.

  17.

  Back at home. It started pouring down rain shortly after I saw Ai-Chin’s parents, one of those Georgia rainstorms that come out of nowhere from a clear blue sky, dump buckets on everyone for ten minutes, and then vanish as quickly as they arrived. The vigil scattered. The tubas would leak for days.

  Travis called Officer Anderson’s voice mail on the drive home, and Marjani put his card in her purse and said she’d follow up herself tomorrow morning.

  I can’t stop thinking about Ai-Chin’s parents. They left shortly after I saw them. They looked tired, and a bit bewildered as to what they were doing there, or what any of this was at all. What would I have said to them anyway?

  I aimlessly scroll through Reddit posts and let my mind wander.

  It was right after the WIZometer said it was gorgeous outside. She was walking up the sidewalk. She was probably headed for the bus stop. It was always weird that she didn’t have headphones in. Everybody always has headphones in.

  The only thing noteworthy is that there weren’t many people around. Usually it’s not just her.

  And she waved at me.

  Marjani’s sweeping up before putting me to bed, and I’m sleepy, and worn down, and I’m not supposed to push it when I’m this exhausted, but I click on my email anyway. Waiting for me there is this:

  From: Southview Drive

  To: [email protected]

  Subject: Hello Friend.

  Well. Well. Well well well. What have we here?

  I must say, it was quite a surprise to come across this little shitpost:

  >>> i live in five points and i might be wrong but i’m pretty sure i saw ai-chin walking my block every day. and i think i saw her the day she disappeared. i think it was her. i’m not certain. but i know she lives nearby and apparently she had class that morning, and i think i saw her. i think I saw her get into a tan camaro. does that make sense to anybody?

  This was certainly a remarkable post to come across. I didn’t see anybody out there, and trust me, pal, I looked: I cruised down that street for 20 minutes and did not come upon a soul until she walked by. I have no idea how I missed you. I mean, you saw my car. How did I not see yours?

  So. It appears you are a sly one. Because you obviously were there, because you know my car, because you sure have a lot of details correct for someone posting horseshit theories on Reddit. How did I not see you? Where were you hiding, my friend?

  I do not know the answers to these questions. But I will find them. Because it appears we are going to get to know one another.

  So hello. Turns out the internet keeps finding ways to connect people. I love it. Yeah: We’re about to become real close. I hope you are ready.

  Best,

  Your New Reddit Fan

  “It’s time for sleep for you,” Marjani says.

  Thursday

  18.

  How much can you know about yourself if you’ve never been in a fight?

  Travis was almost dangerously obsessed with Fight Club when we were in high school. It makes sense. That movie is a satire of toxic male masculinity, a nightmarish version of a fractured mind coming apart, but teenagers, they are not so good about satire, particularly when it’s as compulsively entertaining as that movie is. Travis left that movie wanting to punch people in the face, and get punched in the face, and set fire to the whole goddamned world, and when you feel like that, but you’re not sure you actually should do all of those things, you show the movie to someone else to see if they feel the same way as you, to make sure you’re not alone, to make sure you’re not losing your mind.

  The weird thing about this, which Travis quickly realized, was that he was showing this movie to someone who was physically incapable of punching someone and who, had he been punched in the face by Brad Pitt or Edward Norton (or Meat Loaf, or Helena Bonham Carter, or even Jared Leto, though I’m pretty sure I could take a Jared Leto punch if I absolutely had to), it would almost certainly collapse his lungs and kill him within the hour. It is a lot easier to romanticize being punched so that you can feel alive when you can be certain you will, in fact, be alive after the punch.

  I could still lift my arms a bit back then, and during one of the actual Fight Club scenes, I grunted and gestured to Travis. “Lemmmeee go,” I said, balling my gnarled right hand into a fist.

  “That’s the spirit, man!” he said. “Fuck it up! Let’s fuck shit up!”

  With all my might, I slingshotted my wrist toward his face, where my fist landed with a limp splat, a sound more akin to a slab of raw pork being dropped on a counter than the THWACK you’d see in a Batman comic. Travis, love him, careened backward like he’d been thrown off the back of a truck. I snorted a laugh, but then gave him a serious look.

  Please don’t hit me.

  Travis chuckled and gave me a faux slug to the jaw.

  But I got it. I might have decreased levels of testosterone, but I am still a man, and, more to the point, I was once a confused, messed-up teenage boy. Something about that movie made you want to just wreck shit. It speaks to that person all boys, all men, really, have inside them: no matter how stable we may seem, no matter how much we’re all trying to keep it together, there is something primal inside of us that just wants to watch the world burn. We don’t want to do it, not really, and part of getting older is having that destructive impulse fade, letting go of all that irrational built-up anger. There’s a reason there aren’t any fifty-five-year-old terrorists, or at least there weren’t until they all started watching Fox News. Destroying things is for the young. And, strapped to a chair or not, I was still young. I am still young. And my blood can boil.

  And I can get my hair up just like everybody else.

  Of all the disadvantages this disease gives me, the one that drives me the craziest is that everyone thinks I’m nice all the time. Suffering from a disease automatically makes people empathetic toward you, which sounds like something you’d want but absolutely is not.

  I learned at a young age that there were all sorts of activities that other kids were capable of that I never would be. This makes me like every other human who has ever existed. I am still inside here, with my own thoughts, and my own worries, and my own obsessions, and my own rage. I don’t feel any differently from you. Or rather, I don’t know how you feel. I am just me. I feel like a normal person because this is normal to me.
r />   But not when you look at me like that. When you look at me with that you-poor-thing mist, that little pit in your stomach that shows me you’re working something out, that you’re feeling less stressed out and upset about not getting that promotion because you’ve got to appreciate what you have. You look at me like I have something to be sad about. My existence makes you grateful you are not me. I was fine . . . until you looked at me like that. I was fucking fine. Now apparently there’s something wrong.

  It makes me angry. It makes me want to get in a fight.

  The instinct in a moment like this, they say, is fight or flight: stand your ground or to get the hell out of Dodge.

  I find myself strangely relieved to learn this about myself: I want to fight.

  We’re about to become real close. I hope you are ready.

  Am I? I do suppose we are about to find out.

  19.

  The sumbitch emailed me. Just like that.

  I hadn’t deleted that damn Reddit post fast enough.

  My email address, which (luckily) is not connected to my actual name, is linked in my Reddit profile. The internet is supposed to make the world bigger. But it always ends up feeling smaller.

  Marjani wheels me to my computer after wiping me down. She’s not ready to hear this yet. I reread the email while she makes breakfast. The first thing I notice? He’s lonely. Maybe someone who doesn’t have a lot of people who talk to him enough to tell him what they really think about him. Someone who spends a lot of time alone. I can relate.

  He didn’t see me. Of course he didn’t. I just blend into the porch, particularly when you’re on the lookout for people of normal height and width, not shut-ins in a wheelchair getting a little bit of air before heading back in to be screamed at by aggrieved travelers. He didn’t have any idea anyone had seen him. He was casual and relaxed and as normal as anyone driving down the street on a morning. He said something—what was it? Something that made her get in the car. Did she know him? Did she think he was someone else? I’m just guessing. All that matters is that she got in. She just got in. He drove off. And that was that. No one saw him.

  Except me. I saw him. I saw her. I know that now. I am not making it up. I am not imagining things. I really did see that Thrashers hat and those boots. It really did happen.

  I would be lying to you if I said I was not experiencing a considerable amount of relief.

  And now he knows. He knows I saw him. He doesn’t know who I am, I don’t think, or where I saw him, or what I’ve done, or what I’m going to do with this information. He just knows that he thought he got away with it, and now he’s not sure. He’s startled. He’s angry. But more than anything else: he’s scared.

  He’s afraid. And hey: he’s not alone in that.

  Sometimes it’s nice not to feel so alone.

  So. What do I write back?

  Wait. Do I write back? What do you say to a guy you’ve never met before that’s so immediately threatening? As someone who runs social media for a regional airline, I should probably have a more immediate answer at hand for that particular problem than I do. I have more experience being threatened than 99.9 percent of the planet.

  The arguments in favor of ignoring the email altogether are strong. Writing him back not only confirms there was a witness—which the tan-car ID essentially does anyway—it also further connects that witness with . . . well, me. If I don’t write him back, all he has is an email address and a deleted Reddit post. Every response brings him closer to me. Of course, as far as I know, this guy could be some teenager in Idaho who read about the case online and decided to hop on Reddit and start messing with people. (It is my theory that at least half of Reddit’s posts come from teenagers from Idaho messing with people.) If I write him back, it starts a game that I might not be particularly skilled at playing.

  If I don’t respond at all, he’ll probably think he scared me away—a reasonable assumption!—or that I was just full of shit in the first place. He’ll be able to go back to doing what he has been doing all this time: thinking he’s getting away with it. Giving him any sort of response confirms that somebody saw this. And that will only intensify his desire to find out who that somebody is. But it’ll also get his heart racing.

  I think I want to get his heart racing.

  He’s also just trying to get a reaction out of me so I’ll give something away. He wants to instill the same fear in me, now that he knows that someone saw him. He wants me jumpy and jittery. He wants me to get back to him so he can further get under my skin.

  Writing him back is a bad idea. It’s what he wants. It’ll put me in peril. It might even make it more difficult to catch him. It’s a terrible idea with hardly any positive outcome.

  But he still has her.

  First things first: I forward the email to Travis. He won’t be up for a few hours, but I need him to see it. He can at least confirm that it exists, that I did not imagine it. My forwarded note to Travis reads:

  holy shit dude look at this psycho. you still got that cops card? send this to him. holy shit.

  And then I stare at it some more. A half hour passes. Another half hour. My email needs to be completed before Marjani comes back in here from making breakfast, because she cares for me and thus absolutely will not let me send it. Yet I sit here, blinking along with the cursor on the empty email draft.

  YNRF—

  i am happy to hear from you. i was afraid i imagined you, and ai-chin, and your stupid car. my life was rather dull and empty and pointless until you came along. youve got my heart beating again. you have given me something to do. you have given me a purpose. thank you.

  Best not send that one. He’ll think he has met his sociopath soul mate. (Has he?)

  DELETE DELETE DELETE

  What do you say to someone who could kill you? This guy could be the sort of person who kills people, no?

  YNRF—

  i dont know what youre talking about. you are freaking me out. i dont want any trouble. i didnt see anything. i was just making a joke. im just some kid from idaho. have you been to idaho? we have, uh, potatoes here i think. point is i made it all up. please go about your day and lets pretend this never happened.

  DELETE DELETE DELETE

  What do you say to someone who doesn’t know?

  YNRF—

  do your worst shithead

  DELETE DELETE DELETE

  I sigh deeply, which makes me start breathing hard, taking me entirely out of commission for a few minutes. Once I avoid the worst of it, I look back at the blank cursor.

  Maybe I’ll Fight Club it.

  YNRF—

  i saw what you did. i didnt know for sure until you sent me this email but now i do. i saw you. she got in your car. where is she? is she still alive? if you tell me or tell the police maybe they wont give you the chair.

  you made a mistake sending this email. im gonna get your ass. look out behind you motherfucker. im gonna end you.

  That felt good. It was like yelling at an airline.

  But for some reason, I think of Todd. That’s a man who knows how to deal with an opponent. Stay kind, kid. No one will see it coming.

  This person doesn’t have anyone to talk to. He’s reaching out to be seen. I really can understand that. Maybe to help her, I have to help him too.

  YNRF—

  its true. you got me. i saw you.

  im just trying to help man. you can talk to me. is she ok? if shes ok its not too late.

  but im here. i saw you. i know. so let her go. or just tell me your name. lets do this together.

  The door starts to swing open. Breakfast is here. Travis will not awaken for several hours.

  The mouse hovers over Send.

  I click it.

  Whoosh. It’s gone. And here we go.

  20.

  Marjani has a bounce to her step, like she needs to tell me something.

  She does. “Have you seen this? This is today. This is tonight.”

  She hands me a pam
phlet. It’s another event, another rally to raise awareness of Ai-Chin’s disappearance. But this is not a hand-drawn, hastily scribbled sheet to be taped on the wall of the Rook & Pawn. This is official. This is on university letterhead and thick, laminated paper stock. This is . . . bigger. This is serious.

  * * *

  RALLY FOR AI-CHIN LIAO

  Hosted by the University of Georgia Chinese American Society

  Come to the Chapel Bell tonight 6 p.m. for a vigil for Ai-Chin Liao, a graduate student who disappeared from campus this week. Have you seen this woman?

  In attendance will be U.S. senator David Perdue, university president Jere Morehead, and head football coach Kirby Smart, along with All-American kicker Thomas Jongin Craggs. The Georgia community rallies around our own. WE WILL FIND AI-CHIN.

  * * *

  Marjani looks at me. “This girl, she is everywhere.”

  Once Marjani heard that Kirby Smart was going to be there, she would have dragged me there behind her car if she had to. Marjani is a quiet, peaceful woman who, once you turn the television to a sporting event in which unpaid college students try to turn each other’s brains into pudding, transforms into a barbarian at the gate, one of the spectators at the Colosseum screaming for blood. I am not certain when a mild-mannered middle-aged Pakistani woman became a face-painting lunatic Georgia Bulldogs football fan who once screamed “You are the devil Spurrier I spit at you!” at the television, but it is definitive proof of what Athens can do to you if you are not careful.