Windfall

by Jennifer E. Smith

  “Yeah, but what does that mean?”

  “It means we’ll see.”

  “Right, but—”

  “It means,” he says, “that I don’t really know. Maybe it’ll be good or maybe it won’t. Maybe it’ll all blow up again once we’re apart next year. Maybe he’ll break up with me, or I’ll break up with him. Maybe we’ll live happily ever after. Or maybe we won’t.” He shrugs. “I’m taking your advice and trying to pretend there isn’t any sort of scoreboard. Which means it doesn’t make sense to worry about it so much. Instead I’m just gonna try to live it and see how that goes.”

  I nod. “Well, I have a good feeling about it.”

  “Weirdly enough,” he says with a smile, “so do I. And since I’m attempting to be more positive and operating under the assumption that I’m going to be spending more time in the Show Me State next year, I decided I’m gonna pick up some extra design work this summer so I can start saving for a car.”

  “You’re going to be spending more time in Missouri?”

  He frowns at me. “Michigan.”

  “I’m pretty sure the Show Me State is Missouri,” I say, trying not to laugh, and he rolls his eyes.

  “You don’t have to be right about everything, you know.”

  “Just geography,” I say agreeably. “And your love life.”

  As we near Teddy’s building I look up toward his bedroom window.

  “I wonder how long this will take. I’m supposed to be at the soup kitchen later.”

  “I think you’ll be fine,” Leo says. “We’re talking about the guy who set the record for the shortest oral report in South Lake High School history.”

  “Ah, yes,” I say, trying not to laugh. “His four-second presentation on the subject of brevity. That was a classic.”

  When we reach the door Leo pushes the buzzer, then we both stand back and wait for Teddy’s usual hullo to crackle out over the speaker. Instead there’s a burst of static, then a voice, brisk and only vaguely familiar: “May I ask who’s calling?”

  Leo and I exchange a mystified look. He leans forward again, his mouth close to the speaker. “Teddy?”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s, uh, Leo. And Alice.”

  “Welcome,” Teddy says, his tone changing into something a bit more cheerful, but still no less formal. “Thank you both for coming. Even though you didn’t RSVP.”

  “Oops,” I say as Leo jabs the button again.

  “Are you planning to let us up?” he asks, and as an answer, the buzzer drones loudly and the lock on the door clicks.

  “Maybe the money’s finally made him eccentric,” I say as we trudge up the four flights of stairs. When we reach the top, it’s to find the door to number eleven propped open with a chair. Inside, Teddy is standing in the living room in a neat black suit and striped green tie. He’s wearing glasses, though he has perfect vision, and there’s a pencil stuck behind one ear. He looks like someone playing the part of Businessman #2 in an old movie.

  He also looks incredibly handsome.

  “Sorry, was this supposed to be a formal presentation?” Leo asks, half-joking, but Teddy looks him over with a serious expression, taking in his sneakers and jeans.

  “I suppose that’ll do,” he says, like some sort of robotic butler.

  I glance over at the living room, where three blue binders are sitting on the coffee table, as if in preparation for a standardized test. Beside each, there are two neatly arranged pens and two sweating glasses of water on coasters. There’s also a blank whiteboard propped on an easel in front of the TV and a fat black marker resting in the tray below.

  “What’s going on?” I ask, turning back to Teddy, who gestures in the direction of the couch in an overly grand and strangely formal way.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he says, though there are only two of us in the room with him. “Shall we begin?”

  Teddy is clearly in his element.

  Here in this living room that appears to be doubling as a boardroom, beneath this odd costume of his—the crisp suit and proper mannerisms—he’s all shiny-eyed intensity and barely concealed enthusiasm.

  “As you know,” he begins, looking at us from over the rim of his fake glasses, “I’ve recently come into a lot of money.”

  “Yes,” Leo says with a groan. “We know.”

  “Can you please take off those glasses?” I say, squinting at Teddy. “They’re kind of distracting.”

  He pulls them off with a sigh, twirling them between two fingers. “And I’ve been trying to figure out what to do with it.”

  “Quite the burden,” Leo says, looking pointedly around the room, which is littered with Teddy’s recent purchases: an enormous LED TV, a brand-new sound system, a portable grill, and an authentic-looking samurai sword.

  “I realize,” Teddy says, following Leo’s gaze, “that I haven’t been the world’s most responsible person so far. And I know you guys think I haven’t been taking this seriously enough.”

  He pauses, as if hoping one of us might disagree. But when nobody says anything, he continues.

  “Look,” he says, raking a hand through his hair. “It took me a while to figure this out. There’s no way to prepare for this sort of thing. When someone hands you a pile of money, you expect it to be all rainbows and lollipops.”

  “In fairness,” I say, jabbing a thumb at the kitchen, where there are several boxes of bulk candy stacked on the counter, “you did buy an awful lot of lollipops.”

  Teddy smiles ruefully. “You know what I mean.”

  “I do,” I agree, meeting his eyes.

  “What I’m trying to say is that I don’t exactly know what I’m doing. But I know I want to be better. I don’t just want to be Teddy McAvoy: millionaire. And I don’t want to be famous for not doing anything. I don’t want to be the guy everyone’s friends with because they want something from him.” He bows his head and fidgets with his tie. “And I don’t want people coming back into my life just because of the money. I didn’t expect all that. I didn’t sign up for it.”

  “Teddy,” I say softly, but he shakes his head.

  “I just…I want all this to mean something, you know?” His eyes find mine again, and this time it takes a few seconds for him to look away. “I want it to count.”

  On the wall behind him there are dozens of pictures in mismatched frames, a literal museum of his childhood. Looking from left to right is like watching a slide show, seeing Teddy grow into the version standing before us now: broad-shouldered and square-jawed, more serious than he was just a few months ago, with some of that old swagger gone, replaced by a sincerity that might’ve seemed out of place before all this, and that makes me love him even more.

  “The thing is,” he says, “I think I’ve been looking at this the wrong way. Like it was this crazy prize I won. But it’s not. It’s a gift, yeah. But it’s also a burden. And I’m not saying that to be dramatic. Or because I want any sympathy. Because I don’t. It’s just that sometimes it can be really hard. It’s like—it’s like pulling a huge rock around. All the time. And I don’t want to do that anymore.”

  Leo is looking at him with interest. “So what do you want to do?”

  “Well,” Teddy says, trying and failing to conceal a grin. He’s talking to both of us, but he’s only looking at me. “That’s the thing. I want to smash the rock into millions of pieces. And then give most of those pieces away.”

  I laugh, partly out of surprise and partly out of relief. It’s been weeks since our middle-of-the-night conversation in San Francisco, and he hasn’t mentioned it since. So when I opened the envelope this morning, I didn’t want to believe this could be it. I didn’t want to get my hopes up. But now I shake my head, grinning right back at him.

  “That’s a lot of pieces,” I say, and his smile widens.

  Leo pushes his glasses up on his nose, considering it. The clock is ticking too loudly, and the dishwasher switches off with a hum, and Teddy is watching him closely, waiting for
him to say something, because Leo is the one who can always tell whether an idea is crazy or brilliant.

  “I mean, who needs a rock that big anyway?” he says at last, and Teddy lets out a breath.

  “So…do you have a plan?” I ask, almost afraid to know the answer, but he sticks the pencil behind his ear again, claps his hands once, then points to the binders.

  “Yes,” he says with a little smirk, the same one he gets when I question whether he actually did his homework or studied for a test. “I have a plan.” His overly professional voice returns. “If you’ll please turn to page one.”

  “Teddy,” we both say at the same time, and he laughs, immediately breaking character.

  “Okay, okay,” he says, holding up his hands. “I’ll just tell you. Even though I spent basically all of last week at the library putting those things together.”

  “You went to a library?” Leo asks in mock astonishment. “Is it still standing?”

  “I went to the post office too,” Teddy says proudly. “And the bank, and the accountant’s office…”

  “Everywhere but school,” I point out.

  “I had bigger fish to fry. Which brings me to the chicken lady.”

  Leo frowns. “I’m lost.”

  “I still don’t think you should be calling her that,” I say to Teddy, who waves this away with an air of impatience.

  “How about some quiet from the peanut gallery?”

  “Peanuts, chicken, fish,” says Leo. “Now I’m hungry.”

  “There’s like fifty pounds of bulk candy in the kitchen,” I remind him.

  Teddy sighs. “Do you guys want to hear my idea or what?”

  “Yes,” I say, laughing. “Tell us.”

  And so Teddy explains to Leo what happened in San Francisco, about the impulsive tip he left for the woman at the farmers market, the way it felt to walk away knowing that money would make a difference in someone’s life, all those things he told me so breathlessly later that same night.

  He’s pacing as he talks, scuffing his shiny shoes on the floor, tapping his pencil against the palm of his hand. But this isn’t the same Teddy who burst into my room a few weeks ago. It’s clear that this isn’t one of his usual schemes. It’s no wild idea or half-baked plan. This is no longer just a whim.

  As I listen to him rattle off a speech that sounds surprisingly like a business pitch, I realize he’s not just making it up as he goes along. It’s obvious he’s given this a lot of thought, that he’s put a surprising amount of time and energy into it.

  For once, he’s not relying on charm. He’s actually done the work.

  “I want to start small,” Teddy is saying, “with just the three of us. But eventually the idea would be to really grow this thing. To have a small army of people doing good deeds across the city, maybe even across the country.”

  “What,” Leo asks, “like a tipping task force?”

  Teddy shakes his head. “Not just tipping. I’m thinking so much bigger than that.”

  “Random acts of kindness,” I murmur, and he swings to face me, his eyes bright with recognition.

  “Exactly. The way I see it, we’d keep an eye out for anyone who could use a little help. Nothing huge. Just if they’re having trouble paying for groceries, or could use a cup of coffee to warm up, or can’t afford a birthday gift for their kid. The idea would be to lend people a hand in small ways that could make a big difference. We’d make it a nonprofit so others could eventually donate too, but my accountant tells me the seed money could generate enough interest to keep this going for a long time, especially if we’re doling it out in small amounts. And I was thinking we could base it online so that people could write in with requests and suggestions, and…” He trails off, looking anxiously between us. “Well, I can tell you all the details later. But what do you think?”

  Leo rubs his chin, his eyes on the table, deep in thought. After a moment he reaches for his water glass and raises it in the air.

  “I think it’s incredible,” he says so earnestly that Teddy laughs, a mixture of relief and delight. Then they both turn to me, their faces expectant. So I give them the only thing I can, the only thing I know to be true, the words that have been toppling around in my head since this conversation began all those weeks ago in a darkened hotel room on the other side of the country:

  “This,” I say softly, “is going to change everything.”

  I don’t mean it the way I usually do.

  I don’t mean that change is hard or scary, though it’s definitely both.

  I mean only to say this: that sometimes, through good luck or bad, through curses or fate, the world cracks itself open, and afterward nothing will ever be the same.

  All I mean is that this seems like one of those times.

  There’s still time before my shift starts at the soup kitchen, so Teddy suggests going to the Lantern for pie.

  “To celebrate,” he says, looking at us hopefully. “And to make some plans.”

  I agree to come along, but Leo’s final paper—a critical look at the evolution of design in three of his favorite Pixar movies—is due tomorrow, so he needs to get home. As we walk him to the bus stop, he can’t stop talking about Teddy’s idea. “What if we also looked for people already doing something nice for others? Then we could reward them for that so they can do more. You know, pay it forward and all that.”

  Teddy bobs his head. “I love it.”

  “And I’ll design the website, obviously,” Leo continues. “We could even have a good deed of the week or something.” He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his notebook, flipping open to an empty page. “And cards. We should make calling cards to hand out with the money so that people who get inspired can report back on the site. And a logo! I could totally do a logo too. We just need a name.”

  “I haven’t thought of one yet,” Teddy says. “You’re the creative brains behind this operation, so I’m sort of hoping you’ll come up with something brilliant.”

  By the time we reach the stop they’ve hatched a thousand more plans, and when we part ways Leo is sitting on the metal bench, already scribbling furiously.

  At the Lantern, Teddy holds the door open for me, then pulls out my chair at the table, and I can’t tell if he’s still in fake businessman mode or he’s just being unusually polite. We order two slices of blueberry pie from our usual waitress, then he sets down his menu and gives me a long look.

  “I’m really sorry,” he says, twirling his water glass.

  “For what?”

  “For not telling you sooner. I was dying to, but I wanted it to be a surprise. And I needed to get everything sorted out first: filing the paperwork, sketching out the business plan, meeting with the accountant, working out the—”

  “Teddy,” I say. “It’s okay. I’m really proud of you.”

  The worry on his face disappears. “You are?”

  “Of course. I think it’s incredible. And I can’t believe how far you’ve taken it already.”

  He smiles at this, then lifts a hand, almost as if he’s about to reach for one of mine. But the waitress brings over our pie and he grabs his fork instead.

  “Well, you were right,” he says, tucking into his slice. “I guess I just needed to be challenged. Who knew?”

  “I did,” I say with a grin.

  He winks at me. Teddy McAvoy is the only person I know who can pull off a wink. “So you’re on board, right?”

  “With what?”

  “I want you to be involved,” he says, taking a huge bite of his pie. “Especially now that you’re gonna be here next year. I mean, I know you’ll be busy with school, but you always manage to find time for this stuff, and now we’ll get to do it together.”

  He finishes chewing and gives me a blue-tinted smile. I open my mouth to respond but realize I’m not sure what to say, and as the silence lengthens, his face falls.

  “I know I pushed you too much about taking the money,” he says. “And I’m sorry. But this
is different. It’s the kind of thing you’d have done if it was you, right?”

  When I nod, his eyes brighten again.

  “So what do you think? It could be anything you want. Program director? Chief operating officer? Global head of good deeds?”

  I open my mouth to say yes. To say of course.

  But nothing comes out.

  Instead I just stare at him, though he doesn’t seem to notice. He waves his fork around as he chews. “It’s kind of perfect, you know? I’ll do all the big-picture stuff, and Leo will handle anything creative. And you’ll be in charge of outreach, since I can’t think of anyone better suited to figuring out how to give away a whole bunch of money.”

  I take a bite of my pie, but it sticks in my throat. When I’ve finally managed to get it down, I drink half my glass of water, then lift my eyes to look at Teddy. “It sounds amazing.”

  “Great,” he says, beaming at me.

  “But I don’t think I can do it.”

  He blinks a few times. “What?”

  “I can’t do it,” I say, nearly as surprised as he is.

  “Why not?”

  As soon as it’s out there, the knot in my stomach unwinds. For some reason the image of the poster from the library flashes through my head, the one hanging in the children’s section: IT’S OKAY NOT TO KNOW. IT’S NOT OKAY NOT TO CARE.

  Teddy is still staring at me, waiting for an explanation.

  “I never learned to play the guitar,” I say, and the furrow in his brow deepens.

  “What?”

  “I always wanted to play. But I never had time to take lessons.”

  He sets his fork down, his expression still stark.

  “You know how I’ve been saying that college isn’t just about figuring out what you want to do—how it’s also about figuring out who you are?”

  He blows out an exasperated breath. “Not this again.”

  “I’m not talking about you,” I say patiently. “I’m talking about me. Do you have any idea how much time I’ve spent volunteering over the years?”

  He picks at his pie. “A lot.”

  “A lot,” I agree. “And I’m not sorry about it, because I was able to make a difference to a lot of people, and I know I did a lot of good. And I loved it. I still do. But I’m not sure my reasons were always…my own.”