You May Already Be a Winner

by Ann Dee Ellis

  Melody will sit on her front steps when that happens and I think I should go talk to her but I don’t.

  Nobody does really.

  ~

  So sometimes we spy on Melody because she likes to dance in her living room to music turned up loud. Or sit in her room, where the walls are covered with fancy posters of models and rock stars and cats.

  If neither of them were around, we might walk to the river and watch the fish for science.

  Or sometimes we look for money with Dad’s old metal detector.

  Then school gets out for the normal people and I watch Carlene come home and she sometimes says hey and I say hey, and then instead of coming over and seeing how I’m doing or when do I think I’ll go back to school or seeing if I want to go to her house and watch YouTube videos, instead of any of that, she just goes inside. Berkeley plays with her friends, which she has two of, Sadie and Jane Johnson, who are twins that stay with their grandparents after school till their parents get off work. Sadie and Jane are in kindergarten but they can’t read so Berkeley pretends like she’s their teacher, which she is.

  And then I sit.

  And then the day is almost over.

  And then I make macaroni or spaghetti or potatoes.

  And then I check my email to see if I’ve won anything—one time I got a whole box of Kool-Aid packets, another time I got a free subscription to Modern Dog Magazine, and even another time I won a grandfather clock which we never got because I had to pay shipping and handling.

  And then Mom gets home.

  And then we eat.

  And then we watch Wheel of Fortune.

  And then we go to sleep.

  We live in a trailer park attached to a KOA, which stands for KAMPGROUNDS OF AMERICA. One side is for people who are driving across the country and who wouldn’t spend more than one or two nights if they could help it, and on the other side there’s a baseball field for middle-aged people who played softball games until late at night, yelling things like “Hey, Fatty! Hit the ball!”

  Going through all of that there’s a river and a running and biking trail that leads clear to the lake.

  Anyway, this means all the time, all day all night, whether campers over at the KOA, spectators at the softball games, or joggers in spandex and hats, there are people watching us.

  Watching us sit on the tramp.

  Watching us eat pineapple on the roof.

  Watching us lay in the kiddie pool.

  It also means that we get to watch them right back.

  We watch the softball games and find quarters under the bleachers.

  We throw pebbles at the campers and eat their leftover chips.

  And most of all, we make fun of the people who exercise on the river trail.

  Dad and I would play this game we called “Guess Who’s Coming,” which is where we would sit on the front porch and watch the running trail. We’d make guesses who was going to come around the bend next. We’d give them a name and an occupation and see if it fit.

  Dad was always the best at it.

  He’d say, “The next guy that comes is going to be Earl, a businessman by day, candymaker by night.”

  “Candymaker?”

  “Sure,” he’d say. “A famous one. Known for his caramel lollipops with Argentinian ant legs inside.”

  I’d laugh and then, some man with skinny arms and a bald head in tiny shorts would show up. He for sure was a businessman, but you could also see how he could have an exotic sweet business on the side.

  Or Wanda, a deep-sea diver who lives in Utah because she is scared of water.

  “What?”

  “Long story,” Dad would say, and then, just like that, a lady would come around the corner wearing all black spandex from head to toe. Even with a tight skullcap.

  Amazing.

  Now that he was gone, I tried to get Berk to do it with me.

  She didn’t really get it and usually it was just teenage jerks, who we don’t look at because they yell at us and say dirty things.

  But still.

  A lot of people come on that trail. Some you expect and some you don’t.

  One day we were sitting on the tramp, me working on figuring out what x means in 2x-8=4 from my textbook and Berk coloring Aurora, and on that day, we heard something.

  Usually you don’t hear anything that much because the river’s too loud.

  This time, though, whoever it was, he was louder than the river.

  He was yelling something. Or singing something.

  About burning down a house.

  Berkeley looked at me. I looked at her.

  Then we both watched to see who it was.

  “A crazy man named Ted who flies airplanes and wins hot-dog-eating contests,” I whispered to Berk.

  “What?” she said, but then he came into view.

  A regular-sized boy, brown hair, white sweatband around his head, normal face except for lots of freckles, yellow tank top that said “I hate cats,” and baggy jeans.

  He was also sweating and sort of jogging, if you could call it that, and, like I said, singing.

  Loud.

  I couldn’t help myself, I laughed.

  Berkeley laughed, too.

  When he got to the break in the chain-link fence where you could come into the trailer park rather than keep going on the trail and where there’s a bench, he sat down.

  He was breathing hard, his chest going up and down, gulping for air, and even though we were ten feet away, he hadn’t seen us yet.

  He kept singing to himself. People on their way to work said, Baby what did you expect. Gonna burst into flame, go ahead.

  ~

  He had a bad voice, I’m sad to say, and he had to be about my age. Twelve or thirteen.

  He looked at his watch.

  Then he looked over at the trailer park.

  Berkeley whispered to me, “Who is he?”

  I shrugged and put a finger to my lips to keep quiet.

  He stood up.

  Pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket.

  He studied the paper for a bit and then came right through the gate. He didn’t look our way and I was glad. It wasn’t often people who didn’t live here went through the gate and in my opinion it was quite suspicious.

  Suddenly he turned and said, “Olivia?”

  And I said, “Who? Me?”

  And he said, “Olivia Hales, right?”

  And I said, “Uh. Yes.”

  And he said, “It’s me.”

  And I said, “Who?”

  And he said, “Me.”

  And I said, “Who are you?”

  And he smiled, his face bright. Then he said, “I’m from the lottery. You’ve won three hundred and twenty-four million dollars.”

  And my heart beat like a tambourine and Berkeley said, “What does it mean?”

  And he said, “It means you and your sister are going to be very happy.” Then he took out a camera from his baggy jeans and he said, “What do you want to say to the world, now that you’re rich and famous?”

  And I was overcome with emotion, tears pouring out of my eyes, and all I could say was, “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

  And then, because he couldn’t help it, he took me into his arms and we began to kiss.

  “Olivia?”

  I blinked a few times.

  “Olivia?”

  It was Berkeley.

  “What?”

  “You were doing it again,” she said.

  “Doing what?”

  “Doing that thing.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.

  And we were going to get in an argument but then I remembered.

  “Where is he?”

  She pointe
d to the boy who was now across the way, looking in the windows of some of the trailers.

  Which was definitely not allowed.

  When you drive into Sunny Pines Trailer Park there is a sign that says:

  NO TRESPASSING.

  There’s also a sign that says:

  PRIVATE PROPERTY.

  And then the:

  SALE! DOLLS AND COLLECTIBLES that Mrs. Sydney Gunnerson puts out just about every week because she is fancy and she collects fancy things like teacups and wigs and cookie jars and glass dolls that are hand painted.

  “Do you paint them?” Berkeley asked one time, and Sydney, who used to be in the opera in New York but works at Walmart now and Sundays plays her music so loud you can barely hear the rap music from the Conways’ trailer, Sydney said, “My dear, these little ones are painted in Italy.” And then she showed us the bottom of a blond doll’s foot and it said: Hand Painted in Italy.

  She doesn’t get much business because the dolls are over thirty dollars and the other things are expensive, too. But she sits out there every Saturday, all the same, an umbrella over her head, rain or shine.

  Sometimes we sit by her and yell at cars to get their attention for her sale.

  She says to only do it to nice cars like Cadillacs and Subarus. “Avoid the minivans,” she says.

  There’s also a ONE WAY sign for the road.

  A sign that said NO SOLICITORS.

  A SLOW DOWN sign.

  And then finally, one that said NO PEEPING TOMS.

  This was because of another problem that came up at the Home Owners Association meeting that I wasn’t allowed to go to.

  Was this kid looking in trailers a case of a Peeping Tom? I wasn’t completely sure what a Peeping Tom was now that I thought about it. I’d have to Google it.

  In any case, he was not supposed to be doing what he was doing.

  Berkeley said, “What is he looking for?”

  And I said, “I don’t know but he’s breaking the law.”

  And she said nothing.

  Instead she yelled, “DO YOU KNOW YOU’RE BREAKING THE LAW?”

  I gasped.

  Berkeley was a five-year-old but she was always doing things I would never dare do: Talk to people. Yell things. Eat mushrooms.

  He turned to look at us.

  I lay down on the tramp on top of a bunch of papers and pretended like I was asleep.

  The kid said, “What?” Like he didn’t hear, which was crazy because Berkeley was loud.

  And then Berk just went ahead and did it again. “YOU ARE BREAKING THE LAW.”

  I wanted to grab her. Tell her to stop. But I also didn’t want him to think I was awake if I could help it.

  I heard him walk over.

  I held still.

  “I’m not breaking the law.”

  “Yes you are,” Berkeley said.

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are, huh Olivia?”

  I didn’t move.

  “Olivia?”

  Still lay there. Tried to send energy. Act like I’m asleep. Act like I’m asleep. Tell him I’m asleep.

  “Olivia?” she said again.

  “Is she dead?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “She looks dead.”

  “No,” Berkeley said, but I could hear she was getting nervous, which was so stupid.

  “I’m not dead,” I said, my eyes still closed.

  They were quiet.

  Then he said, “What are you doing?”

  “I’m resting.”

  “You’re resting.”

  “Yes. I’m resting.” I opened one eye. “Can’t a person rest?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Yes, they can.”

  Then he did this: He got on the tramp and lay down right next to me; he was practically on top of my pre-algebra book.

  Just like that.

  I said, “What are you doing?”

  And he said, “I’m resting.”

  And that’s how I met a boy.

  Bart sat with us on the tramp for four hours and thirty-three minutes.

  He even said that, he said, “I’ve been here four hours and thirty-three minutes,” and I said, “How do you know?”

  He showed me his watch which had a stopwatch and he said, “I time everything.”

  “You time everything?”

  “Everything. Time is very important to me,” he said.

  “Me too,” I said, and it was true. Maybe I didn’t use a stopwatch but my calendar and my wristwatch that Mom gave me were things I had to have. They were the way I could know what was going to happen next and when the online contests ended and when the library was safe to go to and when Mom was getting home and mostly they were my only way to know how much time had passed.

  Time could go slow and you could get so bored checking the clock you wonder if it’s broken. Sometimes just waiting for water to boil for hot dogs or macaroni or ramen felt like it took forever and everyone was dying of hunger, including yourself, and it still wouldn’t boil. On the other hand, time could also trick you and speed along so fast, you could forget to even get dinner going or you could miss out on getting doughnuts from Delilah or you could suddenly realize that your dad had been gone for almost a year.

  “You’re a time geek, too,” he said, studying me, which made me feel weird but also who cares. And then he said this, he said, “I like you.”

  Just like that.

  I tried not to but I smiled.

  ~

  He told us his name was Bart.

  “I’m Bart,” he said.

  And I thought Bart was not the best name but I didn’t say so.

  Berkeley said, “Why are you here?”

  And he said, “I’m exercising.”

  “You’re exercising?” she said, and I laughed.

  He looked at me. “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing,” I said.

  Then he told how he was cardiovascularly very fit and that he was training to run a hundred-mile race.

  “A hundred miles?” I said.

  “Yep,” he said. “It’s called an ultramarathon.”

  I almost told him I was in Jillian Michaels fitness club and I was probably going to live in Micronesia or Papua New Guinea but instead I said, “How do you train?”

  “I run all day pretty much.”

  “You do?” Berkeley said.

  “I do.”

  “You run all day?” she said.

  “All day.”

  “Why aren’t you running now?” she said.

  “Because I’m sitting with you guys.”

  Why was he sitting with us? I thought. I tried not to look at him. To just stare straight at the sky and act like it was normal for a boy to be lying next to me on a trampoline.

  “If you run all day, when do you go to school?” Berkeley asked.

  “I don’t,” he said.

  Now I did look at him.

  “You don’t?” I asked.

  “Nope.”

  I don’t know why but that made me feel happy. I said, “I don’t either.”

  He smiled at me. “Then we’re the same,” he said.

  “Yes,” I said. “The same.”

  I thought I should ask why he didn’t go to school.

  I thought he should ask why I didn’t go to school.

  But neither of us did. Which felt even more perfect.

  Then Berkeley said, “My sister does push-ups.”

  I felt myself get hot.

  “You do?” he said.

  “Sometimes,” I said.

  “She does every day,” Berkeley said. And she was smiling. “She’s strong.”

  He was still looking at me and I was back to looking at the s
ky.

  He said, “On your knees?”

  I said, “Knees?”

  And he said, “The push-ups.”

  I laughed. “No way. I do real ones.”

  He said, “How many?”

  I said, “As many as I want.”

  He said, “I challenge you.”

  And I said, “No thank you,” even though I was burning now. What if I could beat him? What if I could?

  He said, “Are you scared?”

  And I said, “No.”

  And he said, “Then why not.”

  And I said, “Because I don’t want to.”

  And he said nothing.

  We just lay there and Berkeley sat there.

  I was trying not to giggle and I don’t even know why.

  After a while Berkeley got bored. “Are we going to do our workbooks?” she asked.

  And I said, “Why don’t you do chalk?”

  “Now?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  She looked at Bart and then at me. “What about lunch?”

  “It’s not lunchtime,” I said.

  She stared for a bit and then she said, “Okay,” and climbed off the tramp and got the sidewalk chalk.

  Bart and I were sort of alone then.

  We lay for a while.

  Then he said, “Do you know who Steve Fossett is?”

  Steve Fossett. Steve Fossett. Steve Fossett.

  I tried to think about my history books. My science books. Was he from sports?

  I wanted to know so badly.

  But I didn’t. So I said, “No. I don’t know who he is.”

  And he said, “You should.”

  Ugh. Ugh. Ugh. I swallowed and said, “Why?”

  He said, “He’s only the greatest man who ever lived.”

  And I said, “Who is he?”

  And he said, “I’ll tell you later.”

  Which made me mad but I didn’t say that.

  Instead we talked about TV and how it was a total waste of time in his mind and also addictive and ruins lives. I said TV is not addicting and I said it wasn’t that bad for example on the History Channel you could learn about Robert Peary, who discovered the North Pole, and you could learn about how the five-second rule is not true, you can get all kinds of bacteria and fungus on your hot dog if it’s on the floor for a millisecond, and he said no way.