Bad luck bevin 1, p.1
Bad Luck Bevin, #1, page 1
Bad Luck Bevin
Bad Luck Bevin, Volume 1
Scott G. Gibson
Published by Scott Gibson, 2017.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
BAD LUCK BEVIN
First edition. October 13, 2017.
Copyright © 2017 Scott G. Gibson.
ISBN: 978-1540170149
Written by Scott G. Gibson.
Also by Scott G. Gibson
Bad Luck Bevin
Bad Luck Bevin (Coming Soon)
Standalone
Place Your Hand in Mine
Making Tracks
Watch for more at Scott G. Gibson’s site.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Also By Scott G. Gibson
Dedication
Chapter 1 – Friday the Thirteenth
Chapter 2 – Broken Mirrors
Chapter 3 – Black Cats
Chapter 4 – Walking Under Ladders
Chapter 5 – Stepping on Cracks
Chapter 6 – Voodoo Dolls
Chapter 7 – Upside-Down Horseshoes
Chapter 8 – An Elephant With Its Trunk Down
Chapter 9 – Opening An Umbrella Inside
Chapter 10 – Turning Seven Times Counter-Clockwise
Chapter 11 – Four-Leaf Clover
Chapter 12 – A Lucky Coin
Chapter 13 – Waking Up On The Right Side Of The Bed
Acknowledgements
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Further Reading: Making Tracks
Also By Scott G. Gibson
About the Author
For Liesel, my lucky charm; and Jess, as always.
To the staff at The Sunshine Coast Private Hospital, The Mater Hospital Brisbane, and Lady Cilento Children’s Hospital Brisbane. All of you are the best!
Chapter 1 – Friday the Thirteenth
Have you ever thought that you were born with bad luck? I know I was. Every day brings another way to show me this truth. It’s not surprising considering I was born on the unluckiest of days – Friday the Thirteenth.
My parents have always thought I was their lucky gift, and remind me sickeningly nearly every single day. In their opinion I’m lucky to even be alive. And they act like I’m ungrateful for that gift. Don’t get me wrong; I am grateful for the gift of life. If only it came without the gift of bad luck...
Mum loves to tell anybody who will listen the story of how I almost died before I was alive.
“Bevin was a tightly wrapped gift,” Mum would begin, recounting the story of my birth.
I remember Mum telling me I was born with the umbilical cord wrapped tightly around my neck, stopping me from breathing before I had even taken my first breath. The doctor was forced to use forceps – kind of like gigantic head-grabbing tweezers – to pull me out. Over the next two days, my head continued swelling, a blood clot growing beneath my skull.
“We were just lucky the nurses noticed the swelling because we were too focussed on the beauty of finally meeting you. When the paediatrician noticed you had a weakness all down your right side, he knew something was wrong and had you booked in for an ultrasound.” This was the moment Mum always started to cry, her emotions still affecting her deeply. Dad would often take over the tale at this point.
“Your mum and I drove separately from the ambulance, what with the ambulance being packed. You needed a doctor, a nurse and two paramedics to take you, their precious cargo. When they took you for an MRI brain scan, I went inside with you. The noise was so deafening, we both had to wear headphones – you and me. But you didn’t even flinch. They’d dosed you up on sucrose after a feed, so you were in a food coma. I can’t even describe how worried we were, especially when the neurosurgeons said they had to operate on your brain,” Dad said.
I often feel the two lingering scars at the back of my head, like an unwelcome guest who doesn’t know when to leave. The line at the top was almost non-existent, but I had a scar just above my neck line, about seven centimetres long and two centimetres wide. It felt smooth, and hair refused to grow there inside the tiny crater. I’ve often described it as feeling the same as the little dimple that links your top lip to the middle of your nose.
“And all this before you were even three days old as well,” Mum added from behind her tissues.
“Yes, well, it was the best gift we could ever receive. When Dr Bevin let us know the news just after midnight following your surgery, it was such a relief. We were over the moon that you had made it through such major surgery.” Dad usually began to tear up at this point, his tear ducts finally being activated. “You’ve had more surgery than I have ever had, and all before you were even a week old!”
And that’s how I got my name. Dr Bevin the neurosurgeon. Why couldn’t he be named something normal, like my brother Benjamin? I’d even settle for my best friend’s name: Wolfgang. Anything but Bevin.
Bevin Benedict Buckley. I mean, really? Come on!
What well-meaning parents name their child that? Because my parents see me as a blessing, they ridiculously made my middle name Benedict, meaning “blessed”. But just like every parent, they only use my full name when I’m in trouble. Which happens more than you might think. Bad luck always finds me, and of course I always get the blame.
Like the time a few years ago when I locked the keys in the car at the shopping centre. I had forgotten to get Ben’s bear from the backseat. A fluffy, toy bear, not a real one. My brother was still a toddler at the time and I was old enough to know better, or so my parents reckoned. Only three years older than Ben; I was still a kid! Mum had asked me to get Grizzly, the bear, from the backseat. Ben never went anywhere without it. I was too busy wondering why a cloud looked like cricket stumps to listen. Ben started crying on the way through the car park and, of course, I had to go back to collect Grizzly.
I pressed the button on the remote key to unlock the car, opened the door, locked it again, then put the keys into my pocket, leaning in to grab the bear. With Grizzly in my hand, I shut the door, checked that it was locked, and walked back to where Mum was waiting impatiently. She was rocking Ben’s stroller back and forth, tapping her foot and glaring at me. Mum held out her hand as I got closer and I gave her Grizzly, which she passed straight to Ben, soothing him almost instantly.
Mum held out her hand again. The keys were no longer in my pocket. I looked around me, retracing my steps to the car.
“They’re in the car,” I admitted to the ground, as Mum came closer, realising the worst. We ended up having to walk back home to get the spare key. It was almost an hour’s walk in the hot sun of late December. Why she never rang for a taxi, I’ll never know.
Mum still reminds me of that day whenever I hold a set of keys; she still seems to glare at me as well. Just like I always want to remind her of the bad luck I’ve had with my name.
Mum writes Bevin B. Buckley on all of my things: clothes, school bag, school books. As if someone else would be crazy enough to name their kid Bevin! But what Mum doesn’t realise is that by including my middle initial, she’s using thirteen letters. More bad luck. Just what I needed. What’s worse is that no matter how many times I’ve told my parents it’s unlucky, they won’t believe me.
Only Wolfgang, my best friend, knows how much bad luck fills my life. Wolfy spends most of our time together identifying hazards. These include bad luck omens, superstitions, anything which might bring us more bad luck.
“Why do you still keep that elephant?” Wolfy asked presently, lying comfortably on my bed, his arms between his head and my pillow. He smiled revealing his buckteeth.
“Why have you got your filthy shoes on my bed?” I replied, turning around from putting my clean clothes in the drawers.
“That’s not the point. Seriously! I’ve told you how much bad luck it’s bringing you.”
“My Aunty Kate gave it to me. I can’t just put it in the bin.”
“Donate it! Give it to Ben. He’s got too much good luck anyway. He needs some bad luck to really appreciate how lucky he is.” It was true. Ben was extremely lucky. But Wolfy didn’t know my aunt.
“Aunty Kate would be devastated. Every time she comes to visit, she comes up to see Funky Trunk.” Yep. That is really what Aunty Kate named it. “She thinks it’s great. She thinks it’s lucky.” I looked across at Funky Trunk. Standing on its four legs, it was made with grey felt material and was soft and cuddly like Grizzly. The elephant wore a rainbow saddle and, the important bit that made it unlucky – its trunk was pointed down.
“Why didn’t she get you one with its trunk up? Then it could stay,” Wolfy continued. “Have you tried to put the trunk up somehow? Sticky tape, or...” He clicked his fingers excitedly and pointed at me. “Why don’t you unstitch it and then sew it back on the right way up! That will fix it. Permanently.” As Wolfy smiled expectantly, like he was waiting for me to call him a genius, I studied his face. His mouth was much too wide for his jaw and accentuated his overly large teeth when he smiled or spoke. His light brown hair looked like a hobbit wig, his fringe covering the freckles on his forehead, which also peppered the rest of his face.
“That’s a good idea, Wolfy,” I began. “There’s just one teeny tiny problem... I. Can’t. Sew!”
“Hmm,” Wolfy pondered, his fingers rubbing his chin. “That could be a problem then.” Before I could change the subject, Mum called up the st
“Wolfy! Are you going to stay for dinner? Mister Buckley is making lasagne.”
“Oh, that’d be terrific! Thanks, Mrs Buckley,” Wolfy called back down. “My mum is making tuna casserole and Brussels sprouts,” he said to me, almost turning green at the thought.
While Wolfy rang his mum to say he’d be home after dinner, I played with the elephant and tried to put its trunk up. No matter what I did, it seemed there was too much stuffing in its trunk and it was immovable.
Wolfy said goodbye to his mum and ended the call. “Let’s finish this diorama and analysis. It’s due tomorrow, and knowing your luck, we’ve got Buckley’s chance of looking good during our speech.”
“That joke does get old, you know, Wolfy. It becomes a real howler every time you tell it. In fact, I can’t believe you try to pack it into every one of our conversations.”
Our friendship was built on a mutual appreciation of puns. And a keen eye for superstitions, of course.
“Let’s call it a knight,” I said, applying the glue to the last figurine, a knight which I placed in the medieval scene.
“Blast! I was gonna use that one,” Wolfy said. “You’re just sir quick, Bevin.”
“That was a stretch, Wolf,” I said, just as Mum called us down for dinner.
We placed the diorama on the dresser for safe keeping; it was our one-way ticket to a good grade, we hoped. My family sat around the dinner table, my parents at both ends, and a spare seat set up for Wolfy and me one side, opposite Ben. A steaming lasagne sat in the centre of the table next to a large bowl of salad.
“Bevin, can you bring the water from the fridge, please? There’s a good boy.”
“Sure, Mum,” I replied. Wolfy sat down and smiled goofily around the table. Dad served the lasagne as I poured water for everybody. I eyed off the best bit of lasagne; one corner heaped in melted, golden-brown cheese.
“Can I have that bit, please, Dad?” I asked, my mouth salivating.
“Aww, Dad! Bev had the good bit last time!” Ben complained. “Remember?” He looked pleadingly at Dad, his eyes promising tears, a look Dad could never resist.
I watched, my mouth wide open, as Ben took the plate with my piece of lasagne in his greedy hands and then ate it noisily, his mouth open as he chewed. I looked at Wolfy beside me, who had already begun eating.
“Fanks for having me over for dinner,” he said through a mouth full of food.
“Wolfy, we’re having lasagne, not seafood. Please keep your mouth shut when you chew,” I said, unable to begin eating my own dinner. I had been given the worst piece imaginable, which looked like it had been mashed with a fork before being put onto my plate. A soggy mass of mince, pasta and tomato sauce. Rather than a delicious, good-looking piece of lasagne, I had a pile of vomit.
I cut off a mouth-sized piece and raised it to my lips. Too late, I realised it was still scalding hot. My whole mouth screamed in pain at the heat. With my left hand I tried fanning air into my mouth, while grabbing the glass of water with my right. I missed, knocking over the glass. A tidal wave spread across the table.
“Bad luck, Bevin. Here, have mine,” Wolfy said, his mouth still full. He passed me his glass before getting a towel. I took it in my hand, careful not to drop it, and took a long gulp, swishing it in my mouth to cool it down. At the last moment, I realised Wolfgang had already drank some, food probably in his mouth. Globs of food were floating in the water, rushing towards my lips. I failed to stop the flow before the floaties made their way down my throat. I gagged, thinking of Wolfy’s yellow buck teeth. By some mere miracle I was able to stop myself from vomiting.
“Are you okay, Bevvy?” Mum asked, a look of concern on her face.
“Yeah,” I said unconvincingly. “I just burnt my tongue and then drank Wolfy’s backwash.” Wolfgang, still grinning, returned with the towel to soak up the water. “I was just unlucky.”
“No, Bev. You were just clumsy,” Ben said from across the table.
“Well, he did pat Funky Trunk, so I call bad luck,” declared Wolfgang with his finger in the air. He smiled knowingly, revealing a scrap of baby spinach stuck in his teeth. I told him and, still smiling, he picked it out with a dirty fingernail.
“Bevvy, you’re our little pot of luck. Our lucky thirteen. You know that. Ben’s right, you were just clumsy. Now, I don’t want to hear any more about it. I’ve cooked a delicious lasagne, so please just eat it,” Dad said, a cranky tone seeping into his voice.
A lasagne that looks like vomit, I wanted to say. Of course I never had the guts to be rude to my parents. With my bad luck, I’d get a wooden spoon on the backside. It came as no surprise that Dad took Ben’s side. He was the favourite son, even if I’m called their lucky package. A flap of skin had been burned from the roof of my mouth revealing the tender skin underneath.
I just hoped I could break my run of bad luck soon. If only I could foresee the events to come, I might have taken more precautions.
Chapter 2 – Broken Mirrors
“Bevin, you need to get up, or you’ll be late for school!” an urgent voice woke me. The room was bright and I shielded my eyes, squinting towards the door. “Bevin, honey, for the last time, you need to get up. How many times do I need to call you?”
“Wha-What? Thanks, Mum. My alarm mustn’t have worked,” I said groggily. I glanced at my alarm clock. It was 8:15. School started in half an hour. With a burst of energy unusual for me in the morning, I scrambled for my uniform and put it on, almost falling over in my rush. The cold weather had made itself well-known in my room, and my limbs complained against the freezing air, raising goose bumps on my arms in protest. I searched through my cupboard for my winter pants, pulling out every other item that I didn’t need.
With an alarming realisation, I remembered that they were in my dirty clothes basket from yesterday, having spilt strawberry jam on them at lunch. Well, desperate times called for desperate measures, I thought. After pulling out the pants, I gave them a sniff, hoping they weren’t too putrid. They seemed to smell okay, a slight undertone of sweat and stale fart, but okay. The jam stain wasn’t even that noticeable. I dragged on the pants, tied up my shoes and stood up before carefully picking up the diorama for submission today.
Our teacher, Mr Goddard, had given two dates for the class to complete their oral presentation: today, the twelfth of May; or tomorrow, the dreaded thirteenth. There was no way I could present tomorrow! I had enough bad luck, and enough difficulty passing school without completing an oral on the day which was certain to go wrong.
Careful not to fall down the stairs, I walked as quickly as I could to the kitchen and placed the diorama on the bench to eat a piece of toast.
“I’ve got to go to work, Bevvy. Ben is already at choir practice so you’ll need to walk by yourself.”
“Why can’t you drop me off on the way?” I complained through a mouthful of toast. My mouth was still sore from the lava lasagne last night.
“I’m already going to be late for a meeting so I could pack your lunch and make sure you woke up. I can’t be any later by driving in the opposite direction to drop you at school. Sorry, Bevvy,” Mum said, kissing me on the forehead before walking to the front door. Her car keys were jingling in her hand. “Have a good day, Sweetie.”
“Bye, Mum. I’ll try.”
I finished my toast and grabbed my lunch from the bench. My school bag packed, I put it on my back and picked up my diorama. A glance at the clock reminded me I needed to get to school or I would be late. The last time I was late to school I missed out on the best foods in the tuckshop due to a detention. I learned my lesson.
Outside, the sun struggled to shine. Dark clouds drifted lazily across the sky, threatening rain. I made a silent plea to the rain gods to hold off until I got safely to school and had the diorama secured on my school desk.
With as much speed as I could muster, I walked to school, paying close attention to the road ahead. I was able to get halfway to school before the clouds had painted the sky an iron metal grey. Fat drops of rain pummelled the ground around me. Scarcely at first. Then, as their pace quickened, more and more drops splattered the ground like mini bombs. When a fat drop hit my head, then the diorama, I decided I needed to move more quickly. I started to jog, the decorated shoebox held awkwardly in front of me.
