I shake my head. Primarily to express disagreement, but also to keep from crying. “It’s too risky,” I say. “If he pushes the sale back, we could miss the cutoff for claiming the prize.”
He sighs and drops his head. “Rico, we can’t break into a stranger’s storage unit—”
“She’s hardly a stranger,” I say. “We searched for this woman for months.”
“So now we have a right to go through her stuff? It’s breaking and entering.”
What’s his problem? “Why are you making it sound so criminal? We’re looking for a lottery ticket, not committing burglary.”
He sighs then. “God, I thought we were done with this.” Runs his hands down his face.
Exasperated. And patronizing.
I know the look and the feeling: it’s the same one I used to give Jax when he’d get pushy about us buying something at the store he knew we couldn’t afford (Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough Ben & Jerry’s, anyone?).
Something inside me snaps. “You don’t get it, do you?”
He doesn’t respond.
“God, what am I saying? Of course you don’t get it.”
“What are you talking about, Rico?”
“Need, Zan. You’ve never lacked anything, so you don’t know what it’s like to be in NEED.”
His lips pinch shut.
“Is it that hard to understand?” I say. “My family NEEDS that money.”
“Okay, bu—”
“Jax’s hospital bill was over three hundred thousand dollars. Yeah, there are programs to help, but my mom will still have to file for bankruptcy. We were struggling to make ends meet before, so there’s no way we can work out of a hole that deep.”
“What about your insurance?”
“We don’t have insurance, Zan.”
All the color drains from his face.
“I get that this whole thing’s been a game for you, but for me, it’s the difference between having somewhere to live and being homeless.”
“That’s a little extreme, Rico.”
I sigh. “It’s not, Macklin. We’re behind on the rent. Totally missed it last month with Jax in the hospital, four days late and going to miss it this month too. Mama missed March too.” She was short because she took us on that stupid trip. “We got an eviction notice two days ago. My mom lost one of her jobs because she was spending so much time at the hospital.”
Also lost fifteen pounds, some of her hair, and a decent portion of her will to go on.
When he finally opens his mouth to speak again, I’m expecting him to ask why I didn’t tell him. Righteous indignation of Alexander Gustavo Macklin, prince rescuer of the damsel in distress.
But he doesn’t. “Is that what this has been about since the beginning?”
“What?”
“Helping your mom.” He looks at me. “You pulled me into this under the guise of doing a good deed for an old lady. Has it always been about getting what you need?”
Not sure what to say to that. I guess in the beginning, it was about Ethel, but if I said I never thought about what could be in it for me, I’d be lying. How would I have felt if we’d found her, and she’d thanked us, collected her winnings, and ridden off into the sunset without looking back?
Does it even matter now?
“A lot has changed since we started this. Whatever my initial motives were or weren’t, Ethel Streeter is gone. That ticket can’t do her any good now, but it can help me and my family. I’ve lived in a shelter before, and I’m not going back. If you don’t want to help, you’re free to go.” I roll the hairpin between my fingertips and stare down at the lock.
In my peripheral, I see him reach into his pocket, and I can’t resist looking to see what he’s taking out.
His wallet.
Unbelievable.
“I’m not taking your money, Zan. That’s not how this works. Don’t insult me by offering.”
He ignores me, opens it, and reaches into the slot that holds cash.
I look away. “I’m serious. I swear if you offer, I’ll never speak to you again.”
What he sticks into my line of sight, though, isn’t green.
It’s white.
It’s got watermarks of peaches, and a peach-colored strip running down its left side. There are words and numbers—slightly faded—printed on it in black ink.
Six numbers to be exact.
17
06
46
01
29
07
Same ones I memorized months ago.
I can’t move.
“Take it,” he says.
There is absolutely no way.
“Zan, why do you have that?”
“I’m really asking myself the same question.”
Smartass.
“How did you get it?”
He doesn’t answer so I look up. (Old habits die hard.)
“I bought it,” he says.
He’s still holding it out, so I zoom in on it again. “I don’t understand.”
“As I mentioned when we were house-hunting, I turned eighteen on Christmas Eve. I’m actually surprised you didn’t pick up on it then. That I could have it.”
No words.
“I wanted to commemorate my birthday by buying something I couldn’t have gotten the day before. Couldn’t bring myself to purchase cigarettes or get a tattoo. So I bought a lottery ticket.”
No. Words.
“Mr. Z sold it to me while you were hiding in the bathroom. Honestly forgot about the thing until that day you pulled me aside in the cafeteria. I went home and checked the numbers before I met you at the park.”
Can’t breathe now.
“Are you gonna take it?”
“You’ve had it this whole time?”
He sighs. Runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah. I have.”
Stay calm, Rico. “What were you gonna do if we found Ethel Streeter?”
“I was gonna give it to her,” he says. “If she was really in need and seemed like she could handle it—”