Jackpot

by Nic Stone

  Forgive the interruption, dear reader, but I’ll have you know this is going to be an adventure for me, too. It’s not easy being an inanimate object worth enough American dollars to feed a family of six in Chad for over forty thousand years. (Or 4,077 families of six for a decade each. How my value is distributed is of no concern to me.)

  (That is no exaggeration.)

  Right now, that dastardly George Washington has his ugly green face smashed against mine, and there’s a month-old Chick-fil-A receipt pressed against my behind without my consent. To top it off, the person who shoved me into this lackluster billfold truly has forgotten about me.

  The indignity of it all is appalling considering my value, don’t you think?

  Five thousand dollars. That was the number on the check inside the Happy New Year! card Mr. Z handed me alongside my regular paycheck.

  And instead of putting it in the account my mother has access to, I cashed it. Put it in an envelope. Stuffed it in a hole in my trusty box spring, same spot I hid the money I secreted away all those months for Jax’s bike.

  Every night after he falls asleep, I close whatever book I’m reading, pull the envelope out, and count the hundred-dollar bills. I’ve never held that much money before, and feeling the paper slide through my fingers keeps me distracted from other facets of my life that often plague my brain in the darkness: the fact that we’re always a few hours of pay away from not making rent; that Mama treats me more like a partner and co-parent than a kid; that my seventeen-year-old life consists entirely of school, work, and sleep; that I have no friends.

  That last one’s really been getting to me lately. Got really acute a few mornings ago when I happened to leave my apartment to head to the (school) bus stop at the exact moment Jessica Barlow—class president, head cheerleader, and popular kid on infinity—was leaving the adjacent apartment.

  Like a ding-dong, I froze, deer-in-headlights style. I vaguely remember her moving in who knows how many years ago, but between never seeing her around here since and the incongruous-to-her-glittering-image bumps and shouts that sometimes filter through our shared walls, I’d forgotten she lives there. Don’t know her situation—she’s one of the bright lights in Zan Macklin’s inner circle and certainly looks the Rich Kid part—so the whole thing was jarring.

  Especially when she smiled at me.

  I’ve always done my best to keep my head down—which is easy to do when it seems like no one realizes you exist (though I’ve admittedly been staring at the back of Zan Macklin’s head a lot more in history lately, wondering if we did in fact make eye contact that night at the store). But knowing she saw me? Maybe before, I would’ve written the whole thing off. But ever since seeing my birth date on that ticket, it’s like this world of possibility has opened up, and now I constantly find myself…curious.

  Which feels dangerous. There are few things worse for a poor kid than working up the courage to hope and then having that hope pulverized down to subatomic particles beneath the weight of (another) disappointment.

  So I count my money.

  But then on the afternoon of January twenty-fourth, Mr. Fifty-Dollar-Bill strolls into the Gas ’n’ Go while I’m shelving magazines. He overlooks me as he grabs the latest issue of Playboy, but there’s certainly no shame in his game once he sees me.

  “Hey there!” he says, clutching the magazine to his chest. On the cover is some lady wearing a pair of open jeans and strategically placed suspenders.

  I force a smile to keep from wrinkling my nose. “Hello.”

  “Rico, right? You were here on Christmas Eve?”

  “Mm-hmm.” I stick the last Car and Driver in place. Stand and dust my hands off. “Anything I can help you find today?”

  “Nope, I think I found it!” He holds his magazine up.

  (Can I please throw up now?)

  “Okay then!” I turn to head to the counter, and he follows me. Tries to hand me the magazine to scan.

  “Just hold it out,” I say. Cuz I ain’t touchin’ it.

  It scans. $14.37 including tax.

  Of course he hands me a fifty.

  “So did you have a merry Christmas, Rico? A happy New Year?”

  I shrug. “Not too bad. You?”

  “Well, between you and me, it woulda been a lot merrier had I bought that Mighty Millions jackpot ticket,” he says. “Anybody come forward yet?”

  So it’s not him then. Unless he’s bluffing…but why would he be bluffing? “Not that I’m aware of, sir.” I count his change out and slide it to him. “I’m sure we’ll find out eventually.”

  * * *

  —

  I don’t sleep that night. Can’t. Every time I close my eyes, I see the smiling face of the little old lady who made being at work on Christmas Eve a little less awful. Counting the bonus doesn’t help because all I can think about is the fact that someone—maybe her…(aka, almost me)—could be missing an opportunity to count 1,059,950 more hundred-dollar bills than I currently have in my possession.

  When the sun rises, I’m wrapped in a blanket on the balcony staring at Mama’s beat-up old Nissan pickup truck. The red paint has faded from the roof and one of the back tires is low. I go back inside to start a pot of Folgers, and turn on Rise ’n’ Shine Atlanta.

  First story I see?

  “Wyoming Mighty Millions jackpot winner Wally Winkle is about to become a television star! The ten-episode reality show JACKPOT! will follow the former truck driver as he adjusts to his lavish new lifestyle. The first episode is set to air Thursday, February seventh, at eight p.m. Eastern on the MoneyVision network.”

  I turn it off. Chew my lip. Look around at the dingy walls and mostly secondhand furniture in our closet-sized living room.

  A hundred and six million dollars. Just out there somewhere.

  The things a person could do with that kind of money…

  I sold three Mighty Millions tickets on Christmas Eve exactly a month ago. Two of them were not the Big Winner. Could Mr. Zoughbi have sold it earlier in the day? Of course. But I also now know that the winning Mighty Ball number was in fact 07, and that the odds of matching three white balls plus the Mighty Ball are one in 14,547. Which, yes, makes it almost 21,000 times more likely than winning the jackpot…but the odds of two tickets with those numbers being sold at the same store on the same day?

  Come on.

  How can I know for sure, though? And what am I supposed to do about it? It’s not like fairy godgranny left me her name and number and invited me over for tea….

  There were three other people, myself included, inside the Gas ’n’ Go when fairy godgranny exited, Christmas sweater alight, holding a ticket that contained at least four of the six winning numbers. I know one of those other people—Mr. Bashir Zoughbi—wouldn’t condone me hunting down one of his customers, so he’s not likely to give me access to the security footage I’ll need to try and find out what kind of car the lady was driving.

  I could try to get into the hella-high-tech, flat-screened monstrosity on Mr. Z’s desk—stuff from the cameras outside the store would have to be on there somewhere, right? Then again, the only computer I really interact with on a regular basis is our Tyrannosaurus rex that’s still rockin’ Windows 8.1. So maybe not a great idea.

  Which leaves me with one other (very rich, handsome, and intimidating) potential option.

  My eyes drop to the hole in the couch that has widened over the years because Jax picks at it when he’s anxious (which is all the effing time).

  I’m picking at it now.

  Sure hope there’s something of substance beneath Zan Macklin’s hundred-dollar haircut.

  And maybe those hacker rumors are true.

  And now I’m hiding in the bathroom.

  “A hundred-and-six friggin MIL, Rico,” I whisper from my perch on the abused-looking toilet. “Ge
t your shit together!”

  “Uhh…you all right in there?” comes a voice from outside the stall.

  Oops.

  “Yes, fine,” I say. “Just…ate a bad breakfast burrito.”

  “Gross…”

  But it does the trick. I hear a compact snap shut and the click of shoes exiting shortly thereafter.

  “Okay. Deep breath.”

  I almost missed the bus this morning because I spent so much time fussing over what to wear. Figured if I’m gonna initiate a conversation with the pee-pee-paper prince, I should look as close to a million bucks as possible…but then I discovered that the most expensive thing in my closet is a forty-dollar body-con dress Mama found deeply on sale at T. J. Maxx—and the last time I wore that, my turd-brain chem lab partner held up the round-bottom glass chemical container we were using for our experiment, looked me over lasciviously, and said, “Forget back…baby got flask.”

  So that was a no-go.

  The bell rings, signaling the end of second lunch/beginning of third.

  The time has come.

  I exit the stall as a gaggle of cheerleaders come in.

  Not even the vaguest peek in my direction.

  I push toward the exit and, before I can think too much about it, run my hands over the front of the billowy skirt I threw on when Mama started yelling about “punctuality,” lift my chin, and make my way out into the cafeteria.

  Not a single head turns. (Typical.)

  Zan is sitting at the far end of his regular table, which should make this easy. Guess it depends on if he resists or not.

  I reach the table, and I’m moving fast.

  This whole thing is a terrible idea. Maybe I should just keep going. They probably wouldn’t even notice me speed-walking by like a freak-and-a-half.

  But then I catch eyes with Jessica Barlow. Who is watching me. She smiles (so weird!), and I force a tight-lipped smile back, but as I pass her, still booking it, her head tilts—quizzically.

  No turning back now.

  One of the guys tells a joke, and everyone laughs. Zander says something to the black kid sitting across from him (think his name is Finesse?), then sets his water bottle down…which is when I pass behind him, grab his upper arm, and pull.

  “Whoa,” he says, and I’m sure he’s looking at me, but I’m trying to maintain my forward momentum, so I don’t look back. I do, however, breathe life’s biggest sigh of relief as I feel his weight give. “Guess I’m being summoned,” he says, and he rises to let me tug him along while everyone laughs.

  The sweater he’s wearing must be cashmere or something. It’s by far the softest thing I’ve ever touched. Biceps don’t feel too bad either.

  It’s not until we pass through the open doors to the west stairwell that it hits me: I just pulled Zan Mega-Money Macklin from his lunch table in front of everyone. And he actually came. Holy shi—

  “So is our final destination inside the building at least?” he says.

  I stop and let go of his arm, but now I can’t make myself face him.

  Sweet mother of pearl I did not think this through.

  “Helloooooo? Kidnapper?”

  I take a few breaths and turn around.

  God.

  The guy looks (and smells) like he just stepped off the cover of the J.Crew Christmas catalog.

  It’s disgusting.

  He smiles down at me. “Hi.”

  “Umm, hi.” I look at my feet.

  No, Rico! Chin UP, dammit!

  And…Huh. I knew he was tan for a white boy, but his eyes are a lot greener than I expected. His eyebrows are super thick, and he’s got acne along his chin and the ruins of an angry erupted zit in the little crevasse beside his left nostril.

  I exhale. And almost smile. “I need to talk to you,” I say.

  He chuckles. “I gathered as much from the cafeteria abduction.”

  “Oh.” What do I say to that? “Uh, I’m Rico, by the way.”

  “Zan.”

  I swallow a snort. “I know.”

  “So did I,” he says.

  Hmm.

  “K, I’m gonna come right out with it—”

  “That would be nice…Didn’t get to finish my lunch.”

  Asshole. “I…need your help.”

  “Do you now?” He crosses his arms.

  I totally huff. Like so hard my on-the-verge-of-frizzy bangs flutter. He’s kind of frustrating. And he smells really good. It’s confusing.

  “Yeah. I do.”

  “Aren’t you the same girl who avoided me like the plague when I stepped into your place of employment on Christmas Eve?”

  Is he for real? “My ‘place of employment’? Who even talks like that?”

  “Admit it. You were totally dodging me.”

  “No I wasn’t.”

  “Fine.” He shrugs and turns to leave.

  “Wait, no!”

  “So you were avoiding me, then?”

  “This is completely irrelevant to—”

  “My food is waiting….”

  UGH!

  “Okay, fine. Yes, I was avoiding you.”

  He nods. “That’s what I thought. Now how may I be of service, dear Ri—”

  The bell rings.

  I smack my forehead, and his brows dip just the slightest bit. The weird green eyes burn a haphazard trail as they roam all over my face, and his head drifts toward his shoulder until he looks like he’s examining a piece of abstract art from another angle or something.

  It’s unnerving. Especially since he oozes wealth.

  I can’t look at him anymore. “Can we talk after school maybe?” I say as my gaze falls. “I have to work four to eight, but maybe you could meet me at Tensonwood Park at three-thirty? It’s down the road from the Gas ’n’ G—”

  “I know where Tensonwood Park is, Rico.”

  I clench my teeth. Not sure why I wasn’t expecting him to be this arrogant.

  A hundred and six MIL.LI.ON, Rico!

  Gulp down my dignity and force myself to make eye contact again. “Please?”

  He rubs his chin and stares up at the ceiling in pretend thought as the stairwell starts to fill. Then back at me. “No more avoidance?”

  Egomaniac. “No more avoidance.”

  “Promise?”

  “Oh my God.”

  He laughs. “Okay.”

  “Okay?”

  “Okay,” he says. “I’ll meet you on the swings.”

  Imagine my shock when I get to the playground at 3:20 p.m., and Zan-the-Man (that’s another one I hear in the hallways) is already there. Literally on a swing.

  His too-long legs pump-pump-pump, and he flies so high, the chains go slack at the top. When he sees me, he jumps out at the peak of his next arc. His arms lift, and his dark hair flutters in the breeze as he drops.

  I can’t look away.

  He dusts off his pants, spreads his arms, and smiles. “Rico!” he says. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  Totally roll my eyes, but if I’m honest, it’s a cover for how wildly uncomfortable I am. Talking to Zan Macklin in the dim-ish hallways of Norcross High School with other people milling around was one thing….This? Out in the open, sun blazing, one-on-one? It’s like I can feel how dingy and overworn my clothes are—jacket, shirt, skirt, the whole nine.

  He heads over to a bench to sit and pats the space beside him, so I take a deep breath and comply, putting my hands beneath my thighs and staring down at our feet. The contrast between his pristine brown wing tips (what high school senior even wears those?) and my scuffed thrift-store boots would be enough to make me literally run away were I not so desperate.

  One. Hun. Dred. Six. Milllllll…

  Which is probably about how much this guy has in his trust fu�
�

  “Speakest thou to the Zan, O Avoidant One,” he says, flicking a neon-yellow fidget spinner that seems to have appeared out of thin air.

  “Oh my God, will you let that go?” My face is a raging inferno of mortification.

  “I will not.” He sticks his nose in the air. “What did I ever do to you, huh?”

  “I didn’t think you even knew who I was.”

  Didn’t mean to say that aloud, but when he doesn’t respond, I turn to him. Like on some strange instinct.

  One of those thick eyebrows is practically making out with his hairline. “You’re not serious.”

  “Why wouldn’t I be serious?”

  “Well, for one, you’ve been in nine of my classes over the years.”

  “Has it really been that many?” And is he really keeping count?

  “It has.”

  Hmm. “Go on.”

  “For two, your name is Rico Danger.”

  “It’s actually DON-gur—”

  He’s…aghast, it seems. “Why would you ever tell anyone that?”

  “Because it’s true?”

  He shakes his head, gives the spinner another flick. “Do you have any idea how awesome it is to have Danger for a last name? If your future husband doesn’t take your name, he’s a dumbass.”

  “Future husband?”

  “Or wife,” he amends. “Spouse. Future spouse.” His cheeks are pinkening, and okay, maybe I chuckle a little. Partially because Zan Macklin just suggested I’ll get married one day. Pffft.

  “Is that a laugh I hear? Is the Avoidant One warming up to ol’ Zanny Zan?”

  “You might have an ego problem, Zanny Zan. That’s a lot of self-nicknaming.”

  Now he laughs. “Touché, Ice Queen.”

  He slouches down and stretches his arms across the back of the bench. The cologne punches me in the olfactory receptors and my head goes a little fuzzy. Man, what is in that stuff?

  I swallow. “So what’s three?”

  “Three?” he says.

  “You gave me a for one and a for two…which implies a for three, doesn’t it? Don’t things like this usually come in trios?” Also, am I really sitting here talking to Zan Macklin like I know him, know him?