Jackpot

by Nic Stone

  “It was causing a glitch in your spreadsheet software that doubled the number of bars in each box. Got it all cleaned up for ya.”

  Mr. Z puts a hand on his chest and exhales. He’s buying this BS hook, line, and sinker. “Thank you so very much, young man! And good for you catching on and calling someone, Rico.” With a pat on the back.

  I clear my throat. “It was nothing, Mr. Z. Just didn’t want you to worry.” I’m lying to my boss. “I knew my pal Zan here could figure out the issue—”

  “Wait just one moment,” Mr. Z says, and his expression morphs into something indecipherable, at least for me.

  That million-dollar Macklin smile falters.

  Ah, fiddlesticks, he’s onto us.

  “Macklin, you say?”

  Zan’s Adam’s apple bobs. “Yes, sir—”

  “You!” Zoughbi’s arms shoot into the air like torpedoes. “Here!”

  Zan looks at me (like I have any clue what’s happening?). “Umm—”

  “What a day this is!” Mr. Z goes on. “There is something you and I must discuss.”

  “Uhh. Okay?”

  “Wonderful you fixed my computer, but the customers, eh? They complain about the bathroom paper,” he says. “Perhaps you might suggest something new? Two-ply or more with quilting, perhaps? If you give it to me at cost, I’ll give your whole family a lifetime discount on cold beverages….”

  They disappear into the office, and my knees wobble with relief. No clue how long I stand there with my mouth open like an imbecile, but soon, customers are coming and going faster than I can count them. I end up sliding the box of candy bars behind the checkout counter.

  Just as we hit another lull, the office door opens. “You’re an upstanding young man, Mr. Macklin.” Mr. Zoughbi throws an arm around Zan’s shoulders and gives him a shake.

  It bothers me to no end that my successful immigrant entrepreneur boss is referring to my high school classmate as “mister.” What the hell has Alexander done to warrant that kind of respect?

  Zan looks at me. “Great doing business with you, Mr. Zoughbi,” he says, tossing a li’l winky-wink my way.

  Vomit.

  “You will bring me the samples?” Mr. Z says.

  “I will, sir. The latest and greatest in rolled sanitary paper, and you’ll be the first to see it.”

  “You hear that, Rico? First a winning Mighty Millions ticket, and now we will have the softest toilet tissue of any convenience store in the country—”

  “The world, really, sir,” Zan says.

  “THE WORLD!” Mr. Z claps and lifts his clasped hands to the heavens.

  There’s no way any of this is real.

  “I’ve gotta get going,” Zan continues. “We’ll talk soon, Mr. Zoughbi.” They shake hands, and then he comes over to me.

  “Rico, pleasure to see you as always.” He stretches out a hand for me to shake. There’s no mistaking the rascally twinkle in his eye. It’s the same look Jax gets just before bragging about getting away with something mischievous.

  When our hands touch, he presses a piece of paper against my palm…and yanks me forward. “C’mere, you.” I collide with his chest—then he’s wrapping his arms around my waist and lifting me off my feet.

  What on earth?

  He sets me back down, and I slip the note in my pocket, legitimately hot all over and so not okay with it.

  “Wonderful citizens of Norcross, GA, I bid thee adieu!” He waves, and then the bell chimes as he exits.

  What a weirdo.

  When I turn around, Mr. Z is staring at me. “Rico Danger, you scoundrel! Why did you not tell me of your friendship with Mr. Macklin?”

  “Zan is fine, Mr. Z.”

  “He is a very humorous young man, eh? Told me many stories of your shared childhood!”

  Shared childhood?!

  “I am grateful for you, young lady,” he says. “You are one of many blessings to me.”

  Wow. I don’t even know what to say to that. Especially since his thankfulness is built on a web of lies.

  “You are fine out here? No need for a bathroom break?”

  I just blink. “No, sir. I’m, umm…I’m good?”

  “Excellent. I will look through the inventory spreadsheet once more to make sure all has been corrected.”

  I swallow. “Okay, sir.”

  He smiles and vanishes through the office door.

  Once I’m alone, I pull out the note from Zan. His handwriting is surprisingly neat, but there are just two words.

  And they make my heart do a little tap dance:

  Got it.

  When I step into US History on Monday, Big Money Macklin is sitting in the desk beside mine. Not only do people kick palpable side-eye at me as I head to the back of the room, when I pass Zan’s regular seat, the boy who normally sits next to me shoots glare-daggers at my face like I’m an accomplice to murder.

  Which is…odd?

  Zan nods at me as I sit. “Lady Danger,” he says.

  I shake my head, trying really hard not to smile. “Looks like Amit’s pretty P.O.’d about you jacking his seat, Macklin,” I say.

  “Technically, it would be P’d.O. And anyway, I paid him twenty dollars. He’s just mad because I wouldn’t double it.”

  Wait.

  “You paid him?” To sit next to me?

  Am I flattered? Or annoyed at his nonchalance about flushing twenty bucks so frivolously?

  This is confusing.

  “Yep. You and I have much to discuss.”

  “Do we now?”

  He throws his arms into the air. “Did ya not read my note Saturday, Danger?”

  “Oh, this note, you mean?” I pull it from the breast pocket of the button-down I stole from Mama’s closet this morning.

  “Aww!” He puts a hand on my shoulder. “You keep it close to your heart!”

  “Yeah, whatever.” Pretty much didn’t sleep all weekend because I couldn’t figure out what the dang thing meant. “I’ve been so overwhelmed by the specificity, I can hardly stand it.”

  “I’m gonna need a coat of armor to survive your stabbing sarcasm, O Icy One.”

  “Why do you keep calling me that?”

  He leans toward me. Cologne sorcery head-rush. “I think the more pressing question is why haven’t you embraced it?”

  I open my mouth to respond, but the bell rings, and Mr. Tripathi waddles in to start class.

  Can’t lie: knowing THE Zan Macklin is sitting beside me in class on purpose is a little distracting. Within five minutes, Mr. Tripathi is sounding like that teacher from Peanuts…waaah wah waaah wah waaaaaah.

  I put an elbow on the desk and prop up my chin to keep my head from drooping as he babbles about some song called “We Didn’t Start the Fire.” Out of nowhere, something sharp pokes me in the forearm.

  I yelp. Every head in the room turns.

  “Is everything all right, Miss Don-gur?” Because of course, Mr. Tripathi says it correctly.

  And I’m mortified.

  “Yes. Sorry, sir,” I say.

  He nods and everyone faces forward.

  “Geez, IQ. Think you could be any less discreet?” Zan whispers as soon as Tripathi rotates to tap on the SMART board.

  I scowl at him, but he points to my desk. There’s a note folded into a small triangle.

  Of course he would make a paper football.

  I unfold.

  You know, we should probably exchange numbers…

  Stab in the arm becomes stab in the gut with this acute reminder of my lowly “socioeconomic status,” as Tripathi refers to it. Because while I technically have a cell phone—a prepaid imitation of the iPhones and Galaxies glued to everyone else’s palms—it’s solely for emergencies and I can’t even text on it. />
  And this is why I keep to myself. My insides curdle at the very idea of the side-eye I would get were people to find out I don’t have something that’s considered such a staple to “this generation.”

  Ugh.

  Umm…I don’t really give mine out. You can give me yours though…If you want.

  678.555.3525

  I scribble it into the margin of my open notebook (that I haven’t taken a single note in today).

  Thanks.

  So to update: I managed to retrieve a picture of your cute grandma from the security footage. Quality’s garbage, but it’s better than nothin…

  I write back:

  Awesome, but please don’t ever say “your cute grandma” again.

  K. She got into a cab that night.

  Yeah. You told me that.

  I got the license plate.

  Score!

  Gah, you’re amazing!

  I watch his cheeks go pink as he reads. Too much? Maybe too much.

  I’m really not, but thanks I guess.

  Modesty? Weird.

  So what is it?

  What’s what?

  The plate number?

  Not important.

  What do you mean “not important”?!

  Trusteth in thine Zan, thou must.

  What are you, Yoda Jesus now?

  He snorts.

  Of course everyone looks again.

  “Mr. Macklin? Is there something funny?” from Tripathi. (I don’t think Tripathi likes Zan very much. Not that I blame him….)

  “No, sir,” Zan says. “Gnat flew up my nose. Please continue.”

  Everyone laughs, and Tripathi’s jaw clenches, but he turns back around.

  After about a minute, the note comes back to me. I kinda hate how excited I get when I feel the poke in the arm. It’s just that…well, this is kind of my first time passing notes in class. Ever. A realization that serves to remind me of my dearth of, you know, friends. And free time. To make them.

  You’re funny, IQ, the note says this time.

  Thanks.

  You’re most welcome. The reason the tag number isn’t important is because I already made some calls and got the name of the cab company.

  Okay, pause. Because why would he do all that? All I requested was assistance getting into the security footage. Now he’s seeking out further information on his own?

  Not sure I like this very much.

  Oh…

  We can go by the headquarters after school…try to get the name of the driver and contact him to see if he remembers where he took her.

  So this is a “we” thing now? And I kind of have to go along with it: he’s got the info. Except—

  Can’t today. Prior engagement.

  Oh…

  Yeah. Sorry.

  Tomorrow then?

  Gotta work.

  So when are we gonna go, Danger?!

  In addition to this skin-prickling suspicion about Zan Macklin’s motives, I can now add annoyance at his flagrant lack of consideration that some people have to actually work for their money.

  Perhaps asking him for help was a terrible idea.

  Too late to turn back now, though.

  Saturday?

  Accepteth my lot, I musteth.

  Okay, now you’re just making shit up.

  He guffaws. Like loud.

  Tripathi whips around. “Mr. Macklin?”

  “My apologies, sir,” Zan says. “It’s just funny seeing Pope Paul, Malcolm X, and British politician sex in the same line, am I right, guys? That Billy Joel was somethin’ else!”

  The whole class laughs.

  Grocery shopping.

  That’s the prior engagement.

  Twice a month on Mondays, Jax and I make our family’s very tightly budgeted—by me—grocery run. I meet him at the apartment, and then we hop on the bus and hit what is probably our favorite place to go together: Kroger.

  There’s a list.

  Coupons.

  Strategy.

  Teamwork.

  When we step through the sliding doors, I release a shopping cart from the lineup, he grabs a hand basket, and I pass him his part of the list. “All right, kid, head in the game,” I say. “You hit dairy, I’ll hit produce, and we’ll meet on the cereal aisle, got it?”

  “Aye, aye, Coach!” With a salute.

  Man, I love this kid.

  We high-five and head off in opposite directions.

  As I grab a big carton of strawberries, thoughts of a very specific, highly infuriating, ultra-rich turd of a boy fill my head. In addition to sitting beside me in class today, when I stepped into the cafeteria for lunch and took my regular seat—alone, in a back corner, slightly hidden by a large pillar—Zan totally popped up with the black guy he usually sits across from at his cliché-ass table full of popular jocks and cheerleaders.

  “Danger, this is Finesse Montgomery,” he said as they both stood over me like some kind of adolescent male sentinels.

  “Sup?” Finesse said.

  My mouth was full of turkey sandwich at that point, so I just smiled with my lips sealed.

  “We’ve come from the far reaches of the Norcross High School common area to rescue you from this island of solitude,” Zan announced.

  I looked at Finesse. “What makes him think I want to be rescued?”

  Finesse shrugged. “That’s what I told him.”

  “Whatever,” Zan said. “So you comin’ to sit with us or what, Danger?”

  Willingly place myself at a table with the richest, shiniest, most pleasantly fragranced kids in school? Me in my secondhand (maybe even third- or fourth-hand) jeans, “vintage” sweater, and a pair of Doc Martens I got from a church clothing drive?

  Nope.

  “While I appreciate the hospitality, Macklin, I’m gonna pass,” I said with a wink. “Kinda dig my ‘island of solitude,’ as you so aptly put it.”

  Except now I can’t stop thinking about it.

  It’s not only the fact that he invited me into his circle. It’s really bothering me that I don’t know why he’s helping me. As much as I’d like to believe he’s a nice guy, doing it out of the goodness of his heart…not buying it.

  When I reach the cereal aisle, Jax is standing with That Look on his face. The one where he really wants something that’s not on the list, but he knows we can’t afford it.

  Ugh.

  “What is it?”

  He points to a box of store-brand fruit snacks. “They’re only a dollar if we use the Kroger Plus card!”

  Pretty sure I no longer have a heart because it just shattered into a bajillion frickin’ pieces.

  But then an image of green rectangles of paper featuring the overly large face of Benjamin Franklin floats through my head. “You know what, Jax? You can get whatever fruit snacks you want,” I say. Mama is definitely gonna flip, but whatever. I’ll put a couple hundred dollars from my bonus into the account.

  “I can?”

  “Mm-hmm. Pick whatever cereal you want too. AND we’re getting ice cream and microwave popcorn.”

  The kid looks like he’s about to combust. He throws his arms around my waist. “You’re the best big sister ever!”

  Annnnnnd, about to cry.

  “Okay, okay, enough mushy gushy,” I say, prying him off me. “Pick your poisons, and we’ll hit the frozen goods.”

  Once we get there, I send him to the ice cream while I grab the pot pies and TV dinners. The freezer door is just closing when I hear: “Well, whattaya know? An Ice Queen on the frozen aisle!”

  Oh God. Not happening not happening not happe—

  “You’re totally powering all these freeze
rs, aren’t you?” Zan says, striding up the aisle with the confidence of a fella who likely owns a ton of stock in the Kroger Corporation.

  I glance down into our cart full of cheap, store-brand food (minus the Gushers™, Fruity Pebbles®, and Orville Redenbacher’s® Movie Theater Butter Popcorn).

  Once he gets to me, pint of Häagen-Dazs® Butter Pecan in one hand, he reaches in and plucks out our box of Toaster Treats—aka Pop-Tarts® à la Kroger.

  “Unfrosted?!” He looks up at me. “Jesus, Danger, you’re a Neanderthal!”

  “Get out of my basket.” I pluck the box from his hand and drop it back in the cart.

  He grins and shoves his free hand in his pocket. Blinks those long, heavy lashes. Exudes his…essence.

  I hate him. I hate him I hate him I hate him.

  “So. Prior engagement,” he says.

  I cross my arms. “Yes. Second and fourth Monday of each month is grocery day.”

  “I see.”

  Just then, Jax runs up. “Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough, or Fudge Brownie?” He holds up the two options.

  “Both,” I say.

  “Both?!” His eyes go wide.

  My heart beats a little faster. “Yes, both,” I say. “Drop ’em in.”

  “Who’s this little dude?” Zan asks.

  “This is Jax.”

  “Jax, huh?” Zan squats so he and Jax are eye to eye. “Sup, man?” he says.

  “Sup?” from Jax. With a gangsta-ish lift of the chin.

  Absurd, this entire situation.

  “I’m Zan.” He extends a hand, and Jax shakes it. “Tell me something, man…is your mom always this grumpy?”

  “Oh my God, I’m not his mom!”

  Zan laughs and Jax looks up at me. “He was joking, Rico.”

  Ah, so they’re best friends now. Fantastic.

  Jax turns back to his new favorite (or so it feels. [Yes, I’m salty.]). “So you’re my sister’s boyfriend?”

  “Eww, no!” My face and hands are blazing. Also, am I in kindergarten?

  Zan laughs and ruffles Jax’s dirty-blond curls. “Only in my dreams, kid.” He stands up.

  Mmmmmm…