Carswell’s
Guide to
Being Lucky
By Marissa Meyer
Carswell dunked the comb beneath the faucet and slicked it through his hair, tidying the back so it
was neat and pristine, and the front spike dup just right. Boots sat on the counter, watching him with
her yellow slitted eyes and purring heavily, even though it had been nearly ten minutes since he’d
stopped petting her.
“Today’s goal,” he said to the cat, he supposed, or maybe the mirror, “is eighty-four univs. Think I
can do it?”
The cat blinked, still purring. Her tail twitched around her paws and Carswell turned off the water
and set the comb beside her.
“I’ve never made that much in one lunch hour before,” he said, pul ing a skinny blue tie over his
head and cinching the knot against his neck, “but eight-four univs will put us at a total of 7,500. Which means-“ He flipped down the shirt collar, “-the bank wil upgrade my account to ‘young professional’
and increase the monthly interest by 2%. That would trim nearly sixteen weeks off my five-year plan.”
Carswell reached for the tie tack that lived in the small crystal dish beside the sink. The school
uniform only allowed for personal style to show through in the smallest of accessories, which had led to
a trend among the girls of tying little gems onto their shoes, and the boys of splurging on diamond-stud
earrings. But Carswell had only this tie tack, which he’d dipped into his own savings for rather than ask his parents, because he knew his mom would insist he buy something tasteful (code: designer) instead.
It hadn’t been much of a setback. The tiny steel tack had cost merely fifteen univs, and it had since
become his signature piece.
A tiny spaceship. A 214 Rampion, to be exact.
His mother, as expected, had hated the tie tack when she’d noticed it for the first time nearly two
weeks later. “Sweetheart,” she’d said in that adoring tone that just bordered on condescending, “they
have a whole display of spaceship accessories at Tiff’s. Why don’t we go down there after school and
you can pick out something nice? Maybe a racer, or a fleet ship, or one of those vintage ones you used
to like? Remember all those posters you had on your walls when you were little?”
Returning her sweet smile, he’d responded simply, “I like the Rampions, Mom.”
She’d grimaced. Literally grimaced. “What under the stars is a Rampion ship, anyway?”
“Cargo ship,” his father had jumped in. “Mostly military, aren’t they, son?”
“Yes, sir.”
“A cargo ship!” Exasperated, his mom had set her hands on her hips. “Why would you want a tie
tack of a cargo ship, of all things?”
“I don’t know,” he’d said, shrugging. “I just like them.”
And he did. A Rampion had the bulk of a whale, but the sleekness of a shark, and it appealed to him.
Plus, there was something nice about a ship that was purely utilitarian. Not flashy, not overdone, not
luxurious. Not like every single thing his parents had ever purchased.
They were just … useful.
“Presentable?” Carswell said, scruffing Boots on the back of her neck. The cat ducked her head in a
way that was almost authentic, and purred louder.
Grabbing the gray uniform blazer off the door handle, he headed downstairs. His parents were both
at the breakfast table (as opposed to the formal dining table in the next room), al eyes glued to their
portscreens while Janette, one of the human maids, refilled their coffee mugs and added two sugars to
his mom’s.
“Good morning, young captain,” Jannette said, pul ing his chair out from the table.
“Don’t call him that,” said Carswell’s father without looking up. “You can call him ‘captian’ after he
earns it.”
Janette only winked at Carswel while she took the blazer from him and hung it on the back of his
chair.
Carswell smiled back and sat down. “Morning, Janette,”
“I’ll bring your pancakes right out.” She finished with a silently mouthed “Captain,” and another
wink before drifting toward the kitchen.
Without bothering to look up at his otherwise-engaged parents, Carswell pulled his book bag toward
him and removed his own portscreen. Just as he was turning it on, though, his father cleared his throat.
Loudly.
Intimidatingly.
Carswell glanced up through his eyelashes. He probably should have noticed an extra layer of frost
sitting over them this morning, but really, who could tell anymore?
“Would you like a glass of water, sir?”
As a response, his dad tossed his portscreen onto the table. His coffee cup rattled.
“The school forwarded your status report this morning,” he said pausing for dramatic effect, before
adding, “They are not up to standards.”
Not up to standards.
If Carswell had a univ for every time he’d heard something wasn’t up to standards, his bank account
would be well into ‘young investor’ status by now (interest rate: 5.2%).
“That’s unfortunate,” he said “I’m sure I almost tried this time.”
“Don’t be smart with your father,” said his mom in a rather disinterested tone, before taking a sip of
her coffee.
“Math, Carswell. You’re failing math. How do you expect to be a pilot if you can’t read charts and diagrams and-“
“I don’t want to be a pilot,” he said. “I want to be a captain.”
“Becoming a captain,” his dad growled, “starts with becoming a great pilot.”
Carswell barely refrained from rolling his eyes. He’d heard that line a time or two, also.
A warm body bumped into his leg and Carswel glanced down to see that Boots had fol owed him
and was now nudging his calf with the side of his face. He was just reaching down to pet her when his
dad snapped, “Boots, go outside.”
The cat instantly stopped burring and cuddling against Carswell’s leg, turned and traipsed toward
the kitchen-the fastest route to their backyard.
Carswell scowled as he watched the cat go, its tail sticking cheerfully straight up. He liked Boots a
lot-sometimes even felt he might love her, as one does with any pet they grew up with-but then he
would be reminded that she wasn’t a pet at all. She was a robot, programmed to follow directions just
like any android. He’d been asking for a real cat since he was about four, but his parents just laughed at the idea, listing all the reasons Boots was superior. She would never get old or die. She didn’t shed on
their nice furniture or paw at their fancy curtains or require a litter box. She would only bring them half-devoured mice if they changed her settings to do so.
His parents, Carswell had learned at a very young age, liked things that did what they were told,
when they were told. And that didn’t include headstrong felines.
Or, as it turned out, thirteen-year-old boys.
“You need to start taking this seriously,” his dad was saying, ripping him from his thoughts as the
cat-door swung closed behind Boots. “You’l never be accepted into Andromeda at this rate.”
Janette returned with his plate of pancakes and Carswell was grateful for an excuse to look away
from his dad as he slathered them with butter and syrup. It was better than risking the temptation to