by Jamie Pacton
Sofie makes a sympathetic noise.
I go on. “I swear, he was fine until he went to that stupid Future Investor’s Club of America camp in Manhattan last summer. He broke up with me the day he got home.”
“But he gave you no reason why?” says Sofie.
An unwelcome tear rolls down my face. Dammit. I’m so tired of crying over Holden. “He said he wanted to experience the world and date other people, that I didn’t see him for who he really was, and that I was holding him back. I thought he loved me, but—”
My voice breaks as I say it. Holden’s admission that my love wasn’t enough for him still hurts like a broken bone. I’ve had time to let it set, but there’s a deep ache that marks how I’ve been changed.
How can love be there one moment and gone the next? Did I miss the signs? I still have no idea, and I hate that I’m still asking myself these questions two months later.
I mean, I’m a girl who likes puppies, dorky romantic movies, babysitting kids, reading until dawn, and laughing too loudly. Or I was that girl. Lately, I just feel like this sad sack of a human who can’t get past an already-done relationship.
I’m so over feeling sad, but I can’t quite get over Holden.
Ugh.
I bury my head in my hands and groan. “See my previous comment about not dating until I’m thirty.”
“I’m sorry, Jane,” says Sofie. “I wish I was there to give you a hug and throw eggs at Holden. Bran, hug Jane for me.” She opens her arms like she’s hugging me.
“You’re a delight,” I say, blowing her a kiss.
Bran gives me a hug, and I lean into it, grateful for his steady friendship and the fact that Sofie is cool with me being best friends with her boyfriend and that it’s not weird between us when he does things like hug me.
“Okay, okay,” says Bran, once he releases me from the hug. “Lunchtime is almost over; let’s forget about the worst of all possible humans, Holden, and talk about the money.”
“What money?” I ask, trying to sound casual and not give myself away. My voice quavers, though, as I say it, and I can’t help but glimpse toward my backpack like an ax murderer who’s trying not to reveal where the bodies are buried.
I can’t show my friends the winning ticket because who knows how they’d react. The last thing I need is for them to get weird because I’m now worth $58 million.
“The lotto money, silly,” says Sofie. “Bran texted me about it hours ago. Can you believe it? Somebody in your teeny-tiny town won millions of dollars!”
“I wonder who it is?” asks Bran, taking a bite of his sandwich.
Sofie shrugs. “Whoever it is, they’re so lucky. If I had that much money, I’d drop out of school immediately and buy a villa in Europe.”
“I’d use it to take you both somewhere really nice,” says Bran. “Somewhere special like Cirque du Soleil in Las Vegas.”
Sofie and I both crack up at the same time.
“If you had that much money,” she says, “you’d take us on a vacation to the tropics, not Vegas.”
“Fair point,” says Bran. “If we’re taking this vacation, I suppose I’d have to buy a private jet or something.”
“You couldn’t buy a private jet with that money,” declares a smug voice from behind me.
I whip around, my body responding to that voice with a surge of loathing, lust, and lost-love ache that I’m still trying to untangle.
Holden Jones walks up to our table, hands in his pockets. Ever fashionable these days, he’s wearing an Armani T-shirt, form-fitting jeans that make me want to weep a little, and a gray wool coat that likely cost more than a car payment. Since he got back from FICA (or, as I like to call it, The Wolf of Wall Street) camp, he’s been reading GQ religiously and working extra hours at his dad’s hardware store to buy expensive clothes.
Gross, right?
Not the designer clothes—because look good if you want, that’s fine—but Holden’s new stockbroker, dude-bro aspirations are too much. If he’d been like this when we were dating, I like to think I would’ve dumped him.
Even as that thought rises, I can’t help but notice that despite how much he’s changed, he’s still gorgeous. Curse his stupid romance-novel-guy, shoulder-length black hair, his annoying deep-blue eyes, the not-adorable-at-all smattering of freckles across his cheeks, and his oh-so-familiar hands that know their way around my body so well.
He used to be funny. And smart. And kind.
And he used to make me feel different from anyone I’ve ever met.
And …
Ugh.
I think I hate him now almost as much as I thought I loved him. When he first joined Ecology Club two years ago, I thought I’d have to spend the entire time pretending not to like him. But then he was into me, and we were a thing. I miss being a part of us so much sometimes.
Holden scoots himself onto the picnic bench beside me, entirely too close for comfort. I bump him off.
“We broke up,” I remind him. “I got the friend group in the divorce.”
He laughs. “But you said, ‘Let’s stay friends,’ so here I am, friend.”
“Nope,” I say, shoving him farther off the bench. “Go sit over there if you must.” I point to the other side of the table.
Bran gives him a poisonous look, but onscreen, Sofie waves as Holden sits down. She’s by far nicer than Bran and I combined.
“So,” Holden continues, “as I was saying, you can’t buy a private jet with $58 million. Or you could, but if you take a one-time payout, after taxes, you’re looking at, like, thirty million dollars. Private jets start near ten million, so after you fill it with gas a few times, find a crew, and pay airport fees, I bet you could get from Madison to London and home again, and then you’re out of money.”
“How do you know that?” I ask. Apparently, this white-guy mansplaining is a part of Holden’s new personality too. Fun.
“I looked it up,” says Holden. “At FICA camp, my roommate’s family had a private jet. He took me on it on the weekend when we flew from New York to Charleston to see his grandparents. After that, I researched all about how much it costs to have one, for when I’ve got my own someday.”
I roll my eyes.
Bran and Sofie both start talking at once, arguing with Holden about the actual costs of owning a private jet. Which is hilarious, since we’re all not-rich kids who are hoping for college scholarships.
“Hey!” says Sofie suddenly. “Jane didn’t tell us what she’d do with the lotto money.”
“Yeah,” Holden chimes in. “What would you do with the money, Fortuna Jane?”
His eyes sparkle like the Pacific Ocean, and, I swear, I’ve never hated anyone so much. Seriously, in that moment when he uses my full name, I feel like a superhero whose nemesis has finally been revealed.
I tear my eyes away from his and fiddle with the strings of my hoodie. “Well, Holden Haden Jones—”
Bran snorts, and I shoot him a grateful look.
“I’m not sure what I’d do if I won that much money. I’m willing to bet winning the lottery brings nothing but trouble to the winners.”
“That’s true,” says Bran. “Did you know there’s something called the ‘lottery winner’s curse’?”
Everyone stares at him, and I file the information into my shit-to-look-up-later-about-the-lottery mental list.
Bran goes on. “I researched it this morning. A huge number of people who win the lotto actually end up brutally murdered by their loved ones.”
“Well, that’s depressing, Bran,” says Sofie.
Holden fixes me with a look. “And Jane still didn’t tell us what she’d do with the money if she won.”
I think about the orange Mega-Wins ticket I’m using as a bookmark. What will I do with it? Besides hide it for the next two weeks until I’m old enough to cash it.
“I have no idea,” I admit. It feels good to be honest about something today.
The bell rings, and Holden gets up without s
aying goodbye.
As he walks away, Sofie gives me a small smile. “I know you’ve got to go, but Jane, you should know, you can do so much better than Holden. And I’m here if you ever need to chat.”
“I know I can,” I agree. “And thank you.”
Bran and Sofie say goodbye (promising to FaceTime each other later, when they have more privacy, eww).
Bran hangs up the phone, and we start to walk back toward school.
“You okay?” He’s been asking me that nearly every minute of every day since Holden dumped me. It’s endearing and annoying in equal measure.
I shrug. “Totally fine. Just having a strange day because of this lotto stuff.”
“I think the whole town feels your pain,” says Bran. “See you at work tonight?”
I work at the pumpkin farm Bran’s family owns. “I’m off tonight. Plus, it’s a Big Junk Dump day tomorrow, so I’m sure you’ll see me around town.”
Big Junk Dump day (a painfully regrettable name, I know) or BJD day happens twice a month. It’s a day where everyone hauls old TVs, high chairs, broken coffee tables, boxes, and everything in between to the curb. Lots of people will pick up the occasional item off the curb, but my mom—a woman who’s made it her mission in life to save other people’s memories—lives for Big Junk Dump day.
Tonight, Mom will force me into an evening of pawing through whatever’s been left on the curb. Talk about a fun bonding activity. Or a way to up my high-school cool points. I mean, thanks to Mom, I actually got nominated last year as the future senior “Most Likely to Be Seen Going through Somebody Else’s Trash.” A sobriquet the yearbook editor vetoed, but still. What a claim to fame.
“Call me if you need anything tonight,” Bran says. “Maybe we can get you out of BJD somehow.” Bran has strong opinions about my mom, but he’s also a good-enough friend not to get into them at school.
“You’re a wonderful human—thank you.” I smile at him and then the lunchtime warning bell rings. We only have two minutes before our next class.
“This ticket is going to change everything around here,” Bran calls out over his shoulder as he rushes toward his class. “I can feel it!”
He’s absolutely right. And I’m so ready for a change. Somehow, I’m going to cash this ticket, get my mom some help, take myself on a vacation, and get over Holden Jones at last.
CHAPTER THREE
THE REST OF THE DAY IS A BLUR. I MAKE IT THROUGH MY CLASSES and manage to remember the Ecology Club meeting after school. As I walk through halls filled with students still gossiping about the ticket, I keep my head down. It’s all I can do not to shout, “I WON THE LOTTO! IT’S ME YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT! JUST STOP ALREADY.”
What would the other students do if I did shout that? Call me a liar? Rip my backpack apart to find the ticket? What is it they say—we’re all three days to becoming animals in disaster situations? How much more quickly do we descend when huge amounts of money are at stake?
“I wonder how anyone could keep this a secret?” says a blond girl in a Green Bay Packers sweatshirt. My school isn’t huge, but I don’t know her or her group of friends.
“Excuse me,” I mutter, as I push through the knot of their bodies. They’re all clustered by the water fountain and blocking the hallway.
All the girls stare at me, and one whispers, “That’s her. Holden’s ex.”
As if I didn’t have a name. For so long, I was known as “Holden’s girlfriend” around school; now I’m destined to be “Holden’s ex.” Ugh.
“Why did he date her for so long?” The first girl’s incredulous tone makes me want to hit her.
Because I’m funny, and cute, and smart, and really good at kissing, I want to shout. At least those are the things Holden used to tell me.
Honestly, though, I’m not even sure those things are true anymore. I mean, of course they are on some objective level, and my self-esteem isn’t so low that I really think I’m worthless.
Fuck, though. Sometimes I struggle to remember who I am outside of the couple Holden and I were.
“I hate what she did with her hair,” says another girl in the group.
I chopped off all my hair the night of the breakup, giving myself a horrifying mullet that Bran helped me fix by shaving my head. Two months later, it’s still super short, and I adore it.
“Why did she even do that?” asks the first girl. “It’s hideous.”
I did it because Holden liked my long hair but not me anymore. And because I needed to feel like I was in control of something. And mostly because I always cut my hair when I want to scream.
I take a deep, steadying breath, come out of my morose thoughts, and turn around. “Oh, get a life,” I say to the girl. “My hair is cute, and girls shouldn’t bring other girls down like this. Life is hard enough for women. Don’t make it worse by commenting negatively about every female body you see. Let me know if you want some book recommendations about that, and have a gorgeous day.”
And flounce.
The girl’s mouth drops open. I walk away, unable to stop the grin that spreads across my face as I head to my favorite place in the school: Mrs. Davis’s biology classroom.
MRS. DAVIS’S CLASSROOM SMELLS LIKE WHITEBOARD MARKERS, SWEATY students, and a bit of biology funk that’s decaying leaves with overtones of formaldehyde. Ecology Club starts in ten minutes, but the room is empty when I walk in—though I can hear Mrs. Davis in the teacher’s office that’s connected to the back of the classroom. Setting my backpack on the closest desk, I breathe in deeply, as if I can take the quiet and calm into myself, letting it fill me like water racing into a tide pool. To keep myself from stewing about Holden or the benightedness of some high-school girls, I focus on yesterday, when I bought the lotto ticket.
It’s not like I intended to buy it when I walked into Wanda’s Quick-Go Shop—or even thought I could. Sure, I’d tried to buy a ticket before at Wanda’s, but Wanda or her wife, Mary Anne, always carded everyone who looked under eighteen. No exceptions. No questions asked. Those were the rules, and we all knew them.
Except yesterday was my dead dad’s birthday and the two-month anniversary of Holden dumping me. So, no. I wasn’t thinking of the rules. Or Wanda and Mary Anne. Or getting in trouble for buying a ticket. I was thinking about how in love my parents used to be. And how Mom, Dad, and I would go to my dad’s favorite seafood restaurant every year on his birthday. And how I haven’t eaten seafood since he died five years ago.
Knowing our fridge was probably empty at home, I’d stopped by Wanda’s for an after-soccer-practice snack. I wore sweats, a hoodie emblazoned with our school mascot (Go, Honey Badgers!), and a light-pink jacket. I even had on my backpack, so I definitely looked like a student. But there was someone new working the counter at Wanda’s. It was some middle-aged guy who kept pressing the wrong button on the register. His face got redder with each messed-up transaction, and he swore under his breath.
“Sorry, sorry,” he’d call out, as he mis-rang another item. “Work with me here; I’m new. Wanda is out running some errands. She’ll be back soon.”
As I shuffled forward in the long line of customers snaking through the store—some truck drivers, some parents with whining little kids, but no one from my school—I glanced up at the sign above the register: Today’s Jackpot: $58,642,129.
That’s a lot of money, I remember thinking. A ridiculous amount.
And then—and I’m about the least mystical person around, truly—I swear I had the clearest sense that I should buy a lotto ticket. Just one. Just because.
Maybe it was my dad nudging me from the Great Beyond. Maybe it was me wanting to break a rule. Whatever it was, when it was my turn to pay for my items, I stepped up to the register confidently.
“Is this all?” asked the flustered clerk. He didn’t look up at me but gestured instead at my bag of pretzels, my juice, and the two frozen burritos on the counter (dinner for Mom and me).
“All this and a Mega-Wins ticket,” I said
, making my voice assured and breezy.
Still not looking at me, the clerk pushed some buttons on the lotto-ticket machine. It spit out an orange ticket. The clerk pushed the ticket across the counter toward me.
6 28 19 30 82.
I stared at the numbers on the ticket, feeling vaguely disappointed that I had a ticket with a bunch of random digits on it, when I could’ve done something symbolic, like played my dad’s birthday—10/13/77—or his death day—8/17/16—or something else, but I didn’t say anything because making a fuss might’ve made the clerk take a closer look at me. Or remember that minors weren’t supposed to buy lotto tickets.
“That’ll be nine dollars and ninety-two cents,” said the clerk.
“Keep the change,” I said, quickly handing over a ten-dollar bill and turning around with the lotto ticket still in my hand.
I stepped out of the way so a dad with a crying toddler in his arms could pay for his items, and then I stuffed all the food into my backpack. With one more glance at the ticket, I whispered under my breath, “Okay, universe. I bought a lotto ticket; let’s see what comes next.”
Never taunt the universe, right?
“Ahhh, Jane,” says Mrs. Davis, walking into the biology classroom from her office. She’s a spry woman in her early sixties. Today, she’s wearing her customary socks and Birkenstocks, a T-shirt with wolves on it, and silver spiders dangle from her ears. She’s totally old-lady-eco-warrior goals.
“Hi, Mrs. Davis,” I say with a small smile. “How are you?”
“Damn tired of all these students not paying attention in my class because they’re all abuzz about this lottery nonsense. How are you?”
I slump into one of the closest desks. “Just damn tired, if I’m being honest.”
Mrs. Davis gives me a shrewd look. “Too much studying?”
I snort, then try to make it sound like a cough. “Yep, that’s it.”
I suspect she wants to ask me more about how things are at home, or to ask about Holden.
But she doesn’t do either of those things, which is lovely of her.