Windfall

by Jennifer E. Smith

  Once, not long after I arrived in Chicago, I heard Leo ask his mom if I was an orphan. They were reading Harry Potter before bed, as they did every night. Aunt Sofia had offered to start again from the beginning so that I could follow along too, but I told her I thought the books were stupid—even though the truth was that I’d already read the first three with my dad and just couldn’t imagine returning to those pages without him.

  “Harry’s parents died,” Leo was saying that night as I passed by his room on my way to brush my teeth, “and that made him an orphan, so…”

  “Yes,” Aunt Sofia said, her voice brisk. “But it’s different, because Alice has us.”

  “Harry had an aunt and uncle,” Leo reminded her. “But they didn’t want him.”

  “Well, we want Alice,” she said. “Very, very much.”

  “So she’s not an orphan, then?”

  There was a short pause, then Aunt Sofia cleared her throat. “Tell me this,” she said. “When you think of Harry, what’s the first word that comes to mind?”

  Leo’s answer arrived right away: “Wizard.”

  “Exactly. So he’s an orphan and a wizard. Both things are true, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Well, that’s how it is for all of us. We have all sorts of words that could describe us. But we get to choose which ones are most important.”

  Leo paused to consider this. “So Alice could be a wizard too?”

  “I suppose it’s possible,” Aunt Sofia said, laughing softly. “But maybe it’ll be something else entirely, some other word we don’t know about just yet.”

  “Like what?”

  “That,” she said, “is up to Alice.”

  Just after third period on Monday I run into Leo at our lockers, which are side by side. “Have you seen him yet?” he asks as I pull a few books off the top shelf.

  “No, but he texted earlier,” I tell him. “He seemed disappointed it was mostly just paperwork. I think he was expecting a little more fanfare.”

  “What, like balloons and confetti?”

  I laugh. “Probably.”

  “So does this mean it’s all official?” Leo asks, keeping his voice low, though nobody around us seems particularly concerned about what we’re saying.

  “I think so. The ticket is claimed. The money will be here in six to eight weeks. And guess what? It turns out he’s the youngest winner ever.”

  Leo’s eyes widen behind his glasses. “Really?”

  “Well, he did win, like, twelve hours after turning eighteen,” I say, like it’s no big deal, though the wonder of it still hasn’t worn off for me either.

  For the rest of the weekend, in between calls and texts from Teddy, I daydreamed about all the amazing things he could do with this money, all the doors it could open, all the people it could help. Last night he finally decided to take the lump sum, which means he’ll be getting a check for a little more than fifty-three million dollars soon.

  Fifty-three million dollars.

  The population of Chicago is only 2.7 million, which means Teddy could now afford to give every single person in the city—every postal worker and firefighter and nurse, every intern and bus driver and retiree—a twenty-dollar bill. I can’t remember the last time Teddy had even one extra twenty. And now this.

  Leo shakes his head, still looking awed. “Has he started telling people yet?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, glancing behind me down the crowded hallway, which is filled with voices and laughter, slamming lockers and loud conversations about the weekend. “It doesn’t seem like it. But I’m pretty excited to see everyone’s faces when he does. Can you imagine?”

  “I doubt you’ll have to wait long,” Leo says. “He’s never been much for keeping things bottled up.”

  The color rises in my cheeks as I think about how Teddy still hasn’t mentioned our kiss the other morning. I’m starting to wonder if he’s forgotten about it entirely, whether such a thing is even possible. More than anything, I wish I knew if it meant something to him, the way it did to me. So far it’s been impossible to tell.

  On the back of Leo’s locker door, there’s a black-and-white photo of him and Max from last summer, their heads bent close in laughter. I nod at it.

  “Have you told Max about the big win yet?”

  “I was waiting till it’s official,” Leo says, stooping to unzip his backpack, “which I guess it is now.”

  “But it’s Max. I just figured you would’ve—”

  “I know, but I didn’t want to jinx anything.”

  “Teddy already won,” I say, giving him a funny look. “You’re way too superstitious.”

  “I’m not,” he insists, but when I tilt my head at him, he shrugs. “I mean, it’s not like I’m afraid of black cats and broken mirrors and the number thirteen—” He stops short when he realizes what he’s said. “Sorry, I didn’t—”

  “It’s fine,” I say. “I probably shouldn’t be teasing you about this when I’ve got my own weird superstition, right?”

  He gives me a sympathetic smile. “I’d say yours is pretty justified.”

  I turn back to my locker, staring at the small Stanford pennant that hangs inside the door: a reminder of my mother, who bought it for me just after she’d been accepted to a graduate program there—a program she never got to attend because she died on the thirteenth day of July.

  The bell rings and around us our classmates begin to scatter.

  “Maybe it’s not such bad luck anymore,” Leo says, looking hopeful. “Not since it was one of the winning numbers.”

  I manage a smile as I shut my locker. “Maybe,” I say, but I’m not so sure.

  It isn’t until sixth period that I start hearing the rumors about Teddy, which means he must be back by now. Just before the bell rings, Jack Karch taps me on the shoulder. “Were you really the one who bought the ticket?”

  Before I can answer, Kate McMahon swivels around in her seat. “Is it true he’s dropping out of school?”

  “What?” I ask, my voice so loud that our English teacher, Mrs. Alcott, glances over with a frown as she walks into the room.

  “I heard he’s gonna sail around the world for a year,” Kate says, more quietly now. “On a forty-foot yacht.”

  “Captain McAvoy,” says Jack, laughing. “Now there’s a scary thought.”

  Beside me, Ian Karczewski leans in. “I heard it’s just a big prank. That all he really won was twenty bucks on a scratch-off.”

  They all turn to look at me, waiting for answers, hoping for gossip, and I’m relieved when Mrs. Alcott begins the class by reading the first few lines of a poem.

  When the period is over I’m quick to gather my books, and as soon as I step out the door I can already feel it. There’s a strange energy in the hallway, an undercurrent of excitement as the news winds its way from one person to another.

  “Hey, Alice,” says Mr. Tavani, my math teacher, as I hurry past him. “I hear you’ve got a knack for picking numbers. Must be all those calc quizzes, huh?”

  I give him an awkward wave, anxious to find Teddy, but when I arrive at his locker the only one there is Leo. He’s staring at a cluster of posters and balloons taped to the drab green door with a baffled expression. It’s not unusual for decorations to appear there on game days, so it takes me a second to notice these are different.

  “Whoa,” I say, gawking at a sign that reads We love you, Teddy! Below that, another one says You’ve always been a winner to us! “How’d they do this so fast?”

  Leo shakes his head in amazement. “They’re like elves.”

  “Grammatically incorrect elves,” I say, pointing at a sign that says Congratulations Moneybags! “They forgot the comma.”

  “I doubt there are any left in the whole city of Chicago,” Leo says with a grin. “They must be using them all for Teddy’s check.”

  I glance at my watch, realizing seventh period is about to start. I have physics, which is my only class with Teddy, and he usua
lly stops here to switch out his books beforehand. But there’s still no sign of him.

  “I should go,” I say, but just as I do I spot him at the far end of the hallway, walking with the principal, Mr. Andrews, who gives Teddy a hearty pat on the back before turning into the stairwell.

  “What was that about?” Leo asks when Teddy makes his way over to us.

  “He just wanted to say congratulations on behalf of the administration,” he says, clearly delighted. “And to remind me that the auditorium is in desperate need of repair.”

  Leo laughs. “Man, is he ever barking up the wrong tree. You’ve never sat through a play in your life.”

  “Yes, well, now that I’m a man of means,” Teddy says in a borderline English accent, lifting his chin and peering over his nose at us in a vaguely aristocratic fashion, “it’s not out of the question that I might become a patron of the arts.”

  “So how’d it go this morning?” I ask, aware of how eager I sound but unable to tamp down my excitement. “Were they psyched to meet you? Do you feel different?”

  “It was mostly just paperwork,” he admits. “But it was definitely the most exciting paperwork I’ve ever filled out.”

  “I bet,” I say, as behind us Ms. Hershey, the French teacher, pokes her head out of her classroom and raises a finger to her lips. Teddy winks at her and she shakes her head at him, but she’s smiling. Not even teachers are immune to his charms.

  “We should probably get going,” I say, pulling at his arm, and he lifts his other hand to give Leo a wave as we start to head off in opposite directions.

  “See you later, Moneybags,” Leo calls out, and Teddy laughs, then turns back to me with a slightly dreamy expression.

  “This is the best day ever,” he says. “I’ve only been here a couple hours and the whole school already knows. Oh, and I’ve been telling everyone how I owe it all to you, and now they all want to give you money for more tickets.”

  I laugh. “I’m not sure there’s much chance of lightning striking twice.”

  “That’s okay,” he says, slinging an arm around me, drawing me close so that his words ruffle my hair. “I kind of like having you as my own personal lucky charm.”

  I smile into his chest, listening to the thump of his heart. “I think that’s the first time anyone’s ever called me lucky.”

  Teddy stops walking, his arm slipping from my shoulders as he turns to me. “Al,” he says, his face suddenly very earnest. “You’re the luckiest thing that’s ever happened to me. You know that, right?”

  I feel a rush of warmth, a fizzy lightness that makes me want to stand on my toes and kiss him again. “Teddy,” I begin, not completely sure what I’m going to say, but it doesn’t matter anyway, because I hear a voice behind me.

  “Hi, Teddy,” says a freshman girl, her friends dissolving into giggles behind her. “Heard the big news. Congrats.”

  As soon as he glances over at them, the moment between us is gone. “Thanks,” he says, giving them a crooked smile.

  I shake my head once they’ve walked past. “I think you have a fan club.”

  “I’ve always had a fan club,” he jokes, and I narrow my eyes at him.

  “You better not lose your head over this, Teddy McAvoy,” I say as sternly as possible, but he’s grinning at me, and I’m grinning at him, and it’s hard to take any of this too seriously, even though I know perfectly well this is only the beginning.

  It won’t be long before this will all get bigger. The news will travel even farther: it will be in the papers and on TV, it will light up the Internet and become public knowledge, a fact, forever a part of Teddy’s identity. Soon there will be even less of him to go around. And I know that will be too much to bear.

  “I think we should make a deal,” he says, offering his hand, which I automatically take, nodding without even knowing what he’s about to suggest, which is exactly why I can’t trust myself around him.

  “What kind of deal?”

  “I promise not to let all this lottery stuff go to my head,” he says, gripping my hand. “As long as you promise to yell at me if it does.”

  I laugh. “You know I’d yell at you even without the handshake, right?”

  “Yeah,” he says, looking at me fondly. “I’m sort of counting on it.”

  I hold his gaze a beat too long. “Okay, then. You’ve got yourself a deal.”

  When we finally get to Mr. Dill’s classroom, we peek through the square of glass in the door. If it was just me I’d turn the knob carefully, hoping it didn’t make any noise, then hurry to my desk, wishing I was invisible. But Teddy has never been much for keeping a low profile; he throws open the door so hard that it bangs against the wall and comes bouncing back at him. He catches it with an open palm, then grins at the twenty-two faces turned in his direction.

  “Howdy,” he says, and Mr. Dill—who is standing at the board, his glasses askew and his gray hair messy—lets out a long sigh.

  “Mr. McAvoy,” he says, sounding tired already. “Thanks for joining us.”

  “Sorry,” I say, inching inside the classroom just behind Teddy.

  “And Ms. Chapman too. We’re honored.”

  Teddy gives him a little salute, then stands there for a few seconds, and I realize he’s waiting for Mr. Dill to say something about the lottery. I glance at our classmates, who are watching the exchange with unusual alertness, and it occurs to me they are too.

  But Mr. Dill clearly either doesn’t know or doesn’t care, and in that moment I sort of love him for it. “Did you want to sit down,” he says, looking at Teddy over his glasses, “or were you planning to stay in the cheap seats?”

  Teddy shakes his head. “No,” he says, uncharacteristically contrite. “We’ll sit.”

  We file over to our desks, but it isn’t until we’re both seated that Mr. Dill turns back to the board, where he writes SENIOR PHYSICS PROJECT, then underlines it three times.

  “This is the big one, folks,” he says. “The one you’ve all been waiting for…”

  “Boats,” someone whispers behind me.

  “It’s the Twelfth Annual Cardboard Boat Regatta!” Mr. Dill says, grabbing a pile of papers from his desk and handing them out. “We’ll be applying all the principles of physics we’ve learned so far. Buoyancy, surface tension, density, et cetera. Your only supplies will be cardboard and tape, and this will have to be enough to get two of you across the length of the swimming pool. So I hope you’re up for the challenge.”

  Teddy turns around in his seat and raises his eyebrows. “Partners?” he asks, though he doesn’t really have to, since we always pair up for these types of projects.

  “Of course,” I say, already looking forward to the hours we’ll be spending together, working as a team, building something from scratch. He gives me a thumbs-up before swiveling back around, and it’s only then I notice that Jacqueline—the gorgeous French exchange student—is scowling at me, and Lila—Teddy’s ex-girlfriend—is gazing at him with obvious disappointment. I’m afraid to turn around and see how many other girls were hoping to be his partner.

  I have a sinking feeling there are more today than there would’ve been last week.

  It isn’t until later, when I walk into the soup kitchen where I volunteer after school, that the day starts to feel normal again. I stand in the doorway for a minute, watching the familiar preparations: the chopping and sorting and simmering, the hustle and hurry and noise. It’s only three-thirty, but already the whole place smells like tomatoes and garlic.

  I’m always reminded of my parents, being here. There was a soup kitchen not far from where we lived in San Francisco, and the three of us used to go often, bringing grocery bags full of fruits and vegetables and loaves of crusty bread.

  Other kids played soccer or video games growing up. Not me. I spent my weekends trailing after my parents—who each ran their own nonprofit—on all their other philanthropic pursuits: wading through dirty streams in my wellies as my mom picked up trash, ha
nding out cups of water at a 5K to raise money for Alzheimer’s research, donating my Halloween candy to a homeless shelter, and grooming ponies at the therapeutic riding center where my dad volunteered.

  So I know they’d be happy that I’m carrying on the family tradition. What I don’t know—what I never know—is whether it’s enough.

  “Alice,” says Mary, the sprightly sixty-something who runs the place, shoving a box of cans down the counter in my direction. “Can you help Sawyer with the sauce? He always adds too much salt.”

  “Sure,” I tell her, looking over at the industrial-sized stove, where a tall boy with shaggy blond hair and a green apron is stirring a giant pot.

  “Sawyer?” I say, setting the box down beside the burners.

  He glances over at me with a smile. “Hey.”

  “I’m Alice.”

  “I know.”

  “Oh,” I say, realizing we must have worked together before. The problem is that I’ve been volunteering here two nights a week since I was twelve, and after so many shifts and so many faces, it’s all become something of a blur. “Sorry, have we—”

  “We go to school together.”

  I look at him more carefully. He’s tall and spindly, with clear blue eyes and ears that are just a bit too big. “You go to South Lake?”

  “Yeah, but I’m a junior.”

  “Ah,” I say. This makes more sense. The school isn’t huge, but it’s big enough that I don’t even know everyone in my grade, much less the ones below me.

  “And I’m in your art class.”

  I blink at him. “You are?”

  “I am,” he confirms, leaning to turn the heat down on the burner. “I’m the one who made that phenomenal sculpture of a castle last week.”

  “A castle?” I ask, giving him a blank look.

  “Yup. It was brown? And had spires? And turrets?”

  “That was a castle?” I say, suddenly remembering. “I thought it was a porcupine. You must be going through an abstract period.”

  “Something like that,” he says, grinning as he gives the sauce a stir. “I’m not much of an artist.”