Atlas

March Goodman grinned reassuringly. “You’ve got this.”

Cassie wrinkled her nose at him. “Says you. Things have a tendency of working out for you.” She pulled a pair of dice from her jeans pocket, and March couldn’t help but wonder why she’d been carrying them around at all. They glinted red in the sunlight that streamed in through the Venetian blinds and filled up the coffee shop.

She held them out to him. “It’ll be a 7.”

March cautiously opened his hand, and she dropped the dice into it. He did as told, shaking them about for a moment before releasing. Time slowed as they bounced along the length of the table. The first die settled on 4; the second on 3.

Cassie glanced up at him, blonde eyebrows raised. “What did I say?”

March scratched at his chin, picking up a die and squinting at it. “They weren’t loaded?”

The teenage girl coyly put her chin in her hands. “You can see what I’m getting at, right?”

He raised a brow, cradling his cup of iced tea. “No,” he lied.

“I just need to borrow, like, a teensy bit of your luck for a day. Just for the tourney.”

“How would you go about doing that?” But he already knew the answer.

Cassie gave him the friendliest glower. “Goodman.”

“You’re not getting it.” He pressed his palm hard over his left pocket.

The girl pouted — March knew the face all too well. “You’ll survive without it,” she said.

“I will most definitely die.”

“How do you know?” she countered.

It was a valid point. March cautiously removed the lime-colored bottle cap from his pocket and held it between his fingers. It glinted in the sunlight, and he thought back to the last time he’d been without it.

“March! Come over here.”

The five-year-old boy ceased his meandering towards the pool at the sound of her voice. “Yes, Ma,” he chirped, scurrying back across the grass to their checkered picnic blanket.

Mrs. Goodman smiled from under her wide-brimmed floppy hat; she never smiled with teeth, not because they were ugly or scary, but that it was simply more than necessary for her. Mrs. Goodman, who was reserved, taciturn, gentle.

She patted the spot on the blanket beside her and reached into the wicker basket, drawing out two glass bottles. March received his; the cold condensation cooled his palms, and he peered at the green cap. “ATLAS Lemon Lime Soda.” Not that he could read it at the time.

The woman drew out a bottle opener, tucking a curl of black hair behind her ear in that organized, deliberate way before taking March’s bottle and cracking it open. The sharp hiss of fizz, of carbon meeting air, excited yet soothed March. The scent of citrus tickled his nose, and he couldn’t help but grin.

The cries of children racing about with pool noodles and floaties vanished as Mrs. Goodman opened her own bottle, and held it out to her son. March looked up at her, confused, but eventually mimicked the motion. To his surprise, she clinked her glass to his own, smiling wide. “Cheers.”

Cassie plucked the bottle cap from his grasp. “Mind if I hold onto it for a few hours?”

March’s heart leaped, and he lunged across the table, but she’d always been faster. “I very much would. Give Atlas back.”

She looked down at her friend, sprawled across the table, and prudently moved her cup of coffee a few inches over. “Hmph. Fine.” Cassie handed the cap back to him, and March exhaled as he wrapped a tight fist around it, regretting releasing in the first place.

The girl shook her head, straw-coloured hair swaying side to side, and she rose from the booth. “Woe is me. Off to lose my tournament. I shall never play Ludo again.” She raised the back of her hand to her forehead, shutting her eyes in mock distress before opening one to gauge March’s reaction.

His mouth was a thin line, completely unwilling to indulge the girl’s newest obsession (he gave it a week). “Over my dead body.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“You love a good challenge.” He stood up as well, leaving a collection of coins on the table. “Seven tomorrow?”

Cassie leaned onto their table, about to say something sharp and snappy, but the table tilted, and her coffee cup tumbled down, the dark liquid pooling on the tile floor.

Mortified, March lowered his gaze to his white sneakers.

Untouched. They seemingly repelled the coffee like a magnet.

Cassie got to her feet, red creeping up her cheeks. She scowled at her soaked jeans, her soaked sneakers, the soaked floor. “Seven tomorrow.”

—

March practiced his smile in the glass of the beverage cooler. His mother had told him that he had white teeth, and that he needed to flaunt them. So he brushed thrice a day, flossed more than that. The only exception was the occasional soda.

“Ahem.” March whirled around to see a grizzled-looking man standing at the front counter, foot bouncing impatiently. The teenager slunk back to his spot and scanned the stack of items, tallying up the cost.

“That’ll be fourteen eighty—”

“I’ll be getting a ticket today, too.” He tapped a poorly-manicured nail on the glass of the counter.

March nodded and pulled out the ice-blue SweepSkates card, adding it to the total. The man dumped out the right amount of cash from his pockets, and March began to count it up. “Feeling lucky today?”

He shook his head. “Not necessarily. But I’m 8 years strong now; if I don’t break my streak, I’ll eventually strike gold.”

March handed the man his change, giving him a wary look. “Right.”

The customer bagged his items and then pulled out a golden coin — March couldn’t quite place the currency — and began to scratch the ticket. As he uncovered the numbers underneath, his mood visibly worsened.

He let the coin clatter onto the counter. “Another.”

“Are you sure, sir? I—”

“Another.”

March sighed, pulling out another card, and the man paid, but when it came time to scratch it, the man spun the card around to face March. “You this time.”

The teenager smiled, somewhat flattered. “Thank you, sir, but I can’t…”

He trailed off as the man held his gaze, green eyes wide and wild. March shrugged, pulling out his bottle cap and scratching the ticket.

Halfway through the card, he realized the numbers were lining up a little too well. “This is… uh…”

The man, meanwhile, was bent at the hip, nose mere inches above the card as he inspected March’s handiwork. “Yes… yes,” he whispered, and March was unnerved enough to scratch faster.

He hadn’t even finished the last section when the man snatched the card up and brandished it above his head. “Frickin’ finally! I’ve dunnit!” he bellowed, sprinting out the corner store and down the street. “I’ve finally dunnit…”

The other patrons didn’t bother to look up, continuing their shopping as if nothing had happened, the man’s voice trailing off in the distance. March chuckled, leaning his elbows onto the counter, wondering if that card truly had been a winner. He might never know.

Not even a minute later, when March was already back to daydreaming up summer plans, the door bells chimed. March came up to full height, ready to handle the man once again.

A girl with long black braids sauntered in and made a beeline for the beverage cooler. March’s heart skipped a beat as he watched. She was petite, dressed in cargo pants and a vintage tee and a jacket not suited for this heat.

“Eyes are up here,” she said in a tone that was more bored than annoyed, and March realized that she was apparently in front of him now. His eyelids fluttered up, meeting her gaze.

With a smirk, she pushed a bottle of Fanta and a bag of Lays across the counter. “It’s that typa day.”

March chuckled sheepishly, hands trembling as he scanned the items. “For sure,” he replied.

“Hey.” She tapped her chin, and March froze, worried he’d misstepped again. “I recognize you.”

He nodded. “We have Physics II together. Professor Harris, Tuesday and Friday.”

She tilted her head. “We met before?”

“Not formally.” He stuck out a hand, praying it wasn’t as clammy as it appeared. “I’m March.”

She stared down at his hand just long enough to make it awkward, and then took it. “Nadia,” she said with a smile. But March already knew her name.

—

March strolled into the dorm building, light and giddy. He couldn’t stop replaying the conversation with his crush in his head. Each time March said something dumb and panicked, Nadia would say something playful and reassuring, and he’d immediately feel better.

They’d decided to meet at 6 tomorrow. Perfect — from there, he’d walk right down the block and meet Cassie at Tassel Coffee. There, Cassie would tell him all about little board game thing.

Everything was planned perfectly. Everything was going perfectly. All he could do was hope it kept up.

He nudged open the door, knowing it was unlocked, and inside sat Teddy, reclined on his gaming chair, playing a video game that March had never quite been able to wrap his head around.

“‘Sup, Goodman” his roommate called without turning to him, fingers dancing frantically over the controller.

“Dude, I scored today.”

Sans hesitation, Teddy got to his feet, not bothering to pause his game. Tiny characters darted about the screen as he spun about and tossed his controller into his seat. “I hear that right?”

March nodded, his grin widening by the second. “Nadia. She talked to me. Date at Martha’s tomorrow.”

Teddy’s jaw dropped. “Nadia?!” he repeated. “And I said it couldn’t be done.” Nonetheless, he dapped up his roommate. Teddy’s smile was sharp, sinister, much like Cassie’s; the two got along like a house on fire. “Happy for you, bro.”

As Teddy returned to his game, March kicked off his shoes and padded to his bed. He pulled off his t-shirt and reached into his pocket. “Thank—”

Teddy snickered. “Thank? Huh. You’re ‘welco’.”

“No.” March checked his other pocket. His back pockets. He kneeled down and began to rummage through his backpack. “No. Nonono.”

Teddy finally paused his game and turned to face March, unamused. “You’ll find whatever you lost in a day thanks to that lucky charm of yours.”

“No, that’s the thing.” March pulled up the fabric out of his pants pockets so that Teddy could see. “I don’t have the lucky charm.”

—

He awoke in a puddle of sweat. Fortunately, the nightmare was fading fast, but pieces still clung to his mind like a bad odor. Thoughts of a moving landscape, screeching tires, an equal and opposite reaction. March rarely had nightmares, but they were always the same one.

March rolled onto his side, only to see that Teddy was already gone. What day is it again?, he thought.

11:36, his clock flashed in reply. And where was he meant to be at 11am on a Friday?

It hit him mid-yawn, and March threw the covers up and off, scrambling for a clean shirt, a comb, a bottle of spearmint mouthwash. If he was lucky, he’d arrive at the tail-end of his quiz and get partial credit for writing his name.

—

The cool countertop did wonders for March’s pounding headache, but having to relocate when the spot got too hot put him right back at Square 1 in terms of the pain.

“Ahem,” a voice came, and March hauled his head up. It was the man from yesterday, the one with the winning ticket.

The college student forced a smile. “Hey! Living lavishly, I hope?”

Scowling, the man tapped his nail on the glass and withdrew the cash required. March hummed a note of question as he removed another SweepSkates ticket.

“A frickin’ eastward breeze happened, that’s what.” He’d muttered it quickly, as if he hated the taste of the words in his mouth.

So the two men stood there, going through the motions, their mutual negative energy channeled into a feedback loop.

The grizzled man scratched the last of his card. “Nope,” he muttered, spinning on a heel and walking out of the store, tossing the ticket over his shoulder.

March rubbed a hand over his face as he watched the card float down to the tile flooring. Maybe I should check the floors again.

Last night, once he’d realized he’d lost his bottle cap, March had returned to the store, driving the manager mad as he searched under every item, foraged through every shelf, probed the fountain drink machines. It’d been 2am when he’d returned home empty-handed. The AC had chosen that day to stop working, so hot summer air permeated their dorm throughout the night. Teddy was out like a light, like always. Reliable, March used to say.

But March had stayed up. Tossed and turned and sank into a fitful sleep, sweat trailing down his face.

—

Sweat ran down March’s face as the sun beat down, brutal and uncaring. Summers like this were unbearable — he’d always preferred the cool.

He sat at the edge of the pool, legs kicking in the water, torn between two choices. The first was to put his soda aside and dive in, relieve himself from the heat.

The second was to finish his drink, slowly, savoring every drop.

“It’s getting discontinued,” his mother had said, and the boy had choked on his ice cream upon hearing it. “Better enjoy it while it lasts.”

He thumbed the old bottle cap he had in the pocket of his swim shorts. March contemplated getting rid of it and replacing it with this newer one, but ultimately decided against it; nothing could take that number one spot.

As his friends beckoned him from across the pool, he held up a finger to tell them to wait, and lifted the bottle to his lips, grinning as cold, fizzy soda spilled out the bottle and onto his tongue.

And savour it, he did.

—

“Just… not my style,” March groaned, leaning over to sip his milkshake.

“How could Jack Harlow not be someone’s style?” Nadia massaged her temples, looking intensely agitated.

“It isn’t that deep.” He forced a smile, wiping chocolate from his lips. “Let’s talk about something else.”

“Like what? The physics quiz you missed?” Nadia chuckled, finally — it had been half an hour since he’d last heard her laugh.

“I still showed up,” he countered, scratching his head self-consciously. “That’s what counts, right?”

“Out of character, too; I’ve never seen you show up to class late.”

“Yeah,” he mumbled, rubbing his eye. “Been having a rough day, is all.”

“Well…” She got to her feet and flashed him a smile and a wink. “You know what could fix that?”

“What?” He asked, also stepping up and out of the booth.

She furtively looked March up and down. “New Netflix show. I’ve been dying to watch it,” she said, grin sly as ever, and that was when it finally hit March.

His luck might finally be turning around.

But he panicked. Tonight? Without Atlas? He reeled, lurching towards the table.

Like clockwork, the table tipped, and the chocolate milkshake rolled right off, crashing down into a dozen little pieces, the drink soaking Nadia’s Chuck Taylors.

“Goddamn it!” She lunged for the napkins and began to sponge up the mess. March looked down at his own shoes; not a speck of milkshake to be seen.

He crouched down to help, but Nadia looked up, face contorted with restrained anger. “I’ll see you in class Tuesday, March,” she said through clenched teeth.

He didn’t have to be told twice. “See you, Nadia.”

—

Cassie cradled her chin. “Well?” she asked, devoid of the usual enthusiasm.

“Horrendously,” March replied, face buried in his hands. “Abysmally, even. Not important, though — how was the tourney?”

She shook her head. “No dice. 7th. Out of 8.”

He grinned, genuinely, peeking through a gap in his fingers. “I suppose we both had shitty days today, huh.”

“Yep. Which is odd, considering I returned your bottle cap to you this morning.”

March’s eyes grew wide as coins. “Huh?”

“Uh-oh.” Cassie sank deeper into her seat. “You did find it, right?”

The boy clutched his iced tea to keep from screaming. “You took my bottle cap?”

“I stopped by Citi Save while you were talking to Nadia. Naturally, you were too engrossed in her fat fricking eyeballs to notice me walk up and palm it. But I had Teddy sneak it to you after your physics quiz.” She stared at his clothes. “Hoodie pocket, perhaps?”

“Deadass?” He reached in and felt something round. Dulled points, smooth face, cool aluminum.

He pulled the bottle cap out and planted a kiss on it; it glinted in the moonlight. “Never leave me again, Atlas.”

Cassie twirled a curl of her hair around a finger, deep in thought. “Hm. So you’ve had your bottle cap with you since after the quiz. How’d you mess up your date, then?”

March huffed out his nostrils in consideration. “Suppose… it was a mental thing?”

Cassie’s brow furrowed. “Nah. You simply lack game.”

The two friends looked at each other for a moment, and then burst out laughing.

Once they’d settled, March reached for his cup of iced tea. As he lifted it to his lips, his grip simply gave, the drink spilling over the table and down to the floor. Cassie stifled a gasp as March warily peeked down at his feet.

His shoes were soaked.

March pressed a knuckle to his jaw, and after some consideration, he reached out his fist. Warily, Cassie put her hand out, and he dropped Atlas into it.

He thought of his mother’s soft smile.

Atlas had never been a good luck charm at all.

“Hold onto it for a bit. I could use the practice.”

—