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. “Get your shit together!”
“Uhh…you all right in there?” comes a voice from outside the stall.
Oops.