Jackpot

by Nic Stone

  I don’t even get a chance to process what he said because next thing I know, I’m stepping into a bright room and someone is yelling, “Zan and Rico are here, you guys!”

  * * *

  —

  The Macklins in two R-words: raucous and #raciallyreconciled. I’m swept into a series of boisterous greetings and warm hugs, and in a blink, we’re gathered around a ten-seat dinner table.

  Lita sits at the head with Zan’s parents to her right. Next to Zan’s mom—Ms. Leigh-Ann—is his stunning sister, Tehlor, and beside her is her new husband—who is basically Finesse with a bald head and goatee. Zan takes the seat to Lita’s left, so I end up sitting across from his mom, and Dr. Gorgeous—I mean Anna-Maria—sits next to me with big bro Joaquín to her left.

  As soon as we’re all settled in, Zan’s dad, Mr. Tim—can’t believe I’m sitting this close to the Timothy Macklin—clinks his fork against his glass.

  The chatter instantly ceases.

  “Let us join hands and bow our heads for the blessing,” he says.

  We do, and he begins: “Gracious and heavenly Father, we thank you for this food. That it will nourish our bodies and keep us whole.”

  “Sí, Papá,” from Lita.

  “We also thank you for the gift that is family, and the addition of our newest member, Chadwick.”

  “We love you, King!” from Zan’s mom.

  “We thank you, Lord, also, for the success of Macklin Enterprises, and we ask for a grandchild at your earliest convenience.”

  Joaquín coughs.

  “And lastly, Lord, we thank you for our young Alejandro, and for the light that has recently graced his life, pulling him out of darkness—”

  “Really, Dad?”

  “No interrupting prayer, Alejandro,” Lita says. “And don’t embarrass the boy, Timoteo.”

  “Fine, fine. Amen,” Mr. Tim finishes.

  When I open my eyes, there’s a timbre of unease in the air that wasn’t there before, and everyone’s sneaking glances in my direction.

  Except for Zan.

  That’s when it hits me: Mr. Tim was talking about me.

  Oh boy…

  “So Rico Reneé!” Mr. Tim basically shouts once the first dish is going around the table. He totally rolls the Rs. “A beautiful name for a beautiful girl!”

  Tehlor looks at me and shakes her head like, I’m so sorry. “Don’t hit on Jandro’s girlfriend, Daddy.”

  “She’s not my girlfriend.”

  “Well, she should be!” Lita says. “Just look at her! Such majesty and poise!”

  “Hard worker too!” Mr. Tim says (yells). “Alexander tells me you work almost full-time in addition to your studies!”

  “Mm-hmm.” I shove a taquito in my mouth. This conversation is moving so fast, I can hardly keep up. Speaking of fast, Zan sure was swift with the not my girlfriend thing. Not that I want to be…

  “I think that’s outstanding!”

  (“Of course he does,” Joaquín murmurs before there’s a thump against the underside of the table and he mutters, “Ow!”)

  “My first job was in an ice cream parlor at fourteen, but my second was at a gas station like you, Rico. Nothing more inspiring than a youngster with your work ethic! Jandro, why didn’t you bring this treasure home sooner? Better yet, why aren’t you following her lead?”

  “Not the time, Dad,” from Zan (through clenched teeth).

  Deep breath, Rico.

  Zan’s mom reaches across the table and puts her hand on mine (holy bling bling, fingers and wrist edition). “We’re really thrilled you’re here, sweetheart!”

  Okay, this I can handle. “Thank you, Ms. Leigh-Ann.”

  “Whattaya say we have a little girl time next weekend, huh? Summer ready-to-wear lines should be in at Neiman.” She winks.

  “Are you kidding me, Leigh? Look at this girl! She’s much too hip for Neiman,” says Mr. Tim.

  Heaven help me.

  “Certainly nothin’ like that other girl—”

  “Dad,” from Zan.

  Other girl?

  “Well, shopping or no shopping, you will come with me to Mass, sí, mi’ja?” Now Lita’s winking at me. “We must keep our spiritual house in order. Are you a believer?”

  Oh boy. “Umm…”

  “Let’s maybe let her eat?” Joaquín says. (Thank you, Lita’s God, who I maybe do believe in a little bit now.) “We did invite her to dinner.”

  And so they do. Sort of.

  The conversation continues to bounce around the table, changing direction, shape, and color—politics, sports, immigration reform, something about adding vitamin E and vanilla essential oil to a new toilet paper prototype. And it’s fun to listen to.

  But as course three (this mind-numbingly delicious six-layer salad) makes its way onto everyone’s plates, I get pulled back in.

  “So, Rico, where you headed to college next year?” Chadwick aka King aka bald-Ness-with-a-goatee asks me. “You’re graduating with Finesse and Zander, right?”

  Ugh. “I’m graduating, yes, but no college plans.” Nervous tuck of the hair behind the ear.

  “Really? Why not?”

  “Ah, college isn’t for everyone,” Mr. Tim cuts in. “Right, Jandro?”

  Zan doesn’t respond, but the temperature in the room seems to drop instantly.

  “It’s by choice, though, right?” Joaquín says. “No one’s forcing you to take over a family company?”

  “Joaquín!” from Lita.

  “I’m not forcing anybody to do anything, Quín. If Jan wants to go to college, he can go to college—”

  “You’ll just cut him off financially.”

  “Can we maybe discuss this some other time? We have a guest.” Ms. Leigh-Ann’s face is as red as the peppers in the salad.

  “All I’m saying is it’d be a waste of four vital fiscal years of Jandro’s life doing ‘college’ when his talents could land him a great starting salary with room for quick advancement at the company.”

  “Jesus, Dad. He’s your son, not some Macklin employee—”

  “Enough,” Lita says with enough authority to stop a runaway train.

  Silence falls, dense and damp. Or maybe that’s just the sweat overflowing my pores right now. Part of me wants to nudge Zan for comfort, but from the heat rolling off him, I get the impression that’s not a great idea.

  So I eat.

  We all do.

  It’s interesting feeling the tension pulse through the room. Every gulp of a beverage and clink of silverware against a plate feels loud enough to shatter an eardrum. And where things seemed warm when we came in, the room—the house, even—has gone very cold.

  Zan’s knee connects with mine beneath the table, and my head instantly fills with questions. Are the “other girl” Mr. Tim mentioned and the “friend” Zan talked about the same person? Not once has Ms. Leigh-Ann actually looked at Zan…is that a common thing? Lita seems cool and clearly rules the roost…but she also didn’t contradict Mr. Tim or speak up with regard to Zan making his own choices.

  I press my knee into Zan’s a bit more firmly. The circumstances are different, of course, but I know what it’s like to have a parent who sees you as a business decision instead of a kid.

  I wish I could hug him.

  Dessert comes. Which is when Mr. Tim polishes off his fourth glass of wine and says: “You all see the latest episode of JACKPOT!? Looks like that Winkle guy really shit the bed—”

  “Timoteo!”

  “Lo siento, Mami.” He crosses himself.

  (Totally chuckle at that one.)

  “I don’t know how you watch that crap, Dad,” Tehlor says.

  “Ah, I only watch ’cause there’s money involved.” (Zan snorts and elbows me.) “Anyway, a fellow trucker is suing th
e guy. Says Winkle stole the ticket from him.”

  “Is that even legal?” I blurt before I can catch myself.

  Mr. Tim shrugs. “It’s this guy’s word against Winkle’s. Thing is, Winkle’s run through so much of his winnings, he confessed he wouldn’t have the cash to pay if he loses the suit.”

  “What a dumbass,” Joaquín mumbles.

  I can feel Zan looking at me.

  Mr. Tim: “I’ve said it a thousand times, but it really is good that other winner never came forward.”

  “Amen!” from Lita, which surprises me (though it probably shouldn’t).

  “Giving that much money to someone who can’t manage it is no better than sticking a needle of dope in their arm—”

  I tune out after that.

  Odd but true: on the way home after dinner, when I tell Zan I’m going to cancel our appointment with the leasing agent (fully intending to just go without him), his head whips around so fast, I’m surprised it doesn’t fly off his shoulders and land in my lap.

  “Cancel it?”

  “Yes? It’s pretty clear your whole family feels the ticket will ruin Ethel’s life.”

  Also, I’m a mess of contradictions right now and need some space to sort things out in my head. Witnessing Zan’s…isolation, I guess, makes me wanna hold him the way I hold Jax after particularly bad bullying days at his school, but I’m increasingly bothered by the sheer speed and force with which he declared to his whole family that I’m not his girlfriend. It’s like whatever door I thought was opening between us has slammed shut, and the deeper the words sink in, the more locks I want to add to it.

  That’s not even to mention this other girl. Why didn’t he mention her when we were talking about dating? Who even is she?

  “We’ve come so far, though, Danger. Don’t you wanna see it all the way through?”

  “We just spent an hour listening to your dad talk about how awful the lottery is.” After you made it crystal clear I mean nothing to you.

  (Yes. It stung.)

  “Ah, what does he know?”

  “Zan, four hours ago you said the exact same thing. And don’t think I didn’t see you nodding while your family was talking.”

  “Watching me pretty closely there, huh?”

  Not the time. “Don’t change the subject!”

  He laughs. “Look, Danger: we’ve made too much progress on this thing to give up. Don’t cancel. We’re not quitting.”

  Again my questions about his motives rear up and threaten to bite me in the face. Will he really be cut off if he chooses not to work for the company? Would he really have to start from zero?

  And what if I cancel and he just reschedules? He could totally do that. He knows where the house is and would only have to go back there and grab the realtor’s number from the yard sign.

  Despite the mess swirling in my brain, one thing’s clear: I don’t want him continuing the search and finding the ticket without me.

  * * *

  —

  So here we are in the Tonka a week later, staring at the green bungalow that houses Orion Realty Group.

  “You ready?” Zan says, eyes all a-sparkle.

  I force a smile.

  He’s not playing me, is he? Pretending to like me so I can lead him right to the jackpot? I’ve been thinking about it: even if his parents did cut him off, he’s got scholarship offers and can totally get a job to support himself like the rest of the 99 percent. Most college students are broke anyway, from what I hear. It’s a part of the experience.

  I glance at him again and he’s still staring at me. All gooey-eyed and excited.

  What if he is playing me? What do I do?

  “We’re four minutes late, Danger. Should probably go in now.”

  “Oh.”

  I grab the door handle and push it wide. Slide down, shut the door behind me, lean back against it, and shut my eyes. Gotta get my head back on straight.

  Something runs between my eyebrows and down over the tip of my nose. Taps twice. When I open my eyes, Zan is looking at me. Visually tracing over my face.

  He stops at my mouth.

  Time to go. “All right, let’s do this.”

  I push off from the Jeep.

  * * *

  —

  The interior of Orion Realty Group smells like Pine-Sol and potpourri. “Welcome to ORG,” says a receptionist with skin the color of an Oompa Loompa. “How may I help you this morning?”

  Unfortunately, I’m too busy trying to deduce the origin of her ochre hue—spray tan gone wrong, or flagrant lack of SPF coverage?—to answer. “Umm…”

  “We have an appointment with Mr. Greg Andree about a potential rental property,” Zan says, coming to the rescue unsummoned (as usual).

  She takes us in and furrows her drawn-on eyebrows. Picks up the phone on her desk, rotates away, and mumbles into it.

  Zan slips an arm around my waist and pulls me close. When I look up at him—caught me off guard, won’t lie—he mouths, “Just follow my lead.”

  Okay…

  The guy who comes down the stairs is so bald, his head glistens, but he’s got this swagger in his step that makes me think he spent his youth man-bunned and getting into trouble.

  He stops short when he sees us, and that’s when I notice how intense his eyes are. Very pale…green? Gray? Hazel? Legit can’t tell. “Wow,” he says. “You’re Reneé?”

  I nod and extend my hand. “Mm-hmm. And this is…umm…”

  “Gustavo,” Zan says, extending his and smiling. “Gustavo Maxwell.”

  “Pleasure to meet you. I’m Greg.” He looks from Zan to me, me to Zan. “You two are younger than I was expecting.”

  Zan nods. “We’re both eighteen. Graduate from high school in a couple of months.”

  “I see.”

  “Had a little too much fun after winter homecoming, if you catch my drift.” Zan winks and pats my belly.

  Wait…

  Did he just—

  He totally did.

  I’m sure my eyes are as big as cue balls.

  Mr. Andree, though? Just grins and lifts his chin. Nods a few times. “My eldest boy is twenty-two. I just turned forty last month. You do the math,” he says.

  I feel Zan exhale beside me, and it’s all I can do to keep from spontaneously combusting. From not-my-girlfriend to got-her-pregnant? I feel a wildly inappropriate laugh bubbling beneath my rib cage. The absurdity of it all is almost enough to make my brain crack Humpty Dumpty style.

  “Well, shall we get down to business then?” Mr. Andree goes on. “I know the nausea can hit ya like a lightning bolt.”

  “SO true,” Zan says. “We’ll be riding down the road and…blegh.” He blows his cheeks out and puts a hand over his mouth.

  I wanna punch him.

  “Here are the specs for the property you called about, young lady.” Mr. Andree passes me a sheet of paper from the folder he’s carrying. “I’ll drive you all over to see it, but you gotta promise you won’t puke in my car.”

  God, do I hate Zan Macklin right now. “I promise, sir.”

  “Greg is fine. You’re adults now.” He pats Zan on the back.

  Fury rising.

  After saying goodbye to the orange receptionist, we make our way to the door. Once outside, he says, “That the only house you’re interested in? Not to make any assumptions, but that neighborhood’s a little pricey.”

  “Oh.” Not sure how to respond to that. “Okay…”

  “Tell ya what,” he says, “let me show you-all some other properties first. I’ve got a few in mind that would be perfect for a young family just starting out. In slightly less geriatric areas too.”

  I avoid looking up at Zan, who at some point moved his arm from my waist to my shoulders. I’ve got my fingers all in
tertwined with the hand dangling near my boob. No clue when that happened. Or why I’m not snatching away in abject fury over his baby mama lie.

  Why doesn’t anything make sense?

  “What do you think?” he says. “Wanna check out some other spots?”

  I really want to say no, but I guess if nothing else, it’ll give me time to come up with a plan. I officially need to take this hunt back into my own hands. “Sounds good to us, Greg.”

  “Awesome.”

  As Greg rounds the corner to a gravel lot, I hold Zan back. “Hey, are you really eighteen? Cuz I’m not.”

  He smiles. “Mm-hmm. Turned eighteen the day before Christmas.”

  * * *

  —

  Car is a joke.

  “Wow,” Zan says from the passenger seat once we’re on the road. “This is quite the vehicle.”

  “Platinum Cadillac Escalade ESV, my friend. Not real great on gas mileage, but she’s my baby.” He pats the dashboard. “A man’s gotta reward himself for his successes. Speaking of which, you guys got jobs and everything? I know you said you’re still in high school.”

  “We both work part-time, but between the three of us, work won’t be necessary for the next few years, Greg. Grandparents dropped me a pretty little trust fund.” He nudges Greg with an elbow. (Gross.)

  “Ahh,” Greg says. “Gotcha. Probably shoulda guessed based on those threads you’re rockin’. That’s what, Calvin Klein?”

  “Ralph Lauren,” Zan says.

  Not the least bit pregnant, but definitely want to vomit.

  “You’re a lucky young lady.” Greg looks at me in the rearview. “Rare to find a teen dad who not only wants to take care of his kid, but has the means.”

  Yeah, this lie is so much worse than our other ones. Wouldn’t surprise me if we stepped out of the car and got struck by lightning.

  “So you got a budget in mind then?” Greg asks Zan.

  “Trying to keep it under three K.”

  “A month?”

  “Yeah. Is that too low?”

  “No, no.” Greg clears his throat and signals to change lanes. Wonder if Zan notices the course correction. “We can work with that….”