Jackpot

by Nic Stone

  “It’s a Shakespearean term of endearment, Danger. Which you’d know if you weren’t skipping out on school for the third day in a row.”

  It genuinely startles me when my knees give out, but once I’m on the floor, all the longing and fear and frustration and panic I’ve been trying to keep locked down for Mama and Jaxy’s sake surges up to my eyeballs and pours out over my face. Like buckets and buckets of tears that shift from fury to joy to the deepest relief I’ve ever felt.

  “Danger? You there?”

  Pull it together, Rico! “Yeah. I’m here. What’s up?”

  “Well, hello to you too.”

  I smile. Put my head in my hand. “Hi, Zan.”

  “Mornin’, sunshine.”

  “How are you?”

  “A lot better than you from what I hear,” he says.

  Do I kill Jess or thank her? I guess I didn’t tell her not to tell him anything. (Was that subconsciously deliberate?) “Probably.”

  “Can’t talk long. Just wanted to tell you my sis-in-law’s coming by to see my little buddy, so don’t freak when a gorgeous Latina pops up at your front door in about an hour.”

  Can’t even bring myself to ask any questions. “Okay.”

  “Also: I got a home address for our little old lady.”

  Whoa. “You did?” How the hell—

  “I can neither confirm nor deny whether my methods were legal, but bottom line, mission accomplished. We’ll talk more about it later.”

  Okay. So this is a nice surprise. “Sounds good, Macklin.”

  “Ani khoshev sheh ani ohev otach, Geveret Sakanah.”

  “What?”

  “Ah, nothin’ important. Just practicing a new language.”

  “And which language would tha—?”

  “Bell’s ringing. Talk later.”

  He hangs up.

  * * *

  —

  At 8:28 a.m., there’s a knock on the door.

  Gorgeous Latina was an understatement.

  “You must be Rico,” the woman says with a smile befitting a whitening toothpaste commercial.

  I shake the hand she extends, but I don’t really have anything to say. Just looking at her makes me feel extremely insecure about my own…appearance. Massive, uncombed hair, ratty Malcolm X T-shirt, and holey sweatpants. Chipped toenail polish too.

  “I’m Anna-Maria,” she says. “Alejandro sent me—”

  “Alejandro?”

  “Sorry, sorry.” She shakes her head. “Alexander. Zan.”

  “Ah. Yes.” Alejandro?

  “He didn’t say a whole lot when he called, but he mentioned your baby brother?”

  That’s when I notice the lettering on her black bag: ANNA-MARIA G. ROJAS-MACKLIN, MD.

  Zan sent a doctor?

  I don’t even…Why is everything spinning?

  “Are you all right?” Anna-Maria puts a hand on my shoulder. She smells imMACKulate. (I mean, why not give the Macklins their own adjective?)

  “Yes, sorry,” I say. “Come in.” And I step aside so she can imbue our little domicile with magic just by entering.

  When Jax—who’s stretched out on the couch reading Superfudge—sees Anna-Maria, he literally drops the book.

  Me too, kiddo.

  “You must be Jaxon.” Anna-Maria extends a hand as she approaches. “I’m Dr. Rojas-Macklin.”

  Jax just stares. I’m sure we look like starved orphans who have never known kindness.

  “I can take your coat,” I say, suddenly embarrassed. The place is a wreck, and it being the size of a shoe box makes the wreckedness that much more evident.

  She smiles and hands it to me. PRADA, the tag says. Likely more valuable than Mama’s actual truck.

  I deposit it in the coat closet—my trench winds up on the floor since we don’t have an extra hanger—and when I come back she’s looking down at Jax. “Do you mind if I sit, young man?”

  He shakes his head and pulls his knees up to his chest to make room.

  “I’ve heard a lot of great things about you, Jaxon. My little brother—you know Zan, yes?”

  He nods again.

  “Well, Zan is one of your greatest admirers.”

  Jax grins all smugly and looks at me. I give him the you-better-not-say-anything-inappropriate glare, and he turns back to Anna-Maria.

  She continues, “I hear you’re not feeling too well?” and he shakes his head no. “You mind if I check a few things? Maybe we can find the cause and get you on the road to feeling better?”

  “Okay,” Jax rasps.

  God, he sounds awful.

  Anna-Maria pulls a paper mask, a stethoscope, and a pair of gloves from her bag. “So there’s something going on with that throat, but we’ll listen to your heart first, all right? I’m going to slip this inside your shirt. It’ll be a liiiiiittle cold.”

  His eyes go wide when the thing makes contact, but I can see he’s trying to be tough.

  “Okay, now breathe in deep for me.”

  He does.

  She moves the thing. “Again…”

  She does this a few more times. “Have you been coughing at all?”

  There’s another knock on the door, and my eyes snap up and lock on Jax. Who’s looking at me like Well, are ya gonna get it?

  This is all a bit overwhelming.

  A feeling that quadruples when I open the door and find Zan-the-Man holding a box so full of gadgets, it looks like he robbed a Best Buy.

  He waggles his caterpillars at me.

  Though I’m rooted to the spot and can’t speak, I totally go warm all over.

  “Ya gonna invite me in, Danger? This box is heavier than it looks.”

  “Yes, of course, sorry.” I step to the side.

  He enters and closes the door. Leans to the left, so he can see past the “entryway” wall into the living room. “Jax, my man!”

  Then Zan says, “¡Hola, vieja!” in an accent that sounds so natural, a chill shoots down the center of my chest.

  “Te voy a golpear el trasero, pendejo,” comes the reply from Anna-Maria.

  Zan laughs.

  She goes on: “¿Estás faltando las clases hoy, eh?”

  “No le digas a mi papá.”

  “Las locuras que hacemos por amor…”

  “Silencio, por favor.”

  Now she laughs.

  Okay, so I took German for my foreign language requirement (I know nothing), but I certainly know the word amor….Anyway, I’m no expert, of course, but Zan speaks Spanish like his brain’s been soaking in it for years.

  He sets the box on the floor and pulls me a foot to the right so we’re hidden from Jax’s and Anna-Maria’s view. Squints up his eyes and puts the back of a hand against my forehead. Takes the other one and puts it up under my jaw.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Checking to see if you have a temperature.”

  “Everyone has a temperature, Macklin.”

  He rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean, Icey.”

  “Been a while since I’ve heard that one—”

  And then my feet are leaving the ground. His arms are around my waist, and his face is buried in my neck. The eyebrows tickle a little. “Well then.” No clue what to do with my arms.

  “I missed you, Danger.”

  He murmurs this against the exposed skin just above my clavicle, and sweet mother of everything, is it hot in here. “I can see that.”

  He puts me down and I remember my attire. “Did you really just hug me?” I ask, sticking a finger through one of the holes in the hem of my shirt. “I look like hobo-Mufasa on steroids.”

  “No you don’t, silly.” He laughs and tries to tuck a part of my mane behind my ear. “Mufasa dies, you know? I was thinking more
grown-up Simba.”

  “Oh my God, whatever!” Smack to the chest.

  Are we flirting? We’re totally flirting. In my busted apartment of all places.

  He smiles, and boom: just like that, I’m teleported. There’s no sick brother or overworked mother or missed days of work to worry about.

  Only Zan-the-Man.

  I really wish he would stop.

  “Are you fluent in Spanish?” I say to break the (very loaded) silence.

  “Yep.”

  “Impressive.”

  He shrugs. “Not really. Been speakin’ it my whole life.”

  Hmm…I take a good look at the hella tan skin and thick, dark hair. Gustavo comes to mind (as does the reminder that I know almost nothing about this idiot boy).

  “Zan?”

  “Danger?”

  “Are you biracial?”

  He grins. “You could say that, I guess.”

  I’m about to dig deeper, but then Anna-Maria comes around the corner. She looks at the space between us—well, the lack thereof—and there’s that smile of hers again. “Es muy hermosa, hermanito.” She’s talking to him but looking at me.

  “Te lo dije. No te acuerdas porque ya eres vieja.”

  “Cállate la boca, imbécil.”

  Zan laughs and leans closer to me. “She just called me a moron,” he whispers loud enough for her to hear. “Can you believe that?”

  “Vete, llorón.”

  Zan winks, scoops up his box, and disappears around the corner.

  Once he’s gone, Anna-Maria turns to me, all traces of humor erased. “Rico, how long has Jaxon been sick?”

  Crap.

  “He’s had a fever and sore throat off and on for a little over two weeks,” I say.

  She nods. Which is…interesting? I was expecting Two weeks, and he hasn’t seen a doctor?! I’m calling DFACS! “I swabbed his throat, and he did test positive for strep, so I’ll get some amoxicillin to you before the day is over,” she says. “Just know that if it comes back, he may need his tonsils removed.”

  Well, that would be a nightmare. Surgery involves hospitals. Hospitals involve lots of money. I vividly recall Mama once saying she’d “rather die than go to a hospital” during one of her colitis bouts.

  I’m trying not to panic.

  She looks over into the living room and smiles. “Joaquín and I started dating when Alejandr—Zan, excuse me, was five years old. For as long as I’ve known him, Zan’s wanted a little brother.”

  I peek around the corner. Zan has set up an iPad on a pillow across Jax’s lap and is helping him pick a movie to watch.

  “Joaquín?” I ask.

  “Zan’s eldest brother. He was seventeen when Zan was born. There was another brother who passed away at fourteen in a dirt bike accident the year before Zan’s birth, and then their sister, Tehlor, is twelve years Zan’s senior. He was practically an only child.”

  “Oh.” It’s embarrassing that I knew none of this, yet Anna-Maria caught us practically canoodling not ten minutes ago.

  “Looks like your brother is making his sibling dreams come true.” She winks.

  I retrieve her coat, and Zan and Jax wave to her as she goes out.

  And it looks like she’s right. Because when Anna-Maria drops by with the medicine four hours later, Zan is still here.

  He picks me up for school the next morning, and then drops me off at work after classes are over.

  Same thing the next day.

  And the next.

  Saturday and Sunday, I work doubles, but he takes me to work, brings me lunch, and shows up to drive me home on both days.

  And I go with it. I don’t overthink (read: think at all) or question his motives (for the most part).

  But then Monday, we’re sitting side by side in history and I happen to glance in his direction. He’s grinning at me.

  Which makes everything I’ve been trying not to think about topple down on me with cold precision like massive hailstones:

  Zan’s the reason Jax got the antibiotics we never would’ve known he needed.

  Zan’s the reason I had actual lunch over the weekend.

  Zan’s the reason I haven’t set foot on a school or city bus in weeks.

  Zan’s (probably) the reason Mr. Z gave me a raise.

  Zan’s the reason my brother’s actually been happy at school because he can finally join conversations about the latest gadgets and video games and no longer feels like a “poor-kid pariah” (no clue where he learned that word).

  The ($$$) amount I must owe Zan hits me with so much force, I can’t breathe.

  What the hell am I doing?!

  As soon as the bell after last period rings, I dart out of the classroom so I can beat the crowds to the parking lot. There’s no way in heaven OR hell I’m gonna be seen on Macklin’s arm right now. If it weren’t for the fact that we’re going to the address attached to Ethel’s PO box today, I’d go catch the school bus home to hide.

  Hopefully he’s smart enough to just come on out to the car.

  Actually, looks like it’s not gonna matter whether he’s smart enough or not: I’ve been at the Jeep for all of forty-five seconds when I hear someone approaching from behind me. “Ya girl’s already out here at the Tonka, dawg,” a voice says.

  When I turn around, Finesse is slipping his phone into his pocket. “Rico Suavico!”

  I smile. “Hi, Finesse.”

  He opens his arms for a hug, and I step into them. (What is it with these guys and the hugging?) “What’s good, baby girl?” he says.

  How does one answer that question? Do I spout off a list of lies? “Uhh…most things?”

  He laughs. “My folks’ve been askin’ about you. You should come by the crib again sometime.”

  “You mean they don’t think I’m some two-bit floozy for spending the night on your basement couch with Alexander Gustavo Macklin?” Whoops! Didn’t mean for that to come out.

  “You silly,” he chuckles. “They don’t even know about that. Jess never stops talkin’ about you, so they’re all intrigued and shit.”

  What the heck could she be saying?

  As if he can see into my brain, Ness says, “You’ve really made an impression on her, you know? With the whole go-against-the-grain thing you got goin’ on. Homegirl took me ‘thrifting’ last week cuz she said ‘we need to stop being so conformist in our personal styles,’ or something. Actually got this dope-ass jacket for like fifteen bucks.” He tugs on the lapels of the brown leather bomber he’s wearing.

  I’m trying not to laugh. Go-against-the-grain thing? Yeah, okay.

  “So my boy treating you good?” he says.

  Oh God, can we not? “Uhh…” My eyes drop to the white line separating the parking spaces.

  “You know he’s hella into you, right? I don’t think I’ve ever seen this dude so wrapped.”

  “Ah.” Stop it, Finesse! Really don’t need this right now.

  “Don’t tell him I told you this, but things were gettin’ a little rough for my dude. Bunch of factory workers tried to sue his family and it turned out one of his dad’s most trusted guys was at the center of the whole thing.”

  “Whoa.”

  “Right? Every time I look up, it’s somebody new tryna scheme money off Z’s family. He was legit losin’ faith in humanity, but you’ve totally brought him back to life.”

  My. Face. Is. On. Fire.

  Finesse’s eyes shift over my shoulder and he smiles. I’m about to turn and see why when a pair of arms slips around my waist.

  They’re…not Zan’s. Too skinny. And the chest—which is now pressed against my back—is too low and cushiony.

  “We were just talking about you,” Finesse says, and the arms release me. Space invader steps around me and into Ness’s
waiting embrace.

  Jess. (Duh, Rico.)

  “And what were you saying?” She pinches his nose.

  “That you’re the most gorgeous girl in the universe.”

  Oh barf.

  And now they’re kissing. I’m apparently no longer standing here. They’re full-on…wow this is a lot—

  “Geez, freakazoids, get a room.” (Definitely know that voice.)

  Now an arm I do recognize slides across the front of my shoulders, and I get pulled back against a delightful-smelling guy-chest.

  I instinctively crane my neck to look up.

  “Hi,” Zan says.

  Head spinning.

  Finesse and Jessica break apart and as they look at us, this identical smirk quirks up the left side of both their mouths. (Gross.)

  Meanwhile, Macklin releases me and goes to open the passenger door. “You ready to roll? Drive’s about twenty-five minutes.”

  “Mm-hmm.” I turn back to Ness and Jess. “Guess we’ll catch you guys later.”

  Jess winks. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  This is all so very confusing.

  I act like I don’t see Zan’s outstretched hand and climb in by myself.

  * * *

  —

  Not sure if it’s anticipation of what we’ll find at the address or pure weirdness between us, but neither of us says much on the long drive over.

  We’ve been on the highway for a solid twenty minutes when I peek over at him. His eyes are glued to the road.

  And now I’m having a flashback of how that jawline felt against my collarbone when he scooped me up in that insane hug last Tuesday.

  What do I do with all this? He can’t possibly really like me, can he? All signs point to yes, he can, dumbass, but…we’re too different.

  Aren’t we?

  And if he did like me, he would say so, right?

  “You’re awfully quiet over there, Danger.”

  I clear my throat. “Look who’s talking—well…not talking either.”

  He chuckles. “For real, though: Are you okay? You seem…different.”

  So he did notice (was I thinking he wouldn’t?).

  Question is, what do I tell him? “Different…how?”