Lucky Girl

by Jamie Pacton

  Bran is already on the bus, but the seat next to him is taken. “I’m sorry,” he says as I pass. “I tried to save you a seat.”

  “No worries,” I say, squeezing his shoulder as I pass. “I’ll survive.”

  The rest of the bus is full, so I slide into the seat next to Holden. It’s only when I do that I realize I’m wearing the sweatshirt he gave me. Like a total creep. But, in my defense, it was on the floor near my bed, and it’s Monday.

  Sigh.

  “Hi,” he says, in a low voice that tugs at something deep in my belly. “I had fun on Saturday.” His hand snakes around my waist, pulling me closer to him.

  I shrug out of the embrace because we can’t do that in public yet, can we? We’re not dating. We’re barely even hanging out. What does any of this with him even mean?

  “I had fun too,” I whisper. “Minus the getting caught in a flash-flood part.”

  Holden laughs and takes two granola bars out of his bag. “Breakfast?”

  “That’s surprisingly thoughtful of you,” I say, taking one.

  Bran looks back at me from a few seats up, glaring at Holden. I shrug and open the granola bar.

  Our history teacher gets on the bus, calling for silence as she takes roll, and then the bus rumbles to life.

  I offer Holden an earbud and put some music on my phone. While we drive the hour and a half to Spring Green, Holden shows me all the photos from his trip to Hawaii. I try not to be jealous, but it’s impossible. There he is, smiling and nonchalant on the whale-watching tour his family took. Someday. I’ll get there someday.

  “Want to trade seats, Holden?” says Bran, walking back toward us after we’ve been chatting for a while.

  “Mr. Kim! Take your seat!” our teacher screeches from the front of the bus. Bran rolls his eyes.

  “We’re pretty comfortable here,” Holden says. “What do you think, Jane?”

  I think I’m in way over my head with Holden, since I’ve been fighting the urge to kiss him for the last hour.

  “Yes, trade seats,” I say to Holden in a rush. “Bran and I have stuff to discuss.”

  “If that’s what you want,” Holden says with a crooked grin. He shrugs and steps past me. I slide into the seat he just left and press my cheek into the coolness of the window.

  “What are you doing?” Bran demands as he sits down beside me.

  I let out a tired, oh-so-exhausted breath. What am I doing? Almost missing field trips because I overslept? Flirting with Holden? Hiding the fact that I’m a multimillionaire from my best friend?

  I just shake my head. “I don’t know, but let’s not talk about it right now.”

  It would be impossible to talk anyway, because Holden has traded seats again and now he sits behind us with a bunch of his cross-country buddies who are making loud, obnoxious jokes.

  Bran raises one eyebrow. “Tell me there’s nothing between you two.”

  “There’s nothing between us. Just a lot of history. Now, will you please tell me the next steps in your investigation?”

  That’s all it takes to get Bran talking again. Soon, he’s got a notebook out and is walking me through his carefully plotted, fifteen-step plan to find the lucky winner. I keep my cheek against the window, half listening, all the way to the House on the Rock.

  THE HOUSE ON THE ROCK IS WEIRD. LIKE, TRULY, DEEPLY, MIND-bogglingly weird. Most of us in my class know it from the TV show (or the book, in my case) American Gods. But even that doesn’t get at what it is to walk through hundreds of rooms full of tiny miniature circus figures, porcelain dolls, pneumatic machines, and everything in between. I’ve been once before, with Mom and Dad when I was very small. I remember thinking it was both magical and terrifying.

  “The House on the Rock opened to the public in 1960,” our teacher calls out as we stand in the hallway at the front of the house. “Alex Jordan’s father purchased this land—some say in a bid to anger Frank Lloyd Wright, who lived ten miles away—and Alex devoted his life to making this house spectacular. Today I want you to wander through the house, and we will all meet for lunch in a few hours. Don’t break anything, and please fill out your question sheets as we go. You will be getting a test grade for completing them.”

  She hands out long, stapled lists of questions. I glance at one: Where did Alex Jordan live most of his life?

  “That one’s easy,” Bran whispers beside me. “I looked him up last night. He’s from Madison and only spent four nights in this house.”

  “So strange,” I reply. “Imagine having all this space and just filling it up. It’s not a house; it’s a museum.”

  Bran nods. “That’s exactly what it is.”

  The parallel to my own home is not lost on me, but I don’t say anything about it.

  As our teacher drones on, giving us all instructions for staying safe and what to do if we get lost, I wonder: If I find a way to cash the lotto ticket, could I purchase something like the House on the Rock? Or create something like it myself? What will my legacy be after all these years?

  “Was Alex Jordan rich?” I blurt out suddenly, louder than I mean to.

  The class stops whispering, and my teacher stops talking.

  Holden snorts. “Of course he was. Look at this place, Jane.”

  “I was just about to ask the same thing,” Bran whispers. “It was a good question.” He bumps his shoulder against mine. I want to hug him.

  My teacher raises a hand to stop the laughs. “Actually, though this house is sprawling, it’s hard to say whether Jordan was rich or not. He was notoriously reclusive, and he financed much of this place through giving tours of it.”

  That makes everyone stop talking for a moment. Imagine how many tours you’d have to give to build a place like this.

  “Okay, everyone,” our teacher says. “If there are no more questions, go forth and enjoy.” She waves her hands in a wide swath. I can almost hear her racing for the parking lot to sneak in a smoke before she meets us somewhere deep in the bowels of the house. “And don’t break anything! I mean it!”

  “We won’t,” Holden calls out. There’s a low wave of laughter from everyone else, and Holden, his cross-country friends, and most of the rest of the class head toward the Infinity Room.

  Technically, the Infinity Room is neither a room nor something that stretches to infinity. It’s more like a long hallway with a carpeted floor that has three thousand small, wood-framed windows along its sides and a bunch of ceiling fans going at full speed. It narrows to a point and juts out into the sky—unsupported—like the prow of a ship. Total hell for a claustrophobic soul like myself.

  Bran and I stand at the entrance to the Infinity Room as students from our class dare each other toward the end. Someone squeals as the room sways in the October winds.

  “No way am I going in there,” I tell Bran. “Let’s get exploring.”

  “Agreed,” he says. “Plus, I think Holden and company are going to do something stupid, so let’s stay as far away from them as possible.”

  I glance toward the far end of the Infinity Room, where Holden and his friends are now stomping heavily, trying to bounce the entire thing like it’s a tightrope strung between trees. A stern-looking HOTR employee strides toward them, and I don’t want to see how this all ends up. I suppose if I were still Holden’s girlfriend, I’d be down there too, laughing along with everyone else. Or would I? Would I have let Holden influence me to do something so clearly against what I wanted?

  I’m betting I’d be out here with Bran, which would’ve probably just pissed Holden off.

  Right. Okay. So, now that I think of it, maybe we weren’t a perfect rom-com couple. I remember a thousand small fights with Holden about exactly this sort of thing.

  With a glance back at the students in the Infinity Room, Bran and I walk away from the original house part of the House on the Rock. We wind our way past dozens of stained-glass lights, dusty velvet couches, walls of weapons, and much, much more. There’s a deep sense of nostalgia
throughout, especially in sections like the Music of Yesterday or the life-size reproduction model town from the 1800s. In that fake town, Bran pauses in front of a nineteenth-century “miracle cures” display in a faux pharmacy window.

  “This is gross,” he says, pointing to the hundred-year-old tapeworm in a bottle. “It was sold to help women lose weight. Good grief.”

  “That’s nasty,” I agree, ready to keep walking. “Let’s keep going.”

  We move farther into the darkness of the house, and while Bran stops to read a label on a display about haberdashery—because hats! Fedoras! Oh my!—I try to quell the anxiety that I can feel snaking through my body. It’s making my heart race, and I need a quiet moment away from all this stuff.

  “I’m going to find a bathroom,” I say to Bran. I peer at our map. “There’s supposed to be one somewhere around here.”

  “Good luck, and if I don’t see you in an hour, I’ll send a search party,” says Bran.

  I laugh and head down a hallway to our right, thinking about all the reasons why the House on the Rock creeps me out:

  1) Because I have no idea how deep in the earth we are (remember, claustrophobic);

  2) Because of the smell of mildew and the cacophony of music from all the mechanical orchestras is overwhelming my senses;

  3) And, most of all, because it feels like I’m walking through my mother’s brain.

  Seriously, if her mind could be made into an object, it would look something like the House on the Rock.

  Which is terrifying.

  As with our house, here too much stuff is shoved into what was once a home. What would Mom do in a place like this? Would it feel welcoming to her? Like she’d found a kindred spirit in this person who was determined to save all this junk from certain extinction? Or would she be as overwhelmed as I am?

  “Hey, Earth to Jane,” a voice comes up from behind me.

  Holden. He rests a hand lightly on my lower back.

  I look up from the display case full of false teeth that I’ve stopped in front of while my brain churns. Bran is nowhere in sight, and I have no idea how long I’ve been standing here.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “Super into false teeth?” Holden quirks a half smile.

  I laugh, trying to shove my dark thoughts away. “I didn’t want to tell you this, but they’re fascinating. I’m thinking of starting my own collection.”

  Holden gives me a look like he can’t figure out if I’m joking or not. I roll my eyes at him. “I’m kidding.”

  “Okay, good,” he says, relief in his voice.

  I’d forgotten how Holden likes to make a joke but doesn’t always get the joke unless it’s explained to him. Silence stretches between us.

  “How’s your worksheet going?” he asks, holding up his questions sheet. It’s partially filled out.

  “I haven’t touched mine,” I admit. “Have you seen Bran?”

  Holden shrugs and gestures toward the part of the house we were in earlier. “I passed him wandering around back there somewhere, looking at his checklist and trying to call you.”

  I pull my phone out, but it has no bars. Hopefully I’ll meet up with Bran soon. Holden and I begin to amble toward the next section of the house.

  “So, what happened to Banks and Hunter and all your other cross-country dude-bro buds? I can’t believe they let you wander around on your own.”

  Holden bumps me back. “I love how much you love my friends. They’re not that bad, you know.”

  “Really? Have you met them?”

  Holden laughs at that. “They’re back there, daring one another to try on some suits of armor. I was looking for you, though. How are you doing?” His hand brushes mine as we walk, and I have the most foolish of urges to turn my body toward his and kiss him right there.

  “I’m fine,” I say. “This place just creeps me out.”

  “It’s super disturbing,” Holden agrees. “And you’ve not even seen the half of it.”

  “Are you kidding? We have more to see than has been seen?” I groan. “I came here once when I was a kid, but it seemed much smaller then. Is there a secret exit? I think I need some air.”

  “This way,” Holden says with a mischievous smile. “I’ve got something to show you. I promise you’ll like it.”

  He grabs my hand, and we walk through room after room filled with terrifying circus collectibles, blank-eyed porcelain dolls, and a host of unspeakable oddities that I make myself forget as soon as we’re past them. Our hands stay linked together, and Holden runs his thumb along mine absentmindedly, like it’s the most natural thing. Like we haven’t been broken up for months. Like he didn’t rip my heart into pieces.

  Like we had kissed twice two days ago. Like he might still have feelings for me. Like I could trust him to cash the lotto ticket and give the money to me.

  Shit.

  What am I even doing?

  “Where are we going?” I say.

  It’s vaguely alarming that we haven’t seen any of our classmates for a while, but this place is huge. We’ll catch up with them eventually. Or we’ll just wander until we have to start making out to have something to take our mind off the millions of unnerving things around us.

  I’ll take option B, please and thank you.

  “There it is,” Holden says, stopping abruptly. “Look.”

  He releases my hand and points upward.

  “Holy shit,” I mutter.

  Above us rises an enormous whale. Its belly is painted black, and its mouth is open, revealing rows of huge, pointed teeth. It’s not real, thank God (though I wouldn’t put it past old Alex Jordan to have a taxidermied whale tucked away somewhere).

  “It’s supposed to be fighting a squid, see?” Holden points at the tentacles rising out of the floor to wrap around the whale. He takes my hand again, leading me up a ramp that spirals around the whale so we can see the whole whale-squid battle from all angles.

  “This is outrageous and wonderful,” I say, peering down at the whale. “I never thought I’d be able to go whale watching in the middle of rural Wisconsin.”

  “Thought you’d like it.” Holden grins at me. “And it makes your sweatshirt that much more appropriate.”

  I laugh as I look down at my Whale Watcher shirt.

  “It’s perfect,” I say. “Take my picture?”

  I hand Holden my phone. He holds it up. “Say whale watching.”

  I stand in front of the giant whale, arms outstretched, grinning. “Whale watching.”

  He takes a bunch of silly photos and then hands the phone back to me.

  “Thank you.” I loop my arm through his, giving him a small hug.

  “I like seeing you happy,” he says.

  He likes seeing me happy.

  Well. Shit.

  Of course, I kiss him right there and then, beside the giant whale, not caring if anyone from our class sees.

  “Jane,” Holden says in a low voice, pulling away from the kiss. “I’ve got to ask you—”

  But before I can find out what Holden wants to ask, a loud bunch of voices fill the room.

  “There you are, Holden!” yells Banks, one of the cross-country dude-bros. “We’ve been looking all over for you. Get down here—we’ve got to show you this one room full of old cars.”

  Banks jogs up to us, taking in how close we’re standing and our entwined hands. His eyebrows shoot up, and Holden drops my hand.

  At the same moment, a loud whistle splits the room. That’s Bran, with the whistle we’ve been using since we were in middle school. He waves at me from the bottom of the ramp.

  “I’ve got to go,” I say to Holden, suddenly feeling too exposed. “Text me later if you want to chat. And thanks for showing me this whale.”

  “I’m confident you would have bumped into it eventually,” Holden says. “Talk to you later tonight.”

  Holden waves as his friends pull him away in the opposite direction. I start down the ramp, not even sure what just came over
me or what Holden means about later tonight, but I’m looking forward to it just a little too much.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  TUESDAY AND WEDNESDAY SPEED BY. BOTH DAYS, I GO TO SCHOOL and soccer practice, though we barely have a practice field since it’s Homecoming weekend and the football team is drilling on half of our field. After soccer, Bran and I walk around town, knocking on doors and “looking for clues,” as he puts it.

  He hasn’t found any yet, which is wonderful because he’s no closer to discovering my secret. And which makes me a terrible friend for being happy about, since he’s no closer to discovering my secret.

  When I get home both nights, I check the lotto ticket—still tucked into Sea Change, still unsigned, and I’m still not sure what to do with it. Holden texts me daily, and we chat for hours, though he doesn’t hang out with me at school. Which is kind of odd, but maybe we’re taking things slowly?

  On Thursday night—a little more than a week before my birthday—Bran and I are sitting behind the café counter at the pumpkin farm, drinking steaming cups of cider and talking about our next steps. Well, he’s talking about next steps in the investigation. I’m listening and trying to not to check my phone obsessively, hoping that Holden has texted me. We’ve been slammed all night, but the café cleared out as the last hayride of the day headed into the field.

  “The trail has mostly gone cold,” Bran says in a frustrated voice. “If we could get access to Wanda’s, just to take a look at the scene, then maybe we’d get some new information.”

  “Did Wanda ever return your email?”

  Bran shakes his head. “Not really. I got a short reply that was like, ‘Hi, Bran, I’m having a great time at the beach. When I get back, we’ll see about helping you discover the lotto winner.’”

  “What are you going to do?” I put my feet up on the chair in front of me.

  Bran starts to reply, but his voice is drowned out as the bell on the café door makes a jangling noise. We both look up, expecting to see more flannel-clad families wanting cider or pumpkins, but it’s Bran’s mom. She shoots us a look, and we jump to our feet. I grab a rag and hurry around to the cluster of wooden tables on the other side of the counter.