Lucky Girl

by Jamie Pacton

  LUCKY

  GIRL

  Jamie Pacton

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  Table of Contents

  About the Author

  Copyright Page

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  FOR EVERYONE WHO COULD USE A LITTLE LUCK RIGHT NOW.

  AND FOR ASHLEIGH, NOELLE, AND LIZZY-THANK YOU FOR ALWAYS SHOWING UP. I’M SO LUCKY TO HAVE YOU AS FRIENDS.

  CHAPTER ONE

  WHAT DO MOST PEOPLE DO WHEN THEY FIND OUT THEY’VE WON THE lottery?

  Cry? Scream? Jump up and down? Quit their jobs? Call their moms or their best friends?

  Or, fun alternate version to all that, they could take my approach and be sitting quietly in math class, chewing on their bottom lip, and trying not to faint.

  Hi, yes. My name is Fortuna Jane Belleweather. I’m seventeen, and I’ve just found out I was the sole winner in last night’s huge lotto jackpot. Like, $58 million worth of huge.

  I’m freaking out, to say the least.

  And look, okay. I get it.

  Nobody feels sorry for lottery winners. I mean, it’s hard to have sympathy for someone who can potentially make all their problems disappear with outrageous amounts of money.

  BUT, as I’m quickly finding out, in the space between potential winner → to actual winner → to appearances on Luxury Lotto Lifestyles, there’s a Pacific Ocean’s worth of doubt, worry, and fear. There’s also ample space for panic attacks like the one I’m having right now, in the middle of math class.

  Outside my classroom’s windows, a brisk October wind howls, making bare oak branches slap against the glass. Inside the classroom, I’m trying to breathe normally and stop my hands from shaking harder than the trees.

  I’m failing spectacularly.

  In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m about to start some deeply unhinged cackling soon, and I can feel the laugh sitting like a lump of unswallowed sandwich, stuck in that spot where my collarbones meet. Assuredly, hyena-style laughter during math class is a terrible idea, but at this point, I’ll do anything to decrease the pressure of this absurd $58 million–dollar secret before my head actually explodes.

  Deep breath in.

  Hold it.

  Deep breath out.

  I count my breaths and think about numbers. Because numbers are concrete and make sense. There’s strength in numbers, right?

  Okay, here are some numbers:

  For the last five years, my mom has played the lotto religiously.

  Every week, she spends exactly forty-three dollars—a third of her check from working at Sammy’s Storage Solutions—on lotto tickets. The rest of her check barely keeps us alive. Which is sort of fine because we live in the paid-off house Mom grew up in, and there’s still some money left from my dad’s life insurance.

  But back to numbers: Multiply those forty-three dollars by fifty-two weeks, then multiply that by five years for a grand total of $11,180 that my mom has spent on the lotto since we moved to Lakesboro.

  Which is probably only slightly more than what the guy in front of me in math class spent on hair gel last week.

  Ha!

  (More unhinged cackling. Breathe, woman. Breathe.)

  Okay, right, the numbers. So, the amount of money I have in my pocket is approximately 5,245 times $11,180.

  And now we’re back to it: the $58 million—or, to be more precise, $58,642,129—I have in my pocket. During math class. On what started out as an ordinary Thursday.

  All of which is absolutely, entirely, totally, mind-bogglingly absurd.

  And which I also just found out about three minutes before class, when I popped into the bathroom to check the winning lotto numbers on my phone.

  Yes, I nearly passed out on the toilet.

  And no, I haven’t told anyone yet. But I’m getting to that part.

  To say I’m bewildered is like saying you should probably pack a sweater for a trip to Antarctica.

  (HAHAHAHAHA. Jokes! At a time like this!)

  Deep breath.

  I think it’s likely I’m in shock because I’m just sitting in class, all casual, with $58 MILLION IN MY POCKET.

  But there you have it.

  Last night, I impulsively bought a ticket with my last dollar. And it won.

  I keep making myself say it in my mind: I won the lottery.

  I won the lottery. I won the lottery. I won the lottery.

  “Fortuna Jane Belleweather,” calls out my math teacher, Ms. Wallace, peering at her attendance sheet. “Are you paying attention?”

  Mr. Hairgel in front of me snickers. “Yeah, Tuna, are you paying attention?”

  I poke him hard with a pencil eraser, which he probably thinks is flirting now that I’m single again. I’ve worked hard not to learn his name, since he also thinks my first name is the funniest thing he’s ever heard. My mom thought naming me Fortuna was a smart bet for ensuring me a life of good luck. Maybe she was right, given my current lotto-winner status, but it also highlights how terrible her judgment is. Seriously. What kid ever wanted a name with the word tuna in it?

  “It’s Jane,” I remind Ms. Wallace, who likes to deploy our full names as weapons. “And yes, I’m paying attention. We’re talking about paramedics—I mean, ebolas—I mean, parabolas.”

  The class laughs. “Care to elaborate?” Ms. Wallace arches a perfectly drawn eyebrow.

  “Fourteen,” hisses my best friend, Brandon Kim, from the seat behind me. “The curve of that parabola is fourteen.”

  I repeat what he says, and Ms. Wallace goes back to her droning lesson. I whisper thanks to Bran and go back to feeling like Charlie goddamn Bucket with a pale-orange Mega-Wins ticket burning a Bentley-size hole in my pocket.

  I still can’t believe I won. I mean, what are the odds of that?

  Actually, I know the odds because I’ve been covertly Googling since the start of class. There was a one in three hundred million chance I would be the sole winner of last night’s jackpot.

  That’s right. One in three hundred million.

  Also—according to Google—it’s more likely I’d date a supermodel, get hit by an asteroid, achieve sainthood, and be eaten by a shark, all at the same time, rather than win the whole jackpot myself.

  Which is something my brain refuses to wrap itself around. I keep thinking about it and then bouncing off the truth of my newfound wealth like a kid bopping around in a giant bounce house. Except it’s a lot less fun. Maybe I’m like that kid who keeps falling out of the bounce house and landing on her face. Or the one who keeps slipping and getting pummeled by the other kids. Or whatever.

  For perspective: Yesterday, I had twenty-four dollars in my bank account. Today, I have $58 million in my pocket.

  To keep from having a full-blown panic attack, I doodle a picture of me and my supermodel date swimming in shark-infested waters while an asteroid races toward us. I make sure to include a halo over my head. Supermodel, shark, star, saint. Supermodel, shark, star, saint. The ridiculous combo runs through my head like a mantra.

  Fun as that image is, though, my hand shakes as I sketch, sending a wobbly line across the page. I put down my pencil. Here are some other facts I’ve
also learned since the start of math class:

  Fact One: Lottery tickets are bearer’s instruments. So, if I want this money, I better make sure I sign this ticket so no one else can cash it.

  Fact Two: Even if I sign it, I can’t cash it yet because a minor in the state of Wisconsin can only cash a ticket if it was bought by an adult and given as a gift.

  Fact Three: I don’t turn eighteen for another two weeks. But that’s not the big issue, since I have one hundred and eighty days to claim the—

  “Holy shit!” bursts out Bran. His phone chirps with a series of texts, and everyone in the class spins around to look at him. Ms. Wallace stops writing on the whiteboard and turns around, glaring at us all.

  “Is there something you’d like to share, Mr. Kim?”

  “Yeah! My dad just texted me—Wanda’s Quick-Go Shop sold the winning Mega-Wins ticket last night. One person won the full prize of $58 million, and my dad says it could be somebody in town!”

  Our town is right off the interstate, and Wanda’s is one of two convenience stores, so there’s a chance it could’ve been bought by anyone passing through.

  But it wasn’t, of course.

  I shift lower in my seat, making sure the ticket is deep in my jeans pocket. I’m going to have to figure out a better solution for keeping it safe, but I certainly can’t pull it out and shove it into my backpack right now.

  Everyone in the class starts murmuring. Mr. Hairgel—who is newly eighteen—tells the girl next to him that he bought ten Mega-Wins tickets at Wanda’s last night. I cringe to think of what he’d spend the prize money on if he had won. Probably a lifetime supply of hair products and dude-bro body spray.

  All around me, phones come out, and everyone begins texting. Ms. Wallace starts to say something about putting phones away, but then she throws up her hands.

  “Has anyone claimed the prize yet?” she asks Bran.

  “Not yet. My dad says news crews are probably coming in tonight. They’re going to interview people in town to see if they know anything.”

  My hand slips inside my pocket, and I run my fingers lightly over the winning ticket again.

  It’s all about numbers.

  And last night they called mine: 6 28 19 30 82.

  But considering the fever pitch the classroom has now reached, I’m not sure this is my lucky day after all.

  CHAPTER TWO

  OR MAYBE IT IS. I DON’T KNOW.

  One part of me says: Jane, you big dork. Winning the lotto is marvelous. Stop worrying so much; you’ll figure it out. THIS IS GOING TO CHANGE YOUR LIFE IN AMAZING WAYS.

  Sure, right, says my more cynical side. This is clearly too good to be true. Don’t get your hopes up; something will go terribly wrong.

  I war with myself for the rest of the morning, feeling deeply conflicted about the whole thing. I have more lotto-winner research to do, which I’m saving for tonight, when I’m at home and not surrounded by hordes of people talking about the ticket and what they’d do with the money.

  By lunchtime, the news of the winning ticket has spread throughout the school. Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and Snapchat are all buzzing. Half the school is checking their phones to see if they know the winner, and the other half is posting pictures for the impromptu “Where were you when you found out about the ticket?” selfie stream on Instagram that some industrious soul thought was a good idea.

  Bran is offering tidbits of lottery information on his social media and his website, Bran’s Lakesboro Daily. He started the site a few years ago as part of a class project, but since then it’s grown from a small school newspaper to something that covers news for the whole town. Bran’s a brilliant journalist, and he’s hoping the site will help him get a CNN internship this summer and also help with college applications. When I last saw him, he was running an “Ask Me Anything” on Instagram and scrambling to keep up with questions from people at school.

  I was following along for a while, but now I’ve turned off my phone, and I sit at a picnic table in the yard behind school, eating a ketchup sandwich and trying not to think about the ticket.

  Which is about as easy as forgetting to breathe.

  I pull apart my sandwich with a sigh. The blob of ketchup on the white bread looks like a bloodstain, but there was nothing else in the fridge this morning because Mom forgot to go grocery shopping again.

  With a resigned bite (it tastes like chewing on salty tomato-flavored Styrofoam), I try to enjoy the weather. Leaves flutter down from the oaks above my head, though the wind carries the promise of bitterly cold winter days. Just the thought of waiting for the school bus on 20-degree mornings makes me want to crawl into a volcano.

  I pull a ratty green sweatshirt out of my enamel-pin-covered backpack (RBG! She persisted! Nasty Woman! Books!) and slip it over my T-shirt. Then, with a glance over my shoulder to make sure no one is looking, I take the lotto ticket from my jeans pocket and tuck it between the pages of my favorite book, Sea Change, by legendary oceanographer Sylvia Earle.

  Opening to a random chapter, my eyes move over Earle’s words, but I’m not taking anything in. Usually when I read this book, I’m transported to my favorite place in the world that I’ve never actually been—the Hawaiian Islands Humpback Whale National Marine Sanctuary—but today I’m just reading the same sentence over and over.

  Which is all because of this damn ticket. I shove it deeper into the book and close my eyes. If can’t read, I’ll just travel to Maui in my mind.

  I’m on a boat off the coast. The deck rocks beneath me, and a salty breeze lifts my hair. Gulls screech and waves slap against the sides of the hull. Suddenly, something goes flying up from the deck—it’s bright orange, and I grab for it.

  No! That’s a lotto ticket, and I’m trying to forget it for a moment. Taking a deep breath, I sink back into the fantasy of Maui.

  Steadying myself, I scan the ocean for the enormous gray shape of a humpback whale. In the distance, Maui’s green hills rise, and the sapphire-blue Pacific stretches to the horizon. Suddenly, there’s a great rush of water—

  “Uh-oh,” says Bran from somewhere nearby. “You’ve got that ‘dreaming about whale watching in Maui’ look on your face again.”

  My eyes fly open, and I snap my book closed, making sure the Mega-Wins ticket isn’t showing. I need to find a safer place for it. Like, immediately.

  “If you were really my best friend, you’d know I’m daydreaming about working with Sylvia Earle while whale watching in Maui.”

  Bran rolls his eyes and plops down at the picnic table beside me. Today he’s wearing a band T-shirt I found for him at a thrift store, ripped jeans, and sneakers. Whereas I just look messy in my sweatshirt and jeans, he somehow looks like a K-pop star who’s wandered into rural Wisconsin.

  Scowling at my very sad ketchup sandwich, Bran offers me a bag of grapes from his own lunch without a word. I take the grapes and shove Sea Change into my backpack.

  Before Bran can say anything else, his phone rings. “It’s Sofie,” he says excitedly.

  Sofie is Bran’s long-distance girlfriend. She was an exchange student at our school last year, and she moved back to Sydney in May. Somehow, she and Bran have been making it work with half a continent and an ocean between them.

  “Hi, Sof,” I say as Bran answers the FaceTime call.

  Sofie and I chat online frequently, but because of the time difference, we rarely manage to have an actual phone call.

  Sofie grins at me. She’s wearing green pj’s with corgis on them, and her curly hair frames her light-brown face. “Jane!” she says. “So good to see you!”

  I grin back. “What time is it there? Like, six in the morning?”

  “Closer to four, but these are the things we do for love.” Sofie sips from a giant mug of coffee.

  I nudge Bran. “I hope she calls you at four o’clock in the morning too, just to keep things fair.”

  He laughs. “We’re ridiculous, I know.”

  They take a minute to ma
ke googly eyes at each other, and Sofie blows Bran a kiss.

  “You two are sickening.” I groan.

  “Admit it,” Sofie says with a laugh. “You want to be awoken before dawn to chat with your beloved too.”

  I snort and run a hand over my eyes. “Not even a little bit. But I’m also not dating again until I’m thirty.”

  This resolution was formed after Holden Jones—the guy I dated since the beginning of sophomore year—suddenly broke up with me two months ago. Right now, I’m totally over love and romance. Give me humpback whales over making out any day of the week.

  “You’ll find the right person someday,” says Bran, ever the romantic. Sofie nods in agreement on the screen. “Just think, the girl of your dreams could be waiting on your boat in Maui.”

  “Shut it,” I say with a snort. I don’t regret telling him that Megan Rapinoe lifting her hands in triumph in the World Cup against France confirmed my suspicions about being bi, but his optimism for my love life is just too much right now.

  “How are you holding up, Jane?” Sofie asks. She pauses for a moment and then presses on. “Bran told me about Holden.”

  Oooof. That hurts a bit. Not that Bran told her, but the reminder that at this time last year, we were doing things like going on double dates.

  “I’ve been better,” I admit.

  “I’m so angry at him,” Sofie bursts out. “What was he thinking? Like, did you even see it coming?”

  “Not even a little bit,” I say, unable to keep the bitterness out of my voice. I don’t say this, but I can’t help thinking it: In my mind, Holden and I had been like a couple in a rom-com. He wooed me back in tenth grade by writing me a song and leaving me long letters in my locker. Even after we’d dated for a while, he’d bring me flowers every week. We always danced in the rain. I went on his family vacations, and, if I spent the night at his house, his mom would make me breakfast.

  He was all my firsts: first boyfriend, first kiss, first love, first (and only) guy I’ve had sex with. First one to break my heart into pieces.