by Jamie Pacton
“This book is not that great,” I lie, shoving Sea Change into my backpack, along with all the bio homework on my bed. Which leaves the bed very open. Which leaves me very open to remembering the last time Holden was here. When we were having sex. In my bed. A few hours before he broke up with me.
Holden shoots me a look, as if he’s remembering the same thing. He bites his lower lip but doesn’t say anything. “So are you going to the lake tonight?”
This is a Saturday-night tradition in Lakesboro. Every night until the snow comes, a bunch of high-school kids take over the beach for bonfires, drinking, and hanging out on the lake. Most of the kids in town have boats, including Holden. Since I don’t even have a kayak, being on Holden’s boat is one of my only chances to be out there. And my soul could desperately use some on-the-water time right now.
But this is Holden.
Nothing is ever simple with him, and although it hurts me physically to say it, I stay strong. “Not tonight. I’m staying home to catch up on some schoolwork.”
“C’mon, Jane. Forget homework and come to the lake with me. It’ll be fun,” Holden persists, with a look that’s more promise than anything else. He steps forward, and our bodies are now inches apart. His face is so close, I can count all the freckles his trip to Hawaii has brought out across his nose. He smells like sunshine and his shampoo. The combination makes my insides ache. My traitorous breath catches in my treacherous throat.
There’s another knock on my window, and then Bran’s face appears. “Jane? What the shit? I’ve been calling you all …” His voice trails off when he sees Holden standing so close to me.
“Hey, Bran,” I say, stepping away from Holden like he’s on fire. I stride toward the window. “Uhm, come on in.”
Bran scowls and then heaves himself through my window too. His trench coat—yes, he’s wearing a vintage tan trench coat along with a T-shirt and his gray fedora—catches on the windowsill, and he tugs at it. When it comes free, he tumbles into the room in a tangle of limbs. Brushing himself off, Bran stands up quickly.
And there we all are.
Me, Holden, and Bran, just casually standing in my bedroom. Inches away from my basket of dirty laundry—which naturally, with my luck, has a pair of bright-red underwear on top—and my backpack, which holds the book that holds the $58 million lotto ticket.
Not awkward at all. Nope.
HA!
“What’s he doing here?” Bran shoots Holden a poisonous look.
“He brought coffee,” I say in the world’s most pathetic attempt to find some social footing. I hold up my latte. “Want a sip?”
“I’m hoping to take Jane to the lake tonight,” Holden says smoothly. “What are you doing here?”
Bran turns to me, eyes wide. “I’m her best friend. I don’t need a reason to be here. You’re not going to the lake with him, are you?”
I glare at Bran, annoyed suddenly by his protectiveness. “I’m not sure. He just got here, and I’m undecided on my evening’s activities.”
“Come with me to the Harvest Festival,” says Bran. “I’ve got a lead on the lotto ticket, and I want to ask some questions.”
I should definitely tag along with Bran so I can throw him off the scent if he gets too close to my secret.
Holden shoots us a look that makes it clear that attending the Harvest Festival is the dorkiest way imaginable to spend a Saturday night. He slings an arm over my shoulder. “Choose the lake, Jane. Have some fun.”
“I’m going with Bran,” I say, shrugging off Holden’s arm. I take a step away before my poor, confused body can be swarmed with more hormones.
“Plus—as we’ve already covered—I’m her best friend,” adds Bran. “And you’re just the dick who broke her heart.”
Holden has the good grace to blush. “Okay, okay. I can take a hint. I’ll see you around, Jane.” He starts toward the window.
“Wait!” I call, following him to the windowsill. My hand rests on his shoulder for a moment, sending a thrill of heat through me. I drop it faster than I would a jellyfish. “Thanks for the coffee. I’ll try to get to the lake later, after the festival.”
Holden smiles at me again, and my insides melt. “I’ll count on it. Text me.”
Then he’s gone, and I’m left with a furious Bran.
“Don’t even try to explain,” says Bran, jamming his fedora down to his eyebrows. “If you want to hang out with Holden, that’s your business. Just be careful.”
“I’m not even sure what’s happening there,” I admit. “He just sort of showed up.”
“Do you still like him?”
I shrug. “It’s complicated. Maybe he just reminds me of a time when I was happy? Or he’s a distraction? Or maybe he’s my great love, like in the movies.”
Bran snorts. “He’s not your great love. I refuse to accept that, because it means I’ll have to hang out with him for the rest of our lives. But if you want to go out on the lake with him tonight, I won’t tie you up and lock you in my trunk.”
“Super generous of you. Now, what’s your plan?”
Bran clearly has more to say about Holden, but he plops into my desk chair and pulls a list of questions from his pocket. “I need to go through the festival crowd tonight asking these questions.”
I take the list from him, reading out loud in as dramatic a voice as I can muster to dispel some of the tension in the room.
Have you ever played the lottery?
Where were you the night the lotto ticket was purchased?
Did you go to Wanda’s that night? If yes, then what time were you there?
If you aren’t the winner, do you have any clue who it might be?
What would you do with the money if you had won it?
“I don’t see how the last one is relevant,” I say, reading over the list again. The lotto ticket is inches away from Bran. All he would have to do is lean over, unzip my bag, pull out the book, and mystery solved.
It’s possible he could even help me figure out whom I should ask to cash it. But that’s a lot to put on him. I promise myself that I’ll tell him soon.
“I’m hoping to start a conversation with these questions,” Bran says as he takes the list back. “I want to get people talking, and I’m hoping they reveal some useful information. Can you help?”
He looks at me expectantly, and I let out a long breath. “Of course I’ll help.”
“Even if it takes all night?”
“Even if it takes all night.”
Bran grins at me. “That’s what I like to hear. Congratulations, you’ve earned this.” He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a slightly smashed fedora that’s identical to his, except it’s light blue with a pink band.
“You can’t be serious.” I hold the fedora at arms length. It looks like something a Muppet would wear.
“Deadly serious,” says Bran.
He laughs then, and I shove the fedora onto my head. If I can’t tell Bran the truth, at least I can make him laugh.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE HARVEST FESTIVAL IS REALLY HOPPING BY THE TIME WE GET there. It’s overcast, and a chilly breeze shakes orange and red leaves from the trees. But despite the cool temperature and the threat of storm clouds on the horizon, people fill the center of town. Dozens of tents selling whimsically painted pumpkins, wooden Welcome signs that have somehow taken over every doorstep in town, and lots of unusual crafts line Main Street. Pots of yellow and red mums surround the bandstand in the middle of town, and dozens of enormous pumpkins (“All from our farm,” Bran tells me proudly) are scattered around the square.
Kids laugh and chatter by the children’s area, where there are toffee apples, face painting, and a costume contest.
“Where do we start?” I ask, scanning the crowd. I take a long sip of the coffee Holden brought me and try not to think about how much nicer it would be out on the quiet lake with him, rather than surrounded by surging crowds.
It looks like nearly everyone in Lakesboro is here, alon
g with a bunch of people from out of town too. Cars parked around the square have license plates from several different states. Clumps of preteens stand around, laughing and joking; families with little kids spill into the green space in the middle of downtown; and lots of older people—probably long-term residents of the town—amble slowly around the square, shopping, eating, and greeting one another.
Bran checks his watch. “We have an hour until the music at the bandstand starts, so let’s split up. You go that way, I’ll take this way, and we’ll meet in the middle. Then we can regroup if the questions aren’t working.”
Shit. Splitting up wasn’t part of the plan. What if Bran meets someone who saw me buying the ticket?
That’s unlikely, I know, and this is Bran. Best friend, aspiring investigative reporter, CNN intern-in-the-making. I’d walk through fire for this boy; the least I can do is ask some questions for him so he can possibly get the internship he wants.
“Okay,” I say, forcing a smile onto my face. “See you in an hour.”
He heads into the crowd, and I turn away, walking toward the “Two Witches and a Kettle” popcorn tent.
“Hi there,” I say, stepping into the tent. Two middle-aged Black women stand behind a table at the back of the tent. Although they wear matching flannels and jeans, one is tall, slim, and has shoulder-length red curls; the other is short and plump with frizzy gray hair. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but “witches” had me picturing more pointy hats and less soccer moms.
“Can I get a small caramel corn?” I ask. I’m the only customer in the tent, and my mouth waters as the smell of warm sugar and butter washes over me.
“Sure, hon,” says the red-haired woman. “You need anything else?”
“Nope, that’ll be all.” Then I look guiltily down at the list of questions in my hand. “Well, actually, I was hoping to ask you some questions about the lotto winner.”
The woman’s eyes narrow. “Why? Are you a reporter? Somebody said there’d be reporters buzzing around, trying to get the story. But I told my wife, Cheryl”—she points to the shorter woman filling my bag of caramel popcorn—“we should just leave that poor person alone. Surely they’ve got enough problems without everybody in town trying to find them.”
Amen.
I want to throw my arms around the woman and tell her she’s absolutely right, but then her wife, the gray-haired Cheryl, comes up with my kettle corn. I fish a crumpled dollar out of my pocket and hand it over.
“Stop being such a dragon, Bea,” says Cheryl. She pushes a few wisps of gray hair behind her ear. “What is it you wanted to ask?”
“I’m not a reporter,” I say, gesturing to the ludicrous fedora on my head. As if that signifies anything. “But my friend, Bran, wants to be one. He’s hoping to find the lotto winner, and I’m helping him out.”
“I saw him on the news,” says Bea. “So you’re from around here and helping your friend?”
It’s like she’s asking for my passport or something. Proof of being a local and therefore worthy enough to hear her story.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “I’ve lived here for five years, but my grandparents have been here for decades, or at least they were before my grandpa died and my grandma moved to Madison last year. Anyway, would you mind if I ask you a few questions?”
“Not at all. Fire away,” says Cheryl with a much friendlier tone. She pulls a bag of kettle corn mixed with candy corn from her pocket and starts munching on it.
I start with the last question because it seems like the best one to get Bea and Cheryl talking: “What would you do with the money, if you had won it?”
Cheryl takes a long sip from a mug on the table and shakes her head. “Well, let’s start by saying that we didn’t win it. Though Lord knows we tried. I buy ten tickets a week when the jackpots get big. Always from Wanda’s, and I was even in there on the day the ticket was bought.”
“Same,” says Bea. “The cards were reading really well for luck on Wednesday, so I dropped a hundred dollars on tickets.”
Eeesh. I only spent one dollar on my ticket and its randomly generated numbers. It truly was a gift from the universe, the gods of chance, and circumstance. I wonder how close in time my ticket buying was from Bea’s and Cheryl’s.
“So, I guess that covers most of my other questions,” I say, glancing at the list. I circle back to my original question, which they’d still not really answered. “Are you comfortable saying what you’d do with the money?”
Cheryl shrugs. “Well, I don’t rightly know what I’d do. I think I’d be overwhelmed at first.”
“It’s a lot of money,” adds Bea. “Entirely life changing, and I’m not sure I’d be ready for that kind of change all at once.”
I find myself nodding in agreement, and it’s all I can do not to burst out with my secret. Gah. Maybe I should ask Cheryl and Bea to cash the ticket for me.
Ridiculous, of course. I don’t even know them.
Bea continues, “But I think we’d find a way to make it work. We’ve always wanted to travel, and neither of us were able to have kids. We’ve talked about adopting, but it’s expensive.”
A sad look passes over her face, and Cheryl wraps an arm around her wife. Good grief, maybe I really should ask them to cash the ticket. How would they take it? Would they actually give me some of the money and keep my secret? Could I trust them? This could help them achieve their dreams. But if I go around granting the wishes of every stranger I meet, I’d be broke before the day was out.
At that moment, a loud crowd of kids and some frazzled-looking parents step into the tent, interrupting my thoughts and wrenching Bea’s and Cheryl’s attention away from me.
“I want rainbow flavor!” yells one kid, pushing past me to snatch a bag of kettle corn off the table in front of me.
“I’m sorry,” says the child’s mom, pulling the kid back. She sets the bag on the table.
With a smile at Bea and Cheryl, I step aside. “It’s okay. I’m done. Thank you both for talking with me.”
Cheryl waves at me as she starts handing out samples to the kids, and Bea shoots me a wink. “You keep looking. I’m sure that lotto winner is around here somewhere.”
“I bet you’re right,” I say as I take one of their business cards and slip out of the tent.
AN HOUR LATER, I’VE EATEN THE ENTIRE BAG OF KETTLE CORN, A toffee apple, and three street tacos from a food truck. My stomach aches, and I’m slumped against an oak tree near the bandstand, scrolling through a list of quotes from unhappy lotto winners on my phone:
Billie (Bob) Harrell, Jr., who won $31 million and later shot himself in the head: “The lottery is the worst thing that ever happened to me.”
Sandra Hayes, who split a pot of $224 million with her coworkers: “I had to endure the greed and the need that people have … That caused a lot of emotional pain. These are people who you’ve loved … and they’re turning into vampires trying to suck the life out of me.”
Or Donna Mikkin, who won $34.5 million: She called herself “a happy person” before she won, but later said, “My life was hijacked by the lottery.”
None of these quotes are encouraging, and I close my eyes for a moment to shut out the voices of the lotto winners in my head. The band starts up, and the crowd by the bandstand cheers its approval. What would knowledge of my win do to the people I know? Would they be cool with it, or would it turn them into vampires and emotional remoras? How many of the people at this festival would attack me if they knew I had the ticket tucked away at home?
“You okay, Jane?” says a familiar voice. Bran. He’s always walking up to me when I’m spaced out like a weirdo these days. Sigh. Gotta get my shit together.
I snap my eyes open and quickly dismiss the window I was reading on my phone. “I’m fine. My stomach hurts a bit. What did you find out?”
Bran lets out a long breath and sits down beside me. “Well, everybody has lots of ideas about what they’d do with the money. But nobody seems to
have any clue who actually won.”
“That’s pretty much what I found out too,” I say, not adding that I didn’t interview anyone besides Bea and Cheryl. “Most people were distracted by the festival, though I think a lot did buy tickets from Wanda’s that day.”
Bran picks at his fingernails, which he always does when he’s thinking.
“So, what’s the plan?” I ask. “Want to keep interviewing people?”
Bran doesn’t get a chance to reply, because a loud scream cuts through the music. We jump to our feet and spin around.
At a craft booth a few feet away from us, two white women, one in a pink camouflage jacket and the other in orange leggings and a pumpkin sweatshirt, pull fiercely at a wreath. The wreath is actually a toilet seat that’s covered in doll’s heads, and it has to the be worst small-town craft I’ve ever seen. But that’s not stopping these women.
“I saw it first!” yells Pink Camo. She jerks the toilet seat toward her body.
“It’s mine,” Orange Pumpkin shouts. “It’s just like you to make a fuss about this. You KNOW I saw it first.”
Bran meets my eye, and I nod. We are definitely getting closer to this action. We hurry toward the women, who seem oblivious to the crowd growing around the vendor’s tent.
The seller, a young blond woman in a blue apron, tries to separate the other women, but they keep fighting over the toilet-seat wreath. I’m not even kidding. These women really want this monstrosity.
“You can’t have it!” shouts Pink Camo. “This is just like that lotto-ticket winner. You’re being selfish and keeping it to yourself.”
“If I had the lotto ticket, I would keep it to myself!” Orange Pumpkin gives a mighty tug.
What happens next is the stuff of comedy routines and movie hijinks.
Orange Pumpkin lady pulls so hard on the toilet-seat wreath that Pink Camo loses her grip. But Orange Pumpkin has momentum, and she flies backward with a loud screech. The band stops playing and everyone turns as she smashes into a table covered in more wreaths (made from all sorts of household junk) and other quirky crafts. Glass shatters, and the table collapses under her weight, and then she rolls into one of the canopy poles holding up the tent. Bran and I step back as a gust of wind sends the entire canopy flying. It slams into the stall next to it, making that one crumple and sending shoppers scrambling.
