The Thing About Luck

that.

I thought again about how when something almost killed you, you were bonded to it for life. But even during the worst parts of my illness, I knew in my mind that the mosquito hadn’t been trying to kill me. That hadn’t been its goal. It was just trying to get blood so it could lay eggs—only female mosquitoes bite you.

I stopped at one of my favorite drawings, of a mosquito feeding on nectar amid beautiful flowers. I had started that picture seventeen times before I finally got it right. Almost dying makes you think a lot about death. I remember thinking of my family going on without me, of Jaz growing up and being some kind of rocket scientist with exactly two friends, of my mom crying and crying that I was gone. And now I had this second chance at life. My friends all felt like life would go on forever, but I realized it was something happening now. And yet I didn’t know what to make of it. “It’s because your personality hasn’t settled yet,” my mother liked to say, as if my personality was dust floating in water.

I went through every page of my mosquito book. When I looked up, Jaz was sifting through some papers the Parkers had given us. In the mirror, I could see that Obaachan’s face was pale and worried. She was in a lot of pain.

“We’ve got twenty-two jobs,” Jaz said, holding up one of the papers. The Parkers had given everyone a list of the jobs we’d been assigned. “First one’s seven thousand acres.”

“I have to pee,” I said.

“Look in blue bag,” Obaachan replied.

I rummaged through the same bag that held all of Obaachan’s painkillers and spotted a glass jar.

“You’re kidding, right?” I said.

“No kidding. Don’t spill.”

Mrs. Parker had pulled us all over a couple of hours earlier at a truck stop, but I didn’t have to go then. I had to go now. Jaz turned to me, probably to see if I was really going to use the jar. “Mind your own business,” I said. “I decided I don’t have to go that bad.”

The windows were open, the hot air blowing into our faces. I thought about Robbie and made a mental note to rebraid my hair before we stopped again. It was windy out, the wheat field rippling as we passed. It looked less yellow than usual, more like the color of coffee with a whole lot of milk in it. Jiichan had once told me that he knew someone who knew someone who knew someone who knew a woman who could tell your fortune by looking at the way the wind blew the wheat around you. I would be interested in meeting that woman.

A layer of clouds seemed to be pressing down toward us, more like a ceiling than the sky. Despite those clouds, Texas had mostly been dry this year. When the weather was dry while the wheat was growing, the fields would yield fewer bushels per acre. One harvest in Texas, when there had been a lot of rain, the average yield in the state had been nearly sixty bushels an acre, which was quite a lot. This year it would certainly be less—maybe not even thirty.

“Almost there,” Mrs. Parker finally announced over the radio.

I closed the back windows and redid my braids, then sat with sweat dripping down my face. I held up a paper towel to my forehead. “Look what Summer’s doing,” Jaz said.

“I saw,” Obaachan said. “She make saru out of herself for boy.” Saru meant “monkey.” I could not wait to be out of that truck.

The convoy turned down a dirt road where a makeshift sign that read PARKERS TURN HERE was stuck on a tree. When we reached the farm, a man was already standing outside motioning us to park. I got out and saw there were water and electrical hookups. That meant we would be staying on the farm in the campers instead of going to an RV park. It was a lot easier when you stayed on the farm, but I missed the RV parks because there were always other harvester kids there.

As soon as the Parkers’ camper was hooked up, I was going to use the bathroom in there.

Mr. and Mrs. Parker shook the man’s hand. “Mr. Laskey? I’m Lonny Parker. This is my wife, Jenna.”

“Nice to meet you,” Mr. Laskey said. Mr. Laskey was a tall, balding man, and he looked concerned. “I hope you’re ready to hit the ground running. There’s rain forecast for next week.”

“Absolutely. We brought enough machinery this first trip to start right now.”

“Great, great. I want this to be a quick job.” He said that with the slightest hint of warning in his voice, like if it wasn’t a quick job, he would be irate.

“We’ll get your wheat in before then, don’t you worry.” Mr. Parker studied the fields around him and the low clouds. “Those don’t look like rain clouds. Yep, not to worry.”

Mr. Laskey nodded. He stood with his arms crossed in front of him, and he looked impatient. I’d discovered that some farmers were very tense people because nearly their whole earnings for the year depended on how their wheat crop turned out during these few days of harvest. All year they prayed for rain, until harvest came and they prayed for no rain. Some of them were real nice, but others were just plain grumps.

But I got it. The wheat couldn’t be much more than 13.5 percent moist or the grain elevators wouldn’t accept it. Wheat that was too moist could cause fungus. The combines had instruments to measure the wheat’s moisture content, and there were handheld gadgets to measure with as well. The Parkers used a moisture meter that looked like a thermos cup. You would fill it with wheat, and it would tell you what the moisture level was.

Grain elevators checked for moisture, weeds, and protein content. Wheat that was too dry would weigh less and thus be worth less. Plus, if you let the wheat ripen too long, the protein content could fall. So timing was everything. Another thing that frightened the farmers was hail. Hail could break the wheat or smash it to the ground. I had actually seen a farmer—a big, burly man—cry during a hailstorm. So farmers just wanted to get the harvest over as soon as possible. As I said, I got it.

Mr. and Mrs. Parker drove the combines down off the trailers they were hauled on. I squinted into the distance and didn’t see the end of the wheat field. The house, over to the left, was big. I wondered how many kids the Laskeys had and whether we would meet them.

Jiichan steered the tractor and grain cart off the trailer. Then the Parkers had to attach the headers to the front of the combines. The headers, as I mentioned, were the rotating parts of the combines that actually cut the wheat.

John Deere support trucks always followed the harvest because different custom harvesting companies would all be in about the same part of the country at the same time. The support trucks were full of combine parts and manned with John Deere mechanics who could come and help you with your combine if there was a problem. Usually, you didn’t need an expert because most harvest crews had a good mechanic on hand. In our case, the best mechanic was Mr. Parker. But if something electrical broke down, you needed a John Deere guy.

I watched Mr. Dark and Mr. McCoy get into two semis and Mr. Parker into a pickup. They roared off back to Kansas to get the rest of the machinery. Poor guys—they’d be driving practically eighteen hours by the time they were done. Then two of the combines and the grain cart headed for the field. It all sounded like an airplane taking off.

When the noise subsided, Mrs. Parker, looking worried, approached us. “You should probably find a grocery store right away, so you can make the crew sandwiches.” She handed a stack of binders to Obaachan. “I’ve planned out the meals for the entire season, complete with recipes, like always. It took me a long time, so please follow the meal plans to a T.” She started to walk away, then turned around again. “Why don’t you make them tuna sandwiches for lunch? Just remember that my husband isn’t fond of too much mayonnaise. He likes mayonnaise, but not too much of it.” She gave a little laugh. “Of course, he won’t be having lunch today since he left, but I’m reminding you for the future.”

She stood for a moment, frowning some more. “On second thought, why don’t you make chicken salad sandwiches? I have tuna casserole on the menu for next week, so we don’t want to bombard everyone with tuna, and I have tuna again for sandwiches on day twelve.” She still couldn’t bring herself to turn around and leave. “Always use wheat bread. I don’t know why they still manufacture white bread... .” Her voice trailed off. She bit at a thumbnail. “And get ice for the cooler, since the refrigerators are in the other camper. You can put any extra food in the cooler—it’s a big one. Get enough to make sandwiches for dinner, too.” She handed just two twenties to Obaachan.

“She has a photographic memory,” said a voice behind me. I turned around and found myself face-to-face with Robbie. OMG. He was talking not to Obaachan but to me. “She has the menus for the entire season in her head. I think we should save her brain when she dies to compare it to Einstein’s.”