Lucky Girl

by Jamie Pacton

  “That’s the security footage from the day the ticket was sold,” Holden says. His eyes are wide as he stares at the tape I’ve destroyed. He looks like he’s putting together the pieces of a puzzle.

  I don’t have time to think about what that might mean, though, because at that moment a police siren splits the night. Holden grabs his phone and his bag from the desk. “Did you call the police?”

  “No! Did you?” I continue to tear apart the pieces of tape, as if that could somehow erase what was on it and what Holden saw.

  “Why would I call the police on myself? Somebody must’ve seen you two coming into the store.” Holden’s voice is scornful. The sirens are coming closer.

  “Go!” I shout to Bran, who’s standing with his mouth open, stunned into silence by the last few moments. I shove him out the office door. As we run through Wanda’s, Holden on our heels, I stuff the remains of the VHS tape into my bag, nearly slicing my hand open on the hedge trimmers I most certainly didn’t need to bring.

  We burst through the front door as a pair of police cars scream up the street, headed toward us. Holden takes off running down the alley.

  “Jane! Let’s go!” Bran grabs my hand, and we race off in the opposite direction, darting through yards and past houses, hoping not to get caught.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  WE BURST THROUGH BRAN’S FRONT DOOR, NOT SLOWING DOWN until we’re in his room. Drawing in ragged breaths, I collapse on his floor.

  Bran lives near downtown in an old converted church, and his bedroom is in a loft built into the steeple tower. Between running away from the police and dashing up the flights of stairs to his room, I think my heart might explode. I haul air into my lungs and glance out his window. From this high up, all of Lakesboro is visible, including the two cop cars outside of Wanda’s.

  Bran slams his bedroom door. Outside, the sounds of police sirens recede.

  “Jane,” Bran says, as he unzips his coat. He flings his hat across the room. “What’s going on?” He’s trying to keep his voice even, but it’s not working. He’s pissed.

  “What do you mean?” I try to look nonchalant. I shrug my backpack off and lay it on the floor. Streamers of VHS tape hang from it. Percy, the orange cat who was sleeping in Bran’s room, starts batting at the tape.

  Bran grabs one of the magnetic ribbons and shakes it. “What do I mean? Why did you smash the tape rather than let us watch it? What is this strange, gross thing happening between you and Holden? Why are you so distracted you keep forgetting things? Are you okay?”

  I let out a long breath. He’s right about all those things. But when they’re piled up like that, it feels like far too much. I shake my head.

  “I’m not,” I say in a very tired voice. I cover my face with my hands. “I’ve had a rough week or so.”

  Bran plops down on the floor beside me. “You’re the lotto winner, aren’t you?”

  I turn to him, wanting to deny it. Wanting to run out of there or to keep lying, but I can’t. Not anymore.

  “How do you know?”

  “Jane. I’ve known you since we were twelve. Give me some credit.” Bran gently moves my hands away from my face.

  “You’re a very good investigator,” I say in a strained voice. “Yes, I’m the lotto winner.”

  A jagged, incredulous laugh explodes out of Bran. “You’re really worth millions of dollars?”

  I nod miserably. “Only if I can figure out how to get someone to cash the ticket for me. Because I bought it as a minor, and if the lotto commission finds out, then not only am I not rich, but I’m also a criminal.”

  Bran lets out a slow breath. “Can’t you just give it to your mom?”

  I groan and stretch my legs out in front of me. Wouldn’t it be magical if things were that easy?

  “Can you even imagine the bullshit she’d buy?”

  “Oh my God, it would be so much.” Bran scrunches up his forehead, like he’s seeing the piles of stuff in his mind.

  I nod and continue. “I have no doubt she’d purchase entire thrift stores in one fell swoop. We’d have, like, a barn stuffed with wedding dresses. Or a museum of photo coasters. Or who knows what else.”

  “Maybe a warehouse full of sad-clown paintings?”

  “Most certainly at least a basement full of them.”

  “And don’t forget all the dolls. You definitely need some creepy dolls at your house.”

  “Shut up,” I moan. “Don’t ever mention that again, and especially not to my mom.”

  We both laugh, which drains some of the tension from between us.

  “But you could use this money to do a lot of good,” Bran says softly. “And get your mom some help.”

  “I know,” I reply. “I know she needs help and this could get us there, but I’m still figuring it out. My grandma doesn’t want anything to do with the money, and my mom’s not an option. I wish you were eighteen.”

  “Me too,” he says. “What a mess.”

  We’re quiet for a moment. It’s a comfortable silence, a familiar one. A silence that feels like home, as we both think our thoughts. “Are you mad at me?” I ask eventually in a small voice.

  Bran leans his head on my shoulder. “I’m annoyed—because we could’ve celebrated together, and then I wouldn’t have gone on the news like an ass and said we’d find the winner—”

  “Technically, you did find the winner.”

  Bran laughs. “Technically, yes. Though I don’t think I can break the story and use it on my internship application. But, no. I’m not mad. You’re my best friend, and this is stressful. Plus, I know you. You need to retreat and figure things out, unlike some of us who go charging in and trying to solve things ourselves immediately.”

  Something in me lifts, like a great weight being let go. It’s a gift to have someone who knows me so well. “You’re the best. Are you sure you’re not going to kill me for my millions?”

  Bran snorts. “Not really my style. Plus, I think Sofie would kill me if I killed you.”

  “Don’t laugh,” I say. “It’s way more common than you would think. I’ve been compiling tragic stories from lotto winners, and you wouldn’t believe some of this stuff.” I reach into my backpack, pull out my notebook, and hand it to Bran.

  “I’ve been reading about those sorts of things too,” Bran says. He skims some of the entries. A low whistle leaves his mouth. “Yeah, this is all pretty terrible. Did you hear about David Edwards?”

  “The ex-con who won less than half as much money as me; blew it all on luxury cars, drugs, and terrible business ideas; and ended up living in a storage unit surrounded by human feces? Classic lotto-winner hard fail.”

  Bran turns to another page in the notebook. “Oh, this one is bad too: William ‘Bud’ Post the Third. His own brother hired a hit man to kill him, and he was bankrupt one year after winning sixteen million. Damn.”

  “It’s really terrible,” I say, flipping through the other entries. “I cannot tell you how stressful it’s been to keep this secret. Like, everyone in town is going to hate me when they find out.”

  “Not if they don’t find out until you’re ready,” Bran says. “I promise, not only will I not hire a hit man to kill you so I can take the money, I’ll also help you figure out what to do with it.”

  Before I can hug him or dissolve into a puddle of mushy tears over what an amazing best friend he is, my phone beeps, letting me know I have a text.

  I open it and nearly drop the phone.

  “Oh, shit.”

  Bran takes the phone from me. “What is it?”

  “Holden. He wants to talk. He says he knows I’m the winner.”

  I show him the message.

  Bran scowls as he reads it. “He’s bluffing. Don’t go meet up with him.”

  I know Bran’s right, but maybe Holden has an explanation for all this. Maybe there’s a chance it’ll be okay? Maybe it’s not as bad as it sounds. For the sake of everything we once had, I can at least hear him out. Right
?

  I read the message again.

  “I’m going to meet him,” I decide. “Just to find out what he knows.”

  “Well, if you’re going, then I’m coming with you,” says Bran. “Moral support and all.” It’s an echo of what I told him when he first did the interview.

  I pause, weighing my options. There’s really no reason for Bran not to come with me.

  “I’d like that,” I say. “Thank you, wonderful best friend. When I figure out how to cash this ticket, I’ll give you millions.”

  Bran smiles. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. Let’s deal with Holden first.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  WE’RE QUIET ON THE RIDE OVER TO MY HOUSE. MY BRAIN IS A whirlpool, churning away with possible scenarios. But there’s no use talking about them until we know what Holden knows.

  I let out a long, shaky breath as Bran pulls into the driveway. Mom’s truck is gone, but Holden’s car is already there. He gets out when he sees us, and he even has the audacity to wave.

  “You okay?” Bran asks. “You don’t have to do this.”

  “I’m fine,” I say. “Just nervous. And angry.” I drum my fingers on the dashboard.

  “Want me to come with you?” Bran glares at Holden, who’s now standing by the broken garden gate.

  I take another breath, trying to calm my racing heart. “No. Stay in the car for now. Let me talk to Holden first.”

  “Fine. But I’m right here. Yell if you need anything.”

  I squeeze his arm. “Thank you.”

  “You’ve got this,” says Bran.

  I’m not sure I do, but I get out of the car anyway and walk toward the gate. I don’t say a word as I storm past Holden and sit down on a clear spot on the porch steps.

  Holden is wearing an all-black outfit, and his hair is tied back in a man bun, which somehow is not a terrible look on him. He navigates his way through the junk in the yard and sits down next to me. He bounces his leg up and down, like he always does when he’s anxious about something.

  “What do you want to talk about?” I say, scooting as far away from him as I can.

  “You’re the lotto winner, right?” He turns to me, a gleam in his eyes.

  “How do you know that?”

  Holden scoffs. “Jane. Honestly. It wasn’t hard to figure out. You broke into Wanda’s. You destroyed the tape. Just be honest: Did you buy the winning ticket or not?”

  There’s really no way I can deny it. Not since he saw everything that happened at Wanda’s.

  “Yes.”

  Holden lets out a long breath and leans back on his forearms like he’s been knocked over.

  “Shit. Jane. Fifty-eight million dollars?”

  “I know.” I shake my head, still disbelieving that much money is in the world, much less that it could be mine. Possibly.

  “What are you going to do with it? Buy your own golden toilet?”

  I snort, aching a bit at how silly that joke had seemed on the lake and how it cuts differently now. “I don’t know. I can’t cash the ticket because I bought it as a minor, so I’m going to find someone to cash it for me, I guess.”

  Holden sits up, his body a lightning rod. “I can cash it for you.”

  I shake my head at that, though, of course, I’d been considering it for days. “Why would I trust you with this? You broke up with me, remember?”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Well, for starters, I don’t owe you anything. And I thought I could trust you with my heart. Which you also broke. Why would I give you the ticket?”

  “But I thought we were getting along again. What about the lake? Or the House on the Rock?”

  “I overheard you and Banks talking in the corn maze. Remember that? When you basically admitted that you were just hanging out with me so you could find out what Bran knew about the lotto ticket?”

  Holden lets out a frustrated breath. “Did you really think we were going to stay together forever, Jane? We’re seventeen. We’re in high school, for fuck’s sake. Stuff like that doesn’t last.”

  Two years of my life is only “stuff like that” to him? Grrr.

  “I know that now,” I snap. “But I didn’t think you’d go away to stockbroker camp or whatever and come back a totally different person. I thought that during these last few weeks, you were back to your old self, but I can see nothing comes before your rich-guy aspirations.”

  Holden looks away from me, running a hand through his hair. He has the good grace to look conflicted for a moment, as if he’s still trying to decide which person he wants to be. All our time together recently has shown me that somewhere in there is the boy I fell in love with. But he’s warring with the materialistic douchebag Holden has become.

  “I didn’t think I would change either, Jane,” Holden says softly.

  “Why not be happy with what you have?” I sound pitiful, even to my own ears. Tears rise in my eyes as I think of the questions I’m not saying: Why can’t I—or why couldn’t we—be enough for you?

  “It’s not that I was unhappy—”

  “You said you were. The night you broke up with me.” I swipe at my tears, and Bran honks his horn twice, watching us intently. I wave to him, letting him know I’m fine. Holden watches the whole interaction and waves to Bran too. Bran flips him off.

  “I was just saying that to make a clean break, I think.” Holden shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s complicated. I did—I do—love you, but like I told you the other night on the lake, I want more. My family has lived in this town for generations. Everyone thinks that Jones boys will stay in the family business, get married at St. Paul’s on Main Street, have some kids, go to family gatherings, and then the cycle will repeat itself. There’s nothing wrong with that, maybe, but I just can’t handle all the sameness anymore.”

  My heart cracks just that much more. But I strive to see things from his perspective. Because I loved him for so long, I can’t help but try.

  “It’s okay to want more,” I say. “I want more than this town and this life too, but why burn everyone you love to get what you want?”

  “That’s not what I’m trying to do.”

  “What are you trying to do, then?”

  He shakes his head. “I knew you wouldn’t understand. Look, Jane. Give me the ticket. Let me cash it for you. I’ll give you five million dollars, then you’re set for life.”

  “How generous of you. What are you going to do with the remaining fifty-three million dollars?”

  “It’s likely just thirty million after taxes.” Holden stands up and kicks at the bottom stair.

  I roll my eyes. “Okay, thirty million. What will you do with that?”

  He shrugs. “Help my parents out. Our store is struggling right now, and I could either get them out of debt or give them enough money to quit working altogether. I’d give them, like, three million.”

  “Leaving you with twenty-seven million to play with?”

  Holden nods. “That’s about right. I’d finally get to live the life I’ve been dreaming of.”

  “The life you’ve been dreaming of since stockbroker camp in July.” My tone is flat.

  “Whatever, Jane. You can be mad, but you need me. Think about it. This way, you can keep some of the money yourself, and you can use that to help your mom or move to Maui or whatever. And this way, you help me out too. Win-win.”

  Is this a win? Or my only option? Is this a good idea? I don’t know, but I’m too angry at Holden to even seriously consider it.

  “You think I want to help you out by letting you live the fantasy life you’ve been dreaming of for the last three months? So you can be just like your camp roommate, Fenton.”

  “Finn.”

  “Whatever.” I cross my arms and scoot over on the porch step, getting as far away from Holden as possible, so I can think.

  Yes, I do need someone to cash the ticket. Otherwise, it’s useless. But is giving it to Holden the right idea?

  Holde
n sits down again, so he’s right beside me. “Maybe in a few years, we could get back together when I’m living in New York or you have a house in Maui. Just think, Blue.”

  Blue.

  Short for Bluefin.

  It’s the nickname he gave me early in our relationship because my first name has tuna in it, my favorite color is blue, and I love marine biology. And because couples do stuff like give each other nicknames that they might normally hate. I was Blue; he was Marlin. It was ridiculous, and I loved it because it made me feel special.

  But to deploy it now, when he’s trying to get me to make him a multimillionaire? Low blow.

  “How do you know I’d even want to ever get back together with you?”

  Holden laughs. “Jane, don’t pretend you haven’t been thinking about it. I know I have.”

  He runs a finger along the top of my hand, and I shiver. His touch still does me in. Dammit. But how can I ever trust him again?

  “I loved you, Holden, past tense. But that was the old you. I don’t want anything to do with this new you.”

  Holden’s finger stops moving along my hand. He swears softly.

  “Fine,” he says. “We can pretend that everything between us is gone, but I’m still your best choice for cashing this ticket.”

  “You’re not my only choice.”

  “What are you going to do? Give it to your mom? We both know how that will end up.” He gestures to the yard full of junk and the porch piled high with stuff.

  It’s one thing for us all to be thinking it. It’s another for Holden to say it out loud, and it makes me weirdly protective of my mom. It’s like all this junk on the lawn is her heart and her illness, just poured out for all the world to see. And I don’t want Holden seeing that.

  “I hate you,” I mutter.

  “But you need me.” He stands up. “Think about it. I’ll give you two days before I tell the police you bought a lotto ticket as a minor.”

  “You can’t prove anything. I destroyed the tape.”

  Holden shakes his head and holds up his phone. “I still have this.”