Jackpot
Page 1
ALSO BY NIC STONE
Dear Martin
Odd One Out
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2019 by Andrea Livingstone
Cover art copyright © 2019 by Dennis Brown
Excerpt from Dear Martin copyright © 2017 by Andrea Livingstone
Excerpt from Odd One Out copyright © 2018 by Andrea Livingstone
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Crown Books for Young Readers, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
Crown and the colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Visit us on the Web! GetUnderlined.com
Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at RHTeachersLibrarians.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 9781984829627 (trade) — ISBN 9781984829634 (lib. bdg.) — ebook ISBN 9781984829641
Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.
v5.4
ep
Contents
Cover
Also by Nic Stone
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter 1: Mo NO Money, Mo Problems
Chapter 2: Merry Friggin’ Christmas
Chapter 3: The Wrong Ticket
A Word from the Right Ticket
Chapter 4: Bonus!
Chapter 5: A Terrible Idea
Chapter 6: Swing for the Fences
A Word from the List Rico Made a Couple Days Ago and Then Threw Away
Chapter 7: Can’t Hack It
Chapter 8: Didn’t Start the Fire
Chapter 9: Hard-Knock Life
Chapter 10: Checker Cab
Chapter 11: Bye-Bye, Benjamins
A Word from the Benjamins
Chapter 12: Good for Him
Chapter 13: Ask Nicely
Chapter 14: Beau
A Word from Beau Wilcox’s (Former) Taxi
Chapter 15: Jessica Barlow
Chapter 16: A Bit Much
A Word from Alexander Macklin’s 1,200-Thread-Count Egyptian Cotton Sheets
Chapter 17: Two-Bit Floozy
Chapter 18: Victorious Faith
A Word from a Waffle House Saltshaker
Chapter 19: PSM Basketball
Chapter 20: Cookies
Chapter 21: Happy Friggin’ Birthday
A Word from Jaxon Daniel Danger’s Red Lego Robot
Chapter 22: The Doctor
Chapter 23: Circle Yes or No
A Word from Ethel Streeter’s House (Because It Really Is Ethel Streeter’s House)
Chapter 24: Brazen Bitch(es)
Chapter 25: P.W.T.
Chapter 26: Eye of the Storm
A Word from Zan’s Fidget Spinner
Chapter 27: Macklin’d
Chapter 28: Baby Mama Drama
A Word from the Potbelly Stove That Made the Kitchen in the Decatur House So Adorable
Chapter 29: Mr. Dover
Chapter 30: Right on Time
Chapter 31: Bartholomew
Another Word from the Right Ticket
Chapter 32: The Breakdown
Chapter 33: Hear Ye, Hear Ye
A Word from the Dress
Chapter 34: Breaking and Exiting
A Word from Alexander Gustavo Macklin
Chapter 35: Happy Friggin’ Birthday (Again)
Chapter 36: Jackpot
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Excerpt from Dear Martin
Excerpt from Odd One Out
For Mama. Thank you for your hard work.
Friendship and money: oil and water.
—Mario Puzo
Oh, the irony of counting out change for a fifty-dollar bill while “Mo Money, Mo Problems” plays in the background. “Sir, I’m out of tens and twenties,” I say. “I’ll have to give you fives and singles…is that okay?”
It has to be, obviously.
The man smiles and nods enthusiastically. “Perfectly fine,” he says, dusting off the lapels of his (expensive-looking) suit. “Matter of fact, keep a couple of those singles and give me a Mighty Millions ticket with the Mightyplier thing. I’ll slide a few of the other dollars into the Salvation Army bucket out front.”
Despite my desire to snort—I know one shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, but based on the Mercedes-Benz key fob lying on the counter, I’d say this guy doesn’t need two hundred and twelve million more dollars—I force the corners of my mouth to lift. “That’s very generous of you, sir.” Barf. “Nothing like a cheerful giver!”
The man takes his $43.74 in change, then grabs his mechanically separated meat stick and bottle of neon-green Powerade. “Thanks so much”—he looks at my name tag—“Rico?”
“That’s me!” I chirp.
“Hmm. Interesting name for a cute girl such as yourself. And what interesting eyes you have…two different browns!” Now he’s winking.
Oh God.
“Thank you, sir. And thank you for shopping at the Gas ’n’ Go.”
He tosses a Merry Christmas! over the checkout counter before rotating on the heel of his fancy shoe and strutting out like he just won the lotto.
Merry Christmas. Pfffft. Not much real “merry” about a ten-hour shift on Christmas Eve. It’ll almost be Christmas when I walk out of this joint…and then I get to spend thirty minutes walking home since the one public bus in this town stopped running hours ago. Good thing the crime rate in (s)Nor(e)cross, GA, is relatively low and it’s not that cold out.
I look at my Loki watch—a birthday gift from my baby brother, Jax, that I never leave home without despite how childish it makes me look. Ninety-seven minutes to freedom.
“It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year” comes pouring out of the speakers (note to self: ask Mr. Zoughbi who the heck made this playlist), and I drop down onto my stool and put my chin in my hand. Truth be told, the influx of holiday cheer really has been a nice reprieve. Seems like every day there’s a new political scandal or gun attack or government-sanctioned act of inhumanity or threat of nuclear war, but then Thanksgiving hit, and it felt like a collective exhale.
The bell over the door dings, snapping me back, and the cutest little old lady I’ve ever seen makes her way toward the counter. She’s tiny—definitely under five feet and maybe ninety pounds soaking wet—with dark brown skin and a little pouf of white hair. The Christmas tree on her sweater has real lights, and when I smile this time, it’s for real.
“Welcome to Gas ’n’ Go,” I say as she steps up to the counter.
“Why, thank you, dear. Aren’t you just lovely?”
Cheeks are warm. “Well, you’re looking pretty lovely yourself, madam,” I reply.
She giggles.
“I mean it. That’s a gorgeous sweater.”
“Oh, you stop that,” she says. “And anyhow, shouldn’t you be at home with your f
amily? Take it from an old bird: you don’t wanna work your life away, now.”
I smile again. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll be blowing this Popsicle stand in a little over an hour.”
“Good.” She nods approvingly.
“So how can I help you on this cool Christmas Eve?”
She leans forward over the counter a bit, and I’m drawn toward her like a magnet. “Well, I was on my way to church, and between you and me”—she pauses to peek over her shoulder—“I happened to look up as we passed one of those billboards that show the Mighty Millions jackpot. You know what I’m talkin’ about?”
I nod. Drop my voice to a near-whisper so it matches hers. “Two hundred and twelve million, right?”
“That’s what the billboard said. I wasn’t gonna play this time, but then I saw your station loom up on the left, and…well, it felt like a sign. So I decided to stop.”
Now I’m really smiling. This is the kind of person I would love to see win.
“How old are you, sweet pea?” she asks.
“I’m seventeen, ma’am.”
“That’s about what I thought. You remind me of my granddaughter. She’s in her third year at Florida A&M University.”
I feel my smile sag, so I look away and pretend to do something behind the counter. Really hoping she doesn’t ask about my (nonexistent) college plans. I’d rather not deal with another adult customer’s judgy raised eyebrow when I explain that instead of college, I’ll accept the management position I’ve been offered here at Gas ’n’ Go, and continue to help support my family.
When I turn back to her, she’s rifling around in her purse.
“Thought I had a photo somewhere, but I guess not.” She shuts the bag and smiles at me. “What were we talkin’ about?”
“Umm…your granddaughter?”
“No, no.” With a wave. “Before that. I’ve got a nasty case of CRS lately….”
“CRS?”
She leans forward and lowers her voice again. “Cain’t Remember Shit.”
And now I’m really smiling again. Laughing, actually.
“I’m serious, now!” she says. “Where were we?”
“You were about to purchase a Mighty Millions ticket.”
“Oh yes, that’s right! Let’s do that.”
I step over to the machine. “Do you have specific numbers you’d like to play?”
“I do! Been playing the same ones since 1989.” She calls them out, and as the ticket prints, I stop breathing: three of her white-ball numbers—06, 29, 01—make up my birth date. And her Mighty Ball number is 07. Which is supposed to be lucky, right?
“You’ve got my birthday on here!” tumbles out before I can stop it. Frankly, I do my best not to pay attention to the lottery at all. Mama’s been obsessed with the idea of winning for as long as I can remember, but after years of watching her make sure she had a dollar for a ticket and continuing to cling to this impossible hope while our finances literally crumbled around her (no doubt she bought at least one for this jackpot cycle)…
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….