Hard pass.
Seeing the day I was born pop up on a ticket, though?
The lady’s face is lit up brighter than her Christmas tree sweater. “Your birthday, huh?”
“Mm-hmm.” I point it out.
“Well, I’ll be! Perhaps you’re my lucky charm!”
My eyes stay fixed on the ticket as she takes it from me. What if she’s right? Two hundred and twelve million dollars could be on that little slip.
“Tell ya what, print me one of those Quick Picks, too,” she says.
“Yes, ma’am. Would you like to add the Mightyplier option to this one? For an extra dollar, it’ll double any nonjackpot winnings.”
“Oh no, we’re going for the big bank!”
I laugh. “Coming right up.”
The machine spits out the second piece of paper, and I slide it across the counter to her. She grabs it and then holds both tickets up to take a good look at them.
Then she shuffles them around and puts them facedown on the counter. “So whattaya think?” she asks. “Right or left?”
“Oh, definitely left,” I say.
She nods and pushes the left ticket across the counter to me. “Good. It’s for you.”
Whoa.
“Oh wow, that’s really nice of you, ma’am, but I can’t take that.”
“You certainly can,” she says. “It’s my Christmas present to you.”
I look at it and bite down on my lower lip. God, how amazing would it be to win even part of two hundred and twelve million dollars? The old Bad Boy rappers say, “Mo money, mo problems,” but they all had plenty of it. Me? I work at a gas station for $7.75 an hour, and most of that goes toward whatever bill Mama hasn’t made enough to cover each month (you know, minus the dollars she spends on weekly lotto tickets).
“Go on now. Pick it up,” the lady is saying. “Obviously someone over eighteen will have to claim the prize if you win anything, but perhaps one of us will get lucky.” She winks. Very different feeling than when Mr. Fifty-Dollar-Bill did it.
Makes my skin tingle a little.
I take the ticket and quickly stick it in my back pocket.
Which is good because Mr. Zoughbi chooses that moment to exit his office. Not sure he’d be real keen on a customer buying his underage cashier a lottery ticket. The lady and I exchange a look. She gets it.
“Well, you’ve certainly brightened up my Christmas Eve,” she says loud enough for Mr. Z to hear. “You finish your shift and hurry home now, you hear?”
I smile and nod again. “You be sure to do the same, ma’am.”
“Merry Christmas, baby girl.” She turns to leave.
I swear that ticket has turned radioactive and my right butt cheek is expanding in size right now.
When she gets to the door, it swings wide, and I hear her say, “Why, thank you, young man. My, aren’t you handsome!”
I look up, and there holding it open for her, with his million-dollar smile, is Alexander Macklin (“Zan” to his friends/groupies/loyal horde)—varsity quarterback, all-around teen dream, and heir to the booty-paper throne.
No, for real. His great-great-grandfather or something supposedly patented toilet paper on a roll, and now his family runs Macklin Enterprises, which is legitimately famous for its focus on ass-wipery.
Speaking of ass-wipery, rumor has it he only goes to our school because he got kicked out of his fancy private one. Something about a hacking scandal.
And yes, he’s handsome.
I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have a clue who I am despite the fact that I sit two desks behind him in US History. But still. Would rather the richest boy in school not see me working the cash register at the local gas station. Pretty sure my hair’s a frizzy mess and there’s a cheese stain on my apron from a hot dog I snarfed earlier.
“Uhh, I need to go to the ladies’ room,” I say as Mr. Z approaches the counter to restock candy bars.
He looks up at me with an eyebrow raised.
I glance at the door again. The lady is gone, and Zan is stepping inside now. I think our eyes meet, but I turn away too fast to know for sure.
“Girl problems,” I say to Mr. Z.
“Ah.” He lifts his hands. “Say no more.”
I slip from behind the counter. Zan has turned down the chip aisle, so I do my best to make no noise. Avoid drawing attention.
Just as I get to the back, Mr. Z hollers, “Oh, Ms. Danger!” He mispronounces my last name. Doesn’t rhyme with “stranger” like everyone assumes. It’s actually DON-gur and I usually correct people…having Danger as a last name would be cool if it weren’t such a misnomer.
Anyway.
“Check the toilet paper supply while you’re handling the lady business, yes?” he says.
So much for a clean getaway.
The walk home is trash.
It’s colder than I thought, and I can’t stop thinking about that dumb boy invading my outside-school bubble. In a year and a half of working at the Gas ’n’ Go, none of the rich kids from school have ever come in there. They all fill up their fancy cars at the BP near their gated communities a few miles away.
Now, with every numb-toed step I take, I wonder if Zan is still out and about. If he’s going to drive by, see me walking the mean streets of Norcross in the dead of a chilly night with no hat or gloves, and assume I’m a hobo.
I relax the tiniest bit once I reach the street my apartment complex is on, but my head is still messed up from the almost-encounter. Mama’s door is closed by the time I make it home, but Jax is stretched out on the couch in our small living room, trying his damnedest to keep his eyes open while Elf plays on the television screen.
I look around at the off-white walls and sparse secondhand furniture in our two-bedroom place. Jax was two when we moved in, and he and I have shared a room ever since.
I wonder what Zan Macklin’s room—what his house—must be like. Especially tonight. To the right of our couch, there’s a sorry excuse for a prelit Christmas tree with two measly newspaper-wrapped gift boxes underneath. An image pops into my head of a massive pine, taller than double my five-feet-six-inch height, and draped with twinkling lights and crystal ornaments and jammed with so many wrapped boxes underneath, it looks like it’s shedding gifts instead of pine needles….
And Zan Macklin standing over it all trying to decide what to open first.
Ugh.