Lucky Girl

by Jamie Pacton

  Mom shakes her head, like I’ve suggested something utterly ridiculous. “You know the routine, Fortuna. We have to get it into the house.”

  “But there’s no room in the house!” I burst out, my aching body and exhaustion bringing all my frustration to the surface.

  “Nonsense,” Mom says, carefully picking up the wedding dress. She opens the passenger-side door. “We have loads of space. In fact, I’ve been thinking about it: Your room could always use a bit more stuff.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  She shoots me a calculating look, like she’s trying to figure out what she’d have to say to me to get me to relent. But I’m not budging on this point.

  “If you put any of this crap in my room,” I say firmly, “I’m moving in with Grandma.”

  Mom laughs then. “She doesn’t have room for you in that tiny apartment!” Her voice is almost gleeful. “But don’t worry, you’ll be off to college soon enough.”

  “I literally cannot wait,” I mutter under my breath.

  If I can find someone other than Mom to cash my $58 million secret for me, then maybe I could get out of here sooner. But if I did that, whispers some part of me, then who would help Mom? Or remind her to eat?

  With a weary sigh, I untie the ropes holding the stuff in place in the back of the truck and start unloading.

  I FALL INTO BED AT TWO THIRTY IN THE MORNING, FEELING LIKE I’ve run wind sprints or played back-to-back soccer games. I did, at least, change out of my filthy clothes, but facing a shower was too much. Hating myself a little for skipping brushing my teeth, I check that the lotto ticket is still in its place—it is, thank God.

  With clumsy fingers, I set my phone alarm for six. At least I’ll get a few hours of sleep.

  When my head hits the pillow, something rustles underneath it. Has Mom shoved something in here? Personalized stationery or a stack of unused wedding invitations? I swear, if those are under my pillow—or if she’s been in my room—I’m moving out tomorrow.

  Fumbling in the dark, I flick on my phone’s light and reach under my pillow. Oh. Right. Not Mom’s stuff, but my notebook with the lotto-winner stories and my list of problems.

  As tired as I am, I can’t help but read the list again and skim the stories on the top page. Talk about stuff to give me bad dreams.

  THE BIG BOOK OF LOT TO WINNER FAILS

  Paraphrased from news sources and collected for posterity by Jane Belleweather

  UNLUCKY LOTTO WINNER NUMBER TWO:

  Jeffrey Dampier is another example of someone who won the lotto and lost everything. His prize for winning the Illinois Lottery was $20 million, and he shared it with his family.

  But, as these things go, somebody got greedy. A few years after he won the jackpot, Dampier’s sister-in-law and her boyfriend kidnapped him and shot him in the back of the head. The couple is now in prison for life, and Dampier is just another example of what a windfall with so many zeroes after it can do to people.

  Note to self: This is example number two of a lotto winner being murdered by family or loved ones for the sake of the prize. A disturbing trend, to say the least.

  UNLUCKY LOTTO WINNER NUMBER THREE:

  Example number three isn’t quite so grim, but what a mess. Evelyn Adams from New Jersey somehow won the lottery in both 1985 ($3.9 million) and 1986 ($1.4 million). As one does, she gave away some of the money to friends and then the rest of it went to feed her gambling habit. By 2000, she was broke and living in a trailer park.

  Note to self: This quote from Evelyn gives me chills: “Winning the lottery isn’t always what it’s cracked up to be. Everybody wanted my money. Everybody had their hand out.”

  UGHHHHHHHH.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  MY ALARM GOES OFF ON FRIDAY MORNING AT SIX, AND I WANT TO fling my phone into the sun. But I shut it off and get up. First a shower, then homework, and then I’ll somehow drag myself through the day.

  I take Sea Change off the shelf and check it again. The ticket is still there, wedged at the beginning of “Beyond Flotsam and Jetsam,” the chapter about the devastating effect of plastics on the ocean. I hold it in my hand for a moment. It’s still unsigned. But I can’t sign it now because that’s acknowledging that I bought it as a minor. Which means no one would get the prize.

  As I hold the ticket, I wonder: Is it a ticket to freedom and the independent life I want, or something that will leave me chained to a lifetime of people bugging me about money? Is it even possible to actually cash it? Can I find someone over eighteen who will cash it for me and give me the money—well, I guess they’d probably want to share it—or is there some way I can make it seem like I actually was eighteen when I bought it?

  I still don’t know. All I’m certain of is that for now, the best bet is to leave the ticket unsigned and in my room. I put it back, determined to do more research later today, and head into the shower.

  Mom’s still snoring in her room when I creep out of mine. It’s hardly fair that the adult in the house gets to sleep in and doesn’t have to report for duty in the real world until ten. Because I love her underneath it all, I leave her a cup of coffee covered with a saucer. Because I’m still mad at her for dragging me along on BJD night, I don’t leave a note.

  One reason I’m up so early—besides needing to scrub last night’s Big Junk Dump adventure off my skin and get my homework done in the school library—is for the quiet space of a walk to school. It’s more than two miles, but I can’t face the bus and I don’t want to ask Bran to pick me up. And extricating my bike from the stuff Mom piled on it last night would just make more noise.

  Better to walk alone down a country road as morning breaks and pray no semis come barreling around a corner and flatten me.

  The sky lightens in the east, a peach-soft glow, like a zillion grandmas just turned on pastel-shaded reading lamps. On either side of me, tall rows of corn rise. This late in October, the cornstalks are brown and rattle like skeleton fingers in the morning breeze. A flock of Canadian geese fly across the horizon, soaring in a V formation and filling the air with honks.

  It’s beautiful. Truly. I tilt my head back, taking in the morning air. It smells like earth, the changing seasons, and a hint of winter. It smells like home.

  But—as an overpowering whiff of cow manure and something most foul from the enormous chicken farms a few miles away hits me—my fond feelings wane. I’m confident I could get used to a new home either on or near the ocean. Like, immediately.

  Before I can think much more about that, a car whips around the corner. Its music is blaring and its headlights are on. It’s still too dark to see who’s behind the wheel, and they probably don’t see me, but I’m taking no chances. I jump off the side of the road, landing in a shallow ditch. My heart pounds.

  I’ve read news stories about situations like this. Girls get picked up in the early hours of the morning by strangers and are never seen again. At least not until their bodies are found outside of Vegas or something.

  The car roars past me, and I’m clambering out of the ditch when it stops and then backs up.

  Shit.

  There’s literally no one else on this road with me. I pull out my phone, taking a picture of the car and the license plate.

  Blue Honda Civic, WI tags.

  Feeling just a touch dramatic, I send Bran a text and the picture of the car:

  It’s 6:45 a.m. and I’m on the road into town. This car is stopping. If you don’t see me at school, you know who has killed me. Avenge me.

  All joking aside, my pulse pounds as the driver’s-side window of the Civic rolls down and the music stops. I step back, far enough away so the driver can’t grab me. I can’t see them through the tinted front window.

  “Jane?” a familiar voice calls.

  I step up to the window. Sure enough, it’s Holden. Goddammit.

  “What are you doing out here? You scared me to death and nearly killed me!”

  “Sorry about that,” Holden says with a rueful s
mile. “Didn’t expect to see anyone out this way so early.”

  “Did you get a new car?”

  When we were dating, he still drove his dad’s old truck. He raises his sunglasses, and his blue eyes catch some of the morning light.

  “Senior-year present to myself. It’s not a Ferrari—yet. Wait until I make my first million.”

  Holden laughs confidently, like he’s absolutely certain the universe will let him make those millions. I guess it wouldn’t be fair to say he totally changed after his ridiculous Wolf of Wall Street camp. He always did want a Ferrari, for example. But he was also still the guy who’d wade into creeks with me and pick up trash for Ecology Club. These days, I have no idea if any part of that guy is left.

  I give a weak laugh along with him. “How’d you get the car?”

  “I’ve been investing my savings for a few years now, and some of it really paid off. I had enough to get this car and still keep a bunch of money in my funds.”

  “That’s great,” I say. Two days ago, I couldn’t ever imagine having enough money to buy a car, but I guess I could do that now. If I can get this ticket cashed. “Where are you going this morning?”

  Holden smiles at me. That stupid half smile that makes my insides melt. “To get coffee at Starbucks. What are you doing out here?”

  “Trying to get run over by fools who drive too fast.”

  Holden snorts. “Want to get coffee with me?”

  I kind of really do. But that would mean spending time with Holden, which is something I’ve been firmly avoiding since the breakup.

  I hold up my travel mug. “I’m covered. See you at school.” I start walking toward town.

  “Hey, Jane, wait!” Holden calls out. He’s out of his car and striding toward me. “Let me at least give you a ride to school. You’re going to get run over out here, for real.”

  He looks like he wants to say more, but that’s a privilege he lost when he dumped me.

  “I’m fine,” I say, waving a hand dismissively.

  “C’mon. For old time’s sake. Plus, we can go over our plan for the Ecology Club field trip today.”

  I stop walking and spin around. “What are you talking about?”

  Holden flashes that smirky-smoldery smile of his, and I want to dump my travel mug of coffee on him. “You forgot, didn’t you?”

  “I didn’t.”

  I totally did. Despite the fact that Mrs. Davis reminded me about it before yesterday’s Ecology Club meeting. But now I remember. With all my worrying about the lotto ticket plus work last night, and then my exhaustion from BJD day, I completely spaced on the fact that the Ecology Club is taking a class of third graders on a field trip to the Aquarium Oasis fish store in Madison today. We’d gotten the whole day off classes after first period and everything. I’d also forgotten that Holden and I are the high-school guides. Me because the field trip had been my idea, and Holden because his sister is part of the third-grade class we’re taking.

  “Fine,” I say, stomping back to his car. “You can give me a ride to school.”

  “Thank you for allowing me this honor,” he says, making a small bow. “But first, I’m buying you a Starbucks drink. I know it’s better than that swill your mom keeps at home.”

  He’s not wrong, and as I slip into the passenger seat, I have to smile a bit. Fine. Okay. Holden is still a little bit charming.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  BRAN TEXTS ME ONCE WE’RE HEADED BACK FROM THE STARBUCKS IN the next town over.

  BRAN: JANE! Are you dead? Reply before I call in the National Guard.

  JANE: lol. I’m fine. Sorry to panic you. It was actually Holden in the car this morning. We got coffee.

  BRAN: … Jane. No. Tell me you didn’t hang out with him.

  JANE: It’s fine. I swear. See you in class.

  Bran tries to corner me in first period, but I just hand him a Starbucks chai (bought by me, not Holden) and flash him a smile as I plop into the desk in front of his.

  Our English teacher starts in about Shakespeare, and Bran sends a note onto my desk. I unfold the small square of paper.

  DON’T YOU DARE EVEN THINK ABOUT FALLING FOR HOLDEN AGAIN.

  I roll my eyes and take a sip of my vanilla latte. I throw the note back with a quick: Don’t worry, he’s still the worst.

  Bran’s reply is quick: Fine. But if you start to not hate him again, text me. I’ll remind you why he’s awful.

  But is he really?

  Yes. Of course he is. But that doesn’t mean I haven’t missed him just a little bit. And this morning, laughing with him in his car, it felt almost like normal again.

  Clearly being a possible millionaire-in-the-making is messing with my judgment. I spend the rest of English class remembering all the things I hate about Holden.

  HATING HOLDEN IS WHAT’S STILL ON MY MIND AS WE DRIVE TO THE Aquarium Oasis. I was going to ride the bus with the third graders, but Holden offered me a ride, and I have to admit his company was decidedly more appealing than a bus full of thirty screaming eight-year-olds.

  Still, even as he’s popping on a playlist we used to listen to, I remind myself of how awful he is: He doesn’t like dogs or cats; he swears the classics are the best things ever written and will only read a book written after 1960 if it’s been assigned; his commitment to environmental issues is dicey at best, since he drinks out of one-off water bottles; and he never read the copy of Sea Change I gifted him a week after we first kissed.

  But some small voice also asks: Is all that stuff really so bad?

  I’m not sure, and another voice reminds me of what he has going for him, or what he had going for him, before the breakup: Besides the perfect, shiny, rom-com life I thought we were living, Holden also used to come pick me up every morning so I didn’t have to walk to school; he listened to me bitch about my mom without saying anything; he took me out on his family’s boat and then was okay when I just wanted to float on the water, not talking. We learned so much about sex and our bodies together.

  Dammit.

  The internal war rages inside me as we pull onto the highway, and I shut my eyes, hoping sleep will drag me under so I don’t have to talk to Holden.

  “So, what do you think of this lotto-winner news?” asks Holden. “Man, I wish I’d bought a ticket. If I’d won, I’d be out of this town and off to spend my millions in, like, a heartbeat.”

  My dreamy clouds of almost-sleep disappear. “What?” I say, sitting up abruptly. I give a big fake yawn to cover up the panicky note in my voice. “Sorry, I didn’t go to bed until late last night.”

  “Big Junk Dump day?” Holden raises an eyebrow, and I hate him for knowing why that would mean anything to me.

  “Uh-huh.” That’s all I’m giving him.

  “I can let you rest,” he says.

  “Why are you being so nice?” I blurt out. Obviously, the question has been on my mind all morning.

  “Because we’re friends,” says Holden, as if that sums it all up.

  “Are we?”

  “Yes.”

  “You broke up with me, remember?”

  “Well, yeah …”

  “We dated for two years, and we broke up out of the blue because you said you were unhappy and weren’t into me anymore …”

  This is a lot of anger and unsaid things that I’m throwing at him, but I don’t want to talk about the lotto winner. And I would love an explanation. Or at least more than the “I don’t think we’re a good fit as a couple anymore” and the other generic reasons he offered when he ended our relationship.

  Holden rubs one hand along the back of his neck and has the good grace to look embarrassed. He also looks super hot as he drives one-handed. I hate my stupid lizard brain for noticing that.

  “I’m sorry,” he says slowly. “Breaking it off like that was a bad idea on my part.”

  Wait. Did he just say that?

  “It really hurt me,” I admit. And then I don’t say what I really want to say: Was it such a bad idea that h
e’s thinking we should get back together? Is that something he’s even interested in?

  Because I’m not sure how I feel about that. Being this close to Holden, and being honest with him, really feels like I’m on a tightrope walking over a shark tank.

  “I’m sorry I hurt you,” he says. And he sounds like he really is. Or maybe I’m just too tired to tell the difference. “I really miss you, Jane. Like, nothing is as fun without you around.”

  Well. I’ve been called a lot of things, but super fun is not one of them.

  And that’s when I realize I’ve missed him too.

  “Oh shut up,” I say with a long sigh. “Let’s not do this now. Tell me about your birthday. What else did you get, besides this car?”

  Holden glances over at me quickly, as if he wants to say more.

  “And keep your eyes on the road. We have third graders to chaperone. We must arrive in one piece.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Holden says with that easy, friendly laugh of his. He sounds like his old self.

  God. Have I actually missed his laugh? I should text Bran right now, tell him I’m in danger, but Holden’s talking about how his family went to Hawaii over fall break, how he celebrated his eighteenth birthday on the beach, and how he thought of me the entire time they were at the whale sanctuary.

  “Wait, wait, wait,” I say, rewinding his last sentences. “Say that again. You actually went to the Humpback Whale National Marine Sanctuary?”

  Holden laughs again. “Yes. I’ve been trying to tell you about it since we got back, but you wouldn’t talk to me. I got you something. Look in the glove box.”

  “I still hate you,” I say under my breath as I open the glove box.

  There’s a blue paper bag inside with a humpback whale stamped on it. I open it, pulling out a small enamel pin. On it is a picture of a humpback whale breaching beside a boat.

  “It’s perfect,” I admit grudgingly, as I pin it to my backpack.