Jackpot

by Nic Stone

  “So here’s the deal,” he says. “If you hadn’t missed my TV debut, you would’ve seen me on the news holding a giant check for one hundred and six million buckaroos.”

  I stop breathing.

  “A little over a month ago, someone came to my office with that lost lotto ticket you were looking for. Long story short, said person created a pair of trusts and donated the ticket to fund them,” he continues.

  “The grantor has asked to remain anonymous, but Dover Financial was appointed trustee, and you, Rico Danger, were named one of the beneficiaries. In layman’s terms, that means I manage the trust, but the money gets paid to you.”

  Still not breathing. Can’t.

  “According to the terms, at no point during the next thirty years will you have any control over your flow of income. The deed specifies that the Georgia Lottery will pay taxed and annuitized funds directly to the trust, and those monies will be distributed as follows: a fixed amount will be paid into an account of your choosing for immediate access on the first of each month. A portion has been allotted to cover outstanding medical debt acquired by a Jaxon Daniel Danger, and the rest has been split three ways: there’s a 529 college savings plan with this same Jaxon Daniel Danger listed as beneficiary, a second 529 with you, Rico Reneé Danger, listed as beneficiary, and a high-interest savings account that you’ll have access to on your forty-eighth birthday.”

  Cannot. Breathe.

  “The 529s can be used solely to cover college or university tuition costs. Use of the monthly funds will be at your discretion, but as the assigned advisor for the trust itself, I am available to discuss any options you’d be interested in exploring: investments, charitable giving, major purchases, I’m your guy.” He winks.

  Do I pass out now?

  “Should you choose to decline the monthly payments entirely, those monies will be shifted into the savings account,” he says. “Was all of that clear?”

  “Umm…sort of?”

  He chuckles. “What part didn’t you understand?”

  Any of it? “So the medical bills—”

  “Covered.”

  “And taxes…?”

  “Taken care of. All I need is a signature and an account number for the immediate-access payments.”

  He flips to a signature page and lays a pen beside it. “Please read through the documentation before you sign.”

  I look at the papers.

  Pick them up and try to read them.

  They blur out of focus.

  Eyes shift to the pen.

  His face.

  I can’t take this money.

  The papers.

  From the sound of it, though, I also can’t not take this money.

  His face.

  I have to take this money.

  The pen.

  I didn’t earn this money.

  The papers.

  We really need this money.

  How much is it even gonna be per month? And what do I do with it for real? Give it to Mama? Put an apartment in my name? I am eighteen now….

  Medical bills were taken care of, sounds like. But there are other bills. Gotta get some solid health insurance. Savings is already covered….But what about an emergency fund? Mr. Dover mentioned investments and charitable giving as well….

  The papers.

  His face.

  The papers.

  The pen.

  The server sets a plate of hot shrimp and grits down in front of me.

  “Go ahead and eat,” he says.

  I exhale.

  The first “immediate-access” payment hits my account six days later: $8,333.33.

  Which makes the whole thing real.

  I buy Mama—who mysteriously wound up with a job at Macklin—a laptop, and she meets with Mr. Dover to learn how to use the budgeting software he *advised* me to buy. (They hit it off a little more than I’m expressly comfortable with, but what can I do?)

  Then I transfer most of the monthly payout to her account. I do set a chunk aside for one particular dream (a girl’s gotta do somethin’ for herself every once in a while), and the rest goes to a charity that helps needy families with unexpected medical expenses.

  This is my plan for every month.

  As soon as I’m awake and showered on day seven, I pull on the cute sundress and sandals Mama got me for my birthday. Once dressed, I run out to the truck I got permission to borrow. And then I head out, surprising myself by remembering the way to a place I’ve only ever visited once before.

  The truck’s been leaking oil (which Mama can now afford to get fixed!—and now that I don’t have to help with rent and bills, I can save my income and eventually get myself a car too), so I park at the edge of the driveway and walk up to the access control panel outside the gate. My hands are sweating so much, my finger totally slips off the Call button.

  A woman answers. “May I help you?”

  “Oh. Umm…This is the Macklin residence, right?”

  “Yes.”

  Whew!

  “This is Rico Danger. I’m at the gate.”

  “Okay…”

  Panic. Who am I even talking to?

  “Is Zan—Alexander, I mean, home?”

  “He doesn’t live here” comes through the little speaker.

  My face falls. “But you just said this is the Macklin residence.”

  “Yes.”

  “How does Zan not live here?”

  “He moved away.”

  “Moved away?”

  “He has his own house now.”

  Which of course makes sense—Mr. Dover did let it “slip” that only half the total value of the lotto ticket would flow into the trust part with my name on it. He wasn’t allowed to disclose the name of the beneficiary for the other trust, but come on.

  The fact that he’s not where I thought he’d be makes me feel like I’m falling, though. And not in a good way. “Do you have an address?” I ask.

  “No.”

  Maybe I should’ve called here first. Was trying to surprise him, but clearly that’s a bust. I could call him from my new cell phone, but I doubt he’d answer an unknown number. “Can I…maybe come in and use the phone?”

  “You should go now.”

  “Wait! Is someone else home? Mr. Tim or Ms. Leigh-Ann or Lita?”

  “Not here. Goodbye before I call police.”

  There’s a click, and the line goes dead.

  That certainly didn’t go the way I expec—

  Wait.

  He has his own house….

  I smile. Sure he does.

  Well played, Zan-the-Man. Well played.

  * * *

  —

  Tracking Greg Andree down is pretty easy.

  I honestly expect him to read me the riot act because he obviously knows Zan’s real name and the fact that we lied about me being pregnant.

  He doesn’t.

  Just hands me an envelope with my (real) name on it. Inside there’s a piece of paper with the address, and a key hanging from a keychain that says HOME SWEET HOME.

  When I get to the Decatur cottage, the Tonka’s in the driveway.

  I contemplate ringing the doorbell, but then I look at the envelope again. It’s in Zan’s handwriting.

  I take a deep breath and insert the key. The door creaks as I push it open and step inside.

  The interior air smells like clean laundry and warm apple pie. I’m tempted to call out to see if he’s here, but instead I make my way down the hall to the back of the house.

  When I get to the living area, he’s sitting in a rocking chair.

  I stop dead, and he looks me over that way he does.

  I gulp and look away. “It, uhh…it smells really good in here,” I say.
/>   “I made an apple pie.” He nods toward the breakfast bar.

  There’s a pie there.

  Huh. “I didn’t know you could bake.”

  “Learn something new every day.” He clasps his hands over his midsection. Grins and looks me over again. “That’s a pretty dress.”

  “Thanks. Birthday gift.”

  “Ah, yes. Happy belated.”

  “Thanks.” Eyes on my green toenails. “I got your gift, by the way….”

  “My gift?”

  My head lifts. “From Mr. Dover?”

  “Huh?” There’s that baffled look I know so well.

  For a second, I panic. Had to be him, right? He’s the one who had the ticket….“You know. The trust?”

  He raises a caterpillar (they’ve been trimmed, it seems), lifts his chin, and looks down his nose. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Danger. Completely forgot you had a birthday.”

  I roll my eyes. And smile.

  “You look beautiful.”

  “So do you.”

  He snorts.

  “I mean…” Pull it together, Rico! “It’s really nice to see you, Zan.”

  He smiles. “Just so you know, that room over there is still yours if you want it. I know we had our little tiff, but offer stands for you to move in. There’s a no-sneaking-into-Zan’s-room-to-watch-him-sleep rule, though. And you have to pay rent. It’s every man for himself round these parts.”

  I glance at the open bedroom door. Furniture inside looks amazing, but…“I can’t, Zan.”

  Another smile, this one sadder. “I figured you’d say that.”

  “Maybe we can start over? As friends?”

  “That’s cool. You’ll only have a year to get to know me, though. I’m headed to Stanford next fall.”

  Sure wasn’t expecting that. “Wow.”

  He nods.

  “Congratulations, I guess?”

  “Thank you. Any college plans for you?”

  My eyes fall to my feet. “I’m thinking about it.”

  “What else are you thinking about?”

  “Huh?” Head lifts.

  “Got any other plans? Sky’s the limit, right?”

  Now I really smile. Glance up at the ceiling. Despite the fact that I’m not touching those monthly payouts—dignity won’t let me—I guess he’s right.

  Definitely using that college money, though. Eventually.

  We lapse into silence, and my gaze is drawn back to the pie. Almost smells better than he does. “You really made that?”

  “I did.”

  So much to learn.

  “Hey, Rico?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m glad you came by.”

  “Me too.”

  He smiles.

  I smile.

  “Hey, Zan?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Can I have a hug?”

  “A friendly one?” He wiggles the eyebrows.

  I laugh. “Something like that.”

  He stands and spreads his arms.

  I step into them, and the Macklin Magic washes over me.

  “Zan? Can I tell you something?”

  “Of course,” he says.

  “I’m gonna go to Space Camp.”

  So this is the thing: sometimes you write a whole book, but so much time passes between when you wrote it and when it gets published—four literal years, in this case—that you sort of can’t remember everyone involved who you need to thank. I was not on my toes enough to keep a list like I should’ve. (And no, I haven’t learned my lesson so don’t even ask.)

  All that to say this particular list of acknowledgments is likely to be lacking. Apologies in advance. If you feel you contributed to this book and don’t see your name listed, by all means write me an angry email. I will grit my teeth and take it.

  Here goes:

  Nic Stone’s Very Much Inexhaustive List of People She Remembers Helping with This Book:

  Mom and Dad. No you, no me. No me, no book. Duh.

  Phoebe Yeh (obviously). We went through a lot of ideas for this one. The footnotes were a no go. Thank you for pushing me until I landed on the inanimate objects, and being super into it once I did. And speaking of inanimate objects…

  Amy Sarig “A.S.” King. The pagoda in Please Ignore Vera Dietz is the literal reason this book is full of POV chapters from inanimate objects. That book is everything, and you are the G.O.A.T.

  Elizabeth Stranahan. You just put up with so much and have to read so much dreck, and you send me such excellent boxes of books, and I really appreciate you, Lizzy.

  Rena Rossner. You read even the earliest, most boring iterations of this thing. Bless you.

  Nigel Livingstone. Other half and baby daddy of the year.

  Octavia Roberts. While Overnight Millionaire was a perfectly okay title, Jackpot is infinitely better. Thank you.

  Dede Nesbitt and Tanya Rogers. Also tried-and-true friends who read this thing when it was super boring. (Remember when I thought I should write a “straightforward” novel? Who the hell was I kidding, am I right?)

  Ashley Woodfolk. YOU read this when I was super hating on it. That makes you a true friend. And when I told you to stop reading it because I was fixing it, you did. **heart-eye emojis**

  Tehlor Kinney. Not only did you read this when it was super boring, but you let me steal your name. Thank you.

  Greg Andree. You also let me steal your name.

  Jay Dover. Not only did you let me steal your name, but you keep me financially responsible with your fiscal wisdom. Sometimes middle school homies grow up and like, adult together. Who’da thunk?

  Casey Reed Joiner. Another middle school forever love of my life and my very own pseudo Jessica Barlow. I love you.

  Dean Maria Martin. Your Spanish assistance was invaluable, and so are you. #educatorsrule

  Liz Acevedo. Also, thank you for answering my ignorant Spanish questions. And for just being an all-around badass. I wanna be like you when I grow up.

  Dhonielle Clayton, Tiff Jackson, and Angie Thomas. No explanation necessary.

  Lauryn Mascarenaz. For your early read and feedback. And for telling me you loved it when I was super insecure about the whole shebang.

  Jarred Amato. The dopest. Period.

  Joey Tam. I’m pretty sure your critique is literally what pulled this whole thing together in my head.

  Kristin Schulz. #workwife4life, you have no idea how much you liking this thing has helped me chill. For real.

  Random House fam: Kathy, Auntie Barbs, Auntie Judith, Aunt Felicia, John (NEMESIS!), Dominique, Syd, Adrienne, Angela, Jules, Christine, Alison, Lisa M….(This is when I start forgetting people. SORRY!)

  Anyway, anyway: with all of you by my side, I clearly hit the jackpot.

  Nic Stone is the author of the New York Times bestselling and William C. Morris Award finalist Dear Martin and Odd One Out, an NPR Best Book and Rainbow Book List Top Ten. Jackpot, her third novel, is a life-affirming story about the humanity in people, no matter how little or how much is in their bank account.

  Nic lives in Atlanta with her adorable little family.

  nicstone.info

  From where he’s standing across the street, Justyce can see her: Melo Taylor, ex-girlfriend, slumped over beside her Benz on the damp concrete of the FarmFresh parking lot. She’s missing a shoe, and the contents of her purse are scattered around her like the guts of a pulled party popper. He knows she’s stone drunk, but this is too much, even for her.

  Jus shakes his head, remembering the judgment all over his best friend Manny’s face as he left Ma
nny’s house not fifteen minutes ago.

  The WALK symbol appears.

  As he approaches, she opens her eyes, and he waves and pulls his earbuds out just in time to hear her say, “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Justyce asks himself the same question as he watches her try—and fail—to shift to her knees. She falls over sideways and hits her face against the car door.

  He drops down and reaches for her cheek—which is as red as the candy-apple paint job. “Damn, Melo, are you okay?”

  She pushes his hand away. “What do you care?”

  Stung, Justyce takes a deep breath. He cares a lot. Obviously. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t’ve walked a mile from Manny’s house at three in the morning (Manny’s of the opinion that Melo’s “the worst thing that ever happened” to Jus, so of course he refused to give his boy a ride). All to keep his drunken disaster of an ex from driving.

  He should walk away right now, Justyce should.

  But he doesn’t.

  “Jessa called me,” he tells her.

  “That skank—”

  “Don’t be like that, babe. She only called me because she cares about you.”

  Jessa had planned to take Melo home herself, but Mel threatened to call the cops and say she’d been kidnapped if Jessa didn’t drop her at her car.

  Melo can be a little dramatic when she’s drunk.

  “I’m totally unfollowing her,” she says (case in point). “In life and online. Nosy bitch.”

  Justyce shakes his head again. “I just came to make sure you get home okay.” That’s when it hits Justyce that while he might succeed in getting Melo home, he has no idea how he’ll get back. He closes his eyes as Manny’s words ring through his head: This Captain Save-A-Ho thing is gonna get you in trouble, dawg.

  He looks Melo over. She’s now sitting with her head leaned back against the car door, half-asleep, mouth open.