Lucky Girl

by Jamie Pacton

  “Okay. That works for me. Let’s go.”

  Before I can say anything else, Bran’s mom walks up to us. She’s a fortysomething Korean woman who looks just like Bran. Tonight, her long black hair is pulled back into a stylish bun, but she’s also wearing a Betty and the Killjoys T-shirt, so her tattoos are visible.

  “There you are, Jane!” she says in a frazzled voice. She has a bag of kettle corn in one hand and a mug of cider in the other. “Thanks for coming in tonight. I’ll need you in the gift shop eventually, but can you work the snack bar for half an hour while I sneak off for my dinner?”

  “I definitely can,” I say. “But I promised Bran I’d be moral support while he’s interviewed. So give me like ten minutes?”

  Quickly, Bran explains to his mom about the news van, how they’re going to interview him, and how that will help with his internship.

  “Are you sure Jane needs to be there?” asks Mrs. Kim.

  “I really do,” I say to her. “But it’ll be quick.”

  Besides being moral support, I have some vague idea that me being there will keep Bran from getting too close to my secret.

  Mrs. Kim takes a sip of her cider. “Fine, fine. Both of you just meet me at the snack bar when you’re done. And, Bran, good luck.” She straightens his fedora, which is both endearing and somehow so perfectly momish. Could I love either of these two humans more?

  Bran grins excitedly, like he’s about to go to a birthday party. This boy was made to be in front of a camera.

  “I think I have a mom crush on your mother,” I say as she walks away. “Want to trade?”

  Bran rolls his eyes. “She’s amazing, I know. We’ve been over this. But c’mon. They’re about to get started.” He strides away toward the news van, practically skipping.

  I DON’T KNOW HOW HE’S DONE IT, BUT SOMEHOW IN THE THREE seconds it takes me to jog after him, Bran’s already chatting with the reporter. He has a megawatt smile on his face, and she’s laughing at something he’s saying. He’s so good at talking to people and being charismatic. Not for the first time, I wonder what he sees in me, a girl who would much rather spend her days alone on the ocean studying marine animals than doing anything even remotely cool.

  “Ahhh, and this is my best friend, Jane Belleweather,” says Bran as I walk up.

  “Let’s get rolling,” says the reporter after a quick nod in my direction. She fluffs her hair once, and I step out of the way so I’m out of the shot. A light flicks on from the cameraman’s camera. He counts down, three … two … one, and then waves a hand.

  “Hello,” says the reporter in a cheerfully enthusiastic voice. “I’m Molly Rawlings, and this is WGN14 news. Tonight I travel to Lakesboro, a small town outside of Madison, where the winning Mega-Wins ticket was sold yesterday. As of five minutes ago, no one has come forward to claim the prize. I’m here at the Kim family pumpkin farm to talk with local residents to see what they think of this stroke of good luck and ask if they have any idea who the lucky winner is. First up, we’ll talk to local teenager Brandon Kim.”

  Sweat beads my forehead, and I’m sure I look like a corpse who’s been playing in a sprinkler. I hate that everyone is talking about this, and I hate that I haven’t told Bran my secret, and frankly, I just want to run to the snack bar and hide. But a crowd has gathered around us, and there’s no way I can push through them and flee into the night.

  “So, where were you when the ticket was bought?” asks Molly.

  “I was at home, catching up on some homework,” Bran says. “It was pretty much just a normal day.”

  The reporter asks a few more questions, all of which Bran handles with ease.

  Then, unexpectedly, Molly Rawlings turns her camera and microphone on me.

  “This is another local teenager, Jane Belleweather,” she says. “Jane, why do you think no one has come forward to claim the prize?”

  “Maybe they’re scared,” I manage to choke out. Stage fright and a sense that everyone can see my secret makes my voice shake. “It could be a lot of pressure on them.”

  Molly gives an effortless laugh. “But it’s a LOT of money. Surely that’s worth a bit of pressure.”

  “I wish I’d won it!” someone calls out from the crowd. An appreciative chuckle rises from the circle of people around us.

  “Whatever reason the lucky winner has for not coming forward yet,” interjects Bran, rescuing me, “Jane and I are going to find them.”

  We are?

  I shoot a quick, worried glance at Bran, but he’s beaming at Molly and talking a bit more about how he’ll use his investigative-reporter skills to figure out who won and how I’ll be his research assistant.

  I wish he’d talked with me about this first, but something about Bran’s optimism and vulnerability in this moment makes my heart ache, and I remember him as a twelve-year-old nerd, checking out stacks of Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew books from the library. I can’t not help him. Even if I’m the one he’s looking for.

  LAKESBORO COMMUNITY FACEBOOK GROUP THURSDAY, 11:00 P.M.

  BRANDON KIM: Hi, everyone! Not sure if you caught the news tonight (lol, you were probably there, as it seemed like everyone in town was at the pumpkin patch this evening), but I’m trying to find the lucky lotto winner. I will be investigating over the next few days, but if anyone in town has any information, please reach out. It could be tips, clues, guesses—whatever you think will help! Here’s my website information and my Instagram.

  OLLIE WENTSER: So cool you’re doing this, Bran!

  MARY FULTON: It’s weird though, right, that no one has come forward? Well, you know it’s not me. Because if it were, I’d be on a jet to Bermuda already.

  AMY PEMBERLY: It’s super weird! I mean, how can it be so secret?

  MARY FULTON: Maybe the person will come forward? I mean, I’m betting that someone will see the news segment and then check their ticket. Still believe that this is just a case of somebody getting too busy to check the numbers.

  BRANDON KIM: That’s a great point! It could all come out in the normal way over the next few days. But I’m definitely hoping to find the person so I can interview them.

  J. WILKINS: I HAVE A TIP! The lucky ticket was sold at Wanda’s. Why don’t you talk to them?

  BRANDON KIM: That’s a great idea, and that’s first on the list for my partner and me to check out tomorrow after school. Thanks!

  CHAPTER SIX

  I SLAM MY LAPTOP CLOSED, DONE WITH INSTAGRAM AND FACEBOOK FOR the night. There are now over two hundred comments on the first thread about the winner, and Bran’s thread is fast approaching that. If tonight has proven nothing else, it’s that everyone in this damn town wants to know who won the lotto money.

  How am I going to keep Bran off my trail? Would the clerk at Wanda’s even remember me? They don’t have a security system—they don’t, right? I’ve never seen a camera there—but maybe I can keep Bran away from Wanda’s? Though I know tomorrow he’ll want to head there as soon as school’s out. He already told the entire town that.

  Running a hand over my face, I collapse onto my bed. I’ve been Googling the tragic stories of other lotto winners who’ve had terrible luck. I’m not sure why I keep looking these people up, but I can’t seem to stop myself. Each one is more horrible than the last, and that’s saying a lot since Abraham Shakespeare was buried under his patio. To keep them all together, I’ve been writing them in a notebook so I can remind myself of what not to do on the off chance I’m able to cash the ticket.

  Flipping to an empty page in the notebook, I pick up the list I started making, just so I can keep a handle on all the hot-mess things happening in my life right now:

  JANE’S RIDICULOUS LIFE PROBLEMS:

  You won the lotto. Shut up. It’s not actually a problem, except …

  - You can’t cash the ticket.

  - Because if you try to, the lotto commission will take away the money and charge you with a misdemeanor. All of which could be avoided by finding someone you trust
to cash the ticket, except …

  - Mom is a train wreck of a human who will blow the money on absolute junk, and although being a lotto winner’s kid might be okay, there’s no guarantee I could get the money. I could ask Grandma, except …

  - She’s a hippie who lives in a free-love commune (ahem, in a high-rise) and doesn’t believe in possessions. Though maybe I’ll try. I could ask Bran, except …

  - Oh, that’s right, he’s seventeen too. The only other person I know who’s eighteen is Holden, and I could ask him, except …

  - He’s an asshole. No exceptions.

  I look at the list and add another problem:

  - Oh yeah, and Bran, my most beloved BFF, has decided that unmasking the lotto winner will help him get the internship he wants. Which would be fine, except …

  - I’m the winner, and I can’t be unmasked until I figure all this out.

  - Which leaves me lying to my BFF on top of all this other stuff. And also leaves open the possibility that if I did somehow find someone to cash the ticket, and I become a millionaire, then my problems are really only just beginning because someone might kill me for the money, or even if not that, the rest of my life might be ruined because

  “FORTUNA!” Mom’s voice rings through the house. “Time to go!”

  Ugh.

  I just got home from the pumpkin farm half an hour ago, but Big Junk Dump day still awaits. After the interview, I helped Mrs. Kim in the snack bar for a few hours and then had to help Bran clean up the trash around the picnic area. When I got home, Mom’s truck was in the driveway, and her door was closed. I’d hoped she’d gone to sleep, but no such luck.

  Mom knocks on my door. I shove my notebook under my pillow and stand up.

  “Hey,” I say, opening the door. A yawn splits my face. “Any chance we can skip tonight? I’m super tired and have a long day at school tomorrow.”

  Mom twists her ponytail into a bun and then lets it fall. Her brow furrows, and she takes a deep breath, clearly warring with herself as she tries to figure out if she can choose me or the stuff. We’ve had this conversation before. If I don’t help her pick up BJD junk, she’ll keep bugging me all night as her anxiety ramps up about stuff being taken by the trash collectors early in the morning.

  “I think we have to go now,” says Mom quickly. “It won’t be long. I promise. Please, Fortuna Jane?”

  I sigh and nod. If we leave now, we could be done by one in the morning. Meaning I’ll only get a few hours of sleep before school, but there’s really no choice. “Let me get my shoes.”

  FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, WE’RE CRUISING INTO TOWN. I’M DRIVING, and Mom has a flashlight pointed at the junk piles along the street. We pass one that’s all old mattresses—thankfully, Mom doesn’t want to start collecting those—and she also lets me pass the pile of tomato cages heaped among bags of yard waste.

  We don’t chitchat about our day or what’s going on in our lives, and an anxious silence fills the truck cabin. For a moment, I imagine what it would be like to tell Mom about the winning ticket. I could do it right now. Just blurt it out. It’s only five small words.

  I practice saying them in my head. “Mom, I won the lotto.”

  Or, “You’re not going to believe this, Mom, but I won the lotto.”

  Or, “Mom, we’ll never need to go through trash again, because we’re now worth $58 million.”

  That last one sounds wildly convincing, and it might just work. Maybe that huge sum would snap her out of this need to rescue other people’s garbage? Maybe I could give it a try and then pass it off as a joke if it fails?

  The words sit on my tongue, lumpy like mashed potatoes. I open my mouth, ready to—

  “PULL OVER!” Mom shouts as we round a corner near the heart of our small downtown.

  Uh-huh. Of course this made her stop.

  I swallow, pushing any unsaid confessions back inside myself.

  Heaped on the corner is a mountain of junk. It looks like the owners of the sprawling Victorian we’ve stopped in front of must be getting all new furniture, or maybe somebody died. Two recliners with stuffing poking out of them sit among a broken futon, boxes filled to the brim with photo frames, and much, much more. Mom’s flashlight beam bounces all around the stuff, and she’s out of the truck before I even stop beside the curb.

  “Put down your light!” I whisper as the beam hits house windows. What we’re doing is not technically illegal, but we’ve also had the police called on us before because we’re out so late and making so much noise that we wake up somebody’s kids or their dog.

  Mom lowers her light, setting it on top of a dresser that’s busted up and missing two of its drawers. “Can you believe all this stuff, Fortuna? Why would anyone throw it out?” She shoves a huge box toward me. “Go through that. Save anything of personal value!”

  When she says it, it’s both mission statement and a credo.

  We Must Save Anything Someone Ever Loved!

  There’s an agitated desperation to her voice that’s matched by her frenetic movements as she darts around the junk pile, pulling at stuffed animals, blankets, and books.

  I take the box she’s handed to me and rest it on the broken dresser beside her flashlight. Unlike Mom, who dives barehanded into junk finding, I always bring a pair of gardening gloves on BJD day. After slipping them onto my hands, I sift through the contents of the box.

  It contains a few cheesy records (’80s BIG hair!), a stack of water-stained books, a bunch of hangers, some photo albums with no pictures in them, and then, inexplicably lumped at the bottom, is a wedding dress.

  Weird.

  I pull the dress out of the box. It unfolds like a satin and chiffon waterfall, with poufy sleeves bigger than my head. A wide brown stain (please let that be a coffee stain) covers the train of the dress.

  “It’s beautiful,” Mom gasps. She drops the ugly lamp she was holding and runs one hand slowly along the tiny beads embroidered along the bodice. “Can you imagine throwing away a dress like this?”

  I couldn’t. But I also couldn’t imagine keeping it. Or ever needing it, since I never plan on getting married. Still, though, I’m surprised the dress was so unceremoniously shoved among all the other junk in the box.

  “I wonder what the story of it is,” I say, half to myself.

  Mom beams at me.

  Shit. Wrong question.

  “That’s exactly what I’ve been trying to tell you!” Mom exclaims. “Stuff has stories, and someone certainly loved this once. How lucky that we found it!”

  “Maybe they’re getting rid of it because the marriage didn’t work out or the bride died?”

  As soon as the words are out, I clap a hand over my mouth, wishing I could shove them back inside. Mom collapses onto one of the broken armchairs, as if my words dropped her like an anvil. We don’t talk about death. Or marriages that end in death. Or anything vaguely in the realm of any of that.

  “I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s nothing.” Mom hops up and waves her hands in the air, as if she’s clearing away a cloud of ghosts. “Don’t just stand around. Let’s get this stuff into the truck!”

  I stay silent for a beat, giving her the space to say more if she wants. She doesn’t, and I let out a long sigh. It’s not that I want to get into our deepest feelings on the side of the road at midnight, but we probably should say all these unsaid things that have been building up for years between us. Someday, maybe we will. But not tonight.

  “Which pieces do you want?” I ask.

  Mom moves from box to box, then back to the armchair, then back to the dresser. “All of it! We’ll go through it at home. Hurry, hurry. There’s much more to be collected around town!”

  Mom grabs the wedding gown from me, cradling it closely to her chest. She lays it carefully on the front seat, where it sits like a ghostly bridal passenger. And just like that, I know she has a new mission: to save every wedding dress she comes across.

  Sh
it.

  With a long sigh, I push down any thoughts of my dad or who my mom was before he died, and I start loading boxes into the truck bed.

  We make ten more stops before Mom’s ready to go home. The wedding dress sits between us, and I pull my elbows in as I drive so I don’t touch it. Along the way, Mom babbles about the lotto winner. I keep my mouth shut, letting her talk.

  “And then I told Doris there was no way someone in our town has the ticket. Because if they did, they’d surely have come forward by now!” Mom lets out a giddy laugh, exhilarated by the night of rescuing things and the idea that the lotto winner could actually be someone in town.

  Doris is the owner of Sammy’s Storage Solutions (the place where Mom works) and Mom’s best friend. Doris’s husband was Sammy, a not-great guy who took off a few years ago with a twenty-two-year-old he met in a bar. When he left, Doris hired Mom full-time, which was both a good and bad thing. Doris shares Mom’s passion for finding treasures in the trash, though she considers herself an expert on the level with the Storage Wars folks, so she only keeps items that she can sell.

  The upside of their friendship is that Mom has someone in town who she can talk to besides me. The downside is that Doris lets Mom go through unclaimed or past-due storage lockers, which gives her a literal treasure trove. I wonder sometimes if they go around opening lockers during the day, just to see what’s inside.

  This is why I can’t ask Mom to cash the ticket. She’d probably split the money with Doris, and they’d buy out all the storage lockers in the US or something. I’m so grateful I didn’t say anything earlier.

  Mom keeps talking until our house comes into view. We left the porch light on, and ghoulish shadows from all the discarded toys fill the yard. The back of the truck rides so low, it scrapes the ground as we pull into our gravel driveway. My arms ache from hauling things out of piles and lifting broken stuff into the truck. A wide yawn splits my face as I turn off the engine.

  “Any chance we can unload this tomorrow?” The clock on the dashboard reads 1:30 a.m. I have to be up at six if I’m going to finish the math and English homework I didn’t get to earlier.