Below it, my memo board is so loaded with pictures, you can’t even see the quilted purple fabric underneath. When I get new pictures, I stick them right over the old ones. Sometimes, I pick a spot and slide off the top picture, and then the next, and then the next one after that. It’s like going back through time. There’s even a picture of Amanda and me in diapers, playing together. I keep that one buried, but I know exactly where it is.
I hate being in fights with people. Today I’ve had three: Amanda, Mom, and you have to count my dad, too, because in about two hours, he’s going to hear all about it.
I roll onto my side. The swamp maple that’s as tall as our house waves its cheery red leaves at me. The branches stretch across my window, sometimes holding a squirrel or a bird for me to get a good, up-close look. People always talk about fall colors—that’s a northern idea. Sometimes, the truth of a thing depends on where you’re looking at it from. For instance, in Florida, red leaves pop from our maples around Valentine’s Day. I ask you, could that be any more perfect?
Also, birds don’t fly south for the winter; they fly north for the summer. This has nothing to do with my cheery maple, but I just thought I’d mention it.
* * *
Mom shouts from downstairs she’s taking Libby out in the stroller. Her voice has forgotten she was mad at me. Still, I answer back without opening my door.
I’ve finished my decimal multiplication homework. I read chapter twenty-three in social studies. I answered questions one through thirty (odd numbers only) in science. All that’s left is PE, which of course there’s no homework for; language arts; and Family Science, which is really home ec but they changed the name so it wouldn’t sound old-fashioned and so boys would take it.
As I wrangle with my backpack trying to fit everything back in, a shred of lined notebook paper floats out. I know what it is without looking, but I pick it up anyway. Amanda’s bubblegum print, fat and happy with hearts over the i’s. Can you still spend the night Friday? My mom will get doughnuts!
I’ve spent so many Friday nights at her house that I don’t remember which one this note is talking about, but when I read the words, I hear Amanda’s voice in my head. I would like to point out, before I go any further, that I had been thinking about Amanda earlier, so it wasn’t seeing the note that made me get the phone and punch in her number.
Her phone rings and rings and rings. I hang up and dial again. Then I hang up and block my number, but she still doesn’t answer. I hit redial. Hang up. Redial. Hang up. Redial. Hang—
“Hailee!” Irritation scratches across the air waves and into my ear. “What are you doing?”
“Why didn’t you answer?”
She huffs into the phone. “If you must know, I was in the bathroom.”
Hmm. Well, I guess certain things can take a while in the bathroom. “Okay,” I say.
She breathes into the phone, then asks, “Well?”
“Well, what?” I hadn’t prepared a speech.
“Well, why did you call?” she asks. “Hurry up, too, because I’ve only got a couple of bars.”
Liar. That’s what she tells her grandma when she doesn’t know what to say to her.
I look at the shred of notebook paper in my hand. “Are you still spending the night this Friday?”
Pause. “I didn’t know you invited me.”
“I just did.”
Silence crackles between us. I didn’t ask my mom about this, but I know she’ll say yes. She calls Amanda her adopted daughter.
Suddenly, my adopted sister erupts. “You ignored me! You heard me calling you—I take back my apology! I had the worst day today and it was all your fault!”
“My fault? You’re the one who left your skirt out for Megan to write all over, and you’re the one who didn’t notice the A when you put it back on.”
She’s quiet, so I keep going. “You got me sent to the principal! My mom’s mad at me, my dad’s going to lecture me, and I’ll never go to college now. So I think I’m the one with the worst day today, not you.”
“It was just so embarrassing,” she says. “All day long.”
“I know—I was the one wearing the skirt!”
“Witches with a B,” she says, and I know for a fact she’s shaking her head at the thought of them.
“Yeah,” I say, “witches with a B.”
We snicker into the phone. I feel the connection reaching for five bars.
After checking with her mom, she says she can’t spend the night because her aunt’s coming over for the weekend. I’m disappointed, but when we hang up, I feel better than I did before I called. At supper, Dad asks me about my visit to the principal’s as he passes the mashed potatoes. He puts on a stern face. Between you and me, I’m 100 percent positive Mom ordered him to lay down the law.
Dad listens to my side, says a few things that Mom nods her head to, then tells me to make sure it never happens again. He clears his plate. “I’m going out to cut back the vine,” he says. “It’s choking the gutter.”
“Can I help?” I ask.
“You can hold the ladder.”
Boring! I wanted to use the choppers. But I don’t want Dad to fall, so I spend the next hour with my palms pressed against the aluminum rails while thorny arms of green and pink bougainvillea fall around me. Dad talks to it, scolding it for scratching him and telling it to stay out of the gutter. Some people think talking to plants makes them grow better. If that’s true, Dad is only making his own life harder.
* * *
The next day at school, some girls come up to me and tell me how rotten I am for pushing Amanda into the car-pool lane, even though they can plainly see Amanda standing right next to me. I stick up for myself, but they turn their backs on me and cut into the stream of people rushing to class.
I don’t ask her, but Amanda says, “I didn’t know what to say.”
Friday and Saturday are boring without her. When I call Becca on Saturday, she’s not home, either. Becca sometimes eats lunch with us. She’s not my best friend, but she wears alien ears to school and can speak Klingon, which is a planet in the Star Trek series, so Amanda and I like her pretty much.
I get on my bike and think about the book I’ve been reading at night, Because of Winn-Dixie. Opal was lucky she found that dog at Winn-Dixie instead of say, Periodontics, which is some kind of dentist place. Of course, she probably would’ve shortened the name to Peri, so that wouldn’t have been a problem because it’s still cute.
I ride my bike up and down Crape Myrtle Road, trying to think of a gross business name that Winn-Dixie could have been stuck with. The notes of a flute drift from the second-story window of the DeCamps’ house. So pretty and light, the notes fall like the cottony feathers of a dandelion. If I were friends with Emily, I would ask to sit on her front porch and listen to her flute playing and the birds, who are calling back to her.
Boring Saturday finally comes to an end. My sheets are cool and my room is dark and it feels good to snuggle in, all nice and cozy. I rub my feet against each other to warm them up. Big elephant ears of sleep layer over me. I’m slipping into dreamville.
Screams from downstairs shatter my ears awake. Mom! I jolt up in bed—heart pounding, blood surging—then I flip down and squeeze my eyes shut because robbers won’t kill me if they think I’m sleeping, but Mom is still screaming and Dad is screaming and crying, and I say, “God!” because I’m too scared to say a longer prayer.
If I had my own phone, I could dial 911.
Tears slide down my face in torrents. My throat wells up in a painful ball. I lie there, crying and awaiting my fate until I hear my dad’s low-throated chuckle, which gives way to whooping and hollering and honest-to-God, he goes right back to screaming and crying again.
I shove off my covers and tiptoe past Libby’s room. She sleeps her baby sleep, oblivious to all the commotion below us. Annoyance creeps down the stairs with me as I make my way to the landing. Dad stands in front of the TV, dumbstruck, staring; Mom sit
s on the couch in her fuzzy green housecoat, rocking back and forth.
Their faces shine when they notice me. They glow like angels. Light pours out of their eyes and off their skin, and it scares me half to death.
I hear my voice tremble as I ask, “What’s wrong?”
Dad’s face screws up. He cries and grabs my hands. His mouth moves but no words come out.
“Hailee.” Mom’s voice is hoarse. Tears have wet her cheeks; crying has turned them red.
I’m afraid of whatever she’s going to say next.
“Hailee,” she croaks. “We just won the lottery!”
Chapter 4
It can’t be true.
I look from Mom to Dad and back to Mom. Something’s happened, something that’s turned them into crazy people.
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
Dad bear-hugs me, and my feet leave the ground. My legs flap like noodles. “We won! We won! We won the lottery!”
My brain’s confused, sloshing around in my skull with all of Dad’s jostling. Wriggling out of his arms, I drop my feet to the floor and go to my mother. I kneel in front of the nappy brown couch and peer into her eyes for signs of crazy. “Is he right?”
Mom stretches out her arms and puts both hands on my shoulders, including the one holding a used tissue, but I don’t yank away because this is important. “Your dad,” she starts, then dabs at her nose with the wet Kleenex. “Your dad bought the winning ticket!”
“NO WAY!” But I know it’s YES WAY! I jump up and down, knocking into the table and spilling Mom’s coffee on it, but who cares anyway because we can just buy a new one. “OHMYGOSH! WE WON THE LOTTERY!” My fists pump up and down. I hop on the couch and do a little jig, then jump off, grab Dad’s hands, and whirl him around like ring-around-the-rosie. Flinging him across the room, I slide into some dance moves. “We’re rich! We’re rich! We’re really, really rich!”
Then it hits me for real. I buzz in circles around the room screaming. Mom and Dad start laughing, then I start crying. Mom pulls me over to the couch and tries to nestle me, but power surges through my body. I pop up and do everything all over again, then yell, “I’ve got to call Amanda!”
I sprint to the phone, but Dad hooks me with his arm. “Hey, girlie,” he says. “It’s after midnight!”
“But, Dad!”
Mom rises from the couch. I slip my arms from Dad and windmill around the room. Mom ducks out of my way. “Dad’s right, honey—it’s too late to call someone’s house. Besides”—she’s talking to Dad now—“we might want to think about this before we start spreading the news.”
“What’s there to think about?” I break into celebration again, dancing, pumping, running. It takes me a minute to realize I’m celebrating alone. Mom sets up the coffee machine, then joins Dad at the kitchen table, where they have their Serious Talks.
Let them talk. Let them drink coffee! We just won the lottery! “We’re millionaires!” I shout and throw my arms high in victory.
Running upstairs to my room, I stop at Libby’s door and tiptoe to her crib. She will not remember this night. She will not remember the night that changed her whole entire life before she even lived it. She will not remember, but I will tell her.
I stroke the top of her head, then her cheeks and her little eyebrows. “We’re rich,” I whisper, following the curve of her ear with my fingertips. She is softer than air. When we hire a nanny, I will make sure the nanny is soft, too. Maybe she could sing, like Mary Poppins.
Once in my room, I flop onto my bed with a notebook and a pencil. “Things I Need,” I write at the top. Things I need come flying in from all corners of the room and I write fast to keep up:
1. New bicycle
2. Cell phone
3. New clothes (from where Megan and Drew shop)
4. Full-length mirror
5. TV for my room
6. DVD player for my TV
I glance around for the best place to put my new TV.
7. TV stand
Then I take a hard look at my room. The bottom left drawer of my dresser gets stuck so hard, the only stuff I keep in it are things I never use. A coaster under one leg keeps my nightstand level. My headboard doesn’t match.
8. New furniture for my room
Oh! Oh!
9. Computer
I sit back and think about this. A computer stays in the room. You can’t take it downstairs or to your friend’s house. I cross out computer.
Yes, a laptop is better, because I could sit outside with it and do homework. But then again, laptops don’t have as much memory as computers and what if it’s raining outside?
I draw a line through laptop and stare out my window. My cheery red maple holds its pointy leaves in the moonlight, sending sharp shadows across my room. Soon, it will lose its red leaves and sprout green ones.
Laptop or computer. I can’t make up my mind.
Wait! Wait!
9. Computer
10. Laptop
See how easy being rich is?
* * *
“Remember,” Mom says as we walk from the car to the church the next day, “don’t tell anyone about You Know What.”
She acts like we’ve won a head full of lice rather than a buttload of money.
One of Mom’s church friends passes us, hurrying because she’s in the choir. “Don’t forget to stop at the pantry today,” she says. “New bread from Tochino’s.”
“We probably don’t need it,” I say. We don’t need the free day-old bread the restaurants donate to the church, even if it is Tochino’s Garlicky Toast, which normally I take as many loaves as I can and Mom makes me put them all back except for one.
“Thanks, Lisa,” Mom says. “We’ll check it out.” After Miss Lisa passes, Mom slides closer to me. “What did I tell you?”
“I didn’t say anything about You Know What.”
“Hailee—”
Dad swings an arm around my shoulders; his other arm carries Libby in her car seat. “All Hailee the queen, the quiet queen.” He pulls me in. “Mom and I want this to be secret for a while, okay?”
Grown-up time is different from kid time, and it changes depending on the situation. For example, when you’re stuck in the backseat of the van and the air conditioner isn’t cold enough because your mom is always freezing and plus you’re hungry but she won’t stop at Burger King, and you ask, “How much longer will this take,” every mom will say, “Oh, just a few more minutes.” And those minutes turn into hours, which isn’t just a few minutes but a lot.
Later, when your favorite show is on and it’s almost to the point where something big is about to happen, your mom says, “Bedtime,” and you say, “Just a few more minutes,” and what you get is about one minute. Maybe two if you’re lucky. So grown-up time is like dog years in that way.
The morning breeze blows words out of my mouth. “Millionaires,” I whisper into it. “How long do we have to keep it secret?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” Dad says.
My hair flutters like kite ribbons around my face. They say March roars in like a lion, but February doesn’t do too badly, either. Sprigs of pollen dangle from the tips of oak trees—spring’s version of tinsel. Wind rushes through the treetops, shaking the branches clean. Swirls of yellow leaves rain down.
We walk into church and take our regular pew. I can’t believe how normal we’re acting! Mom sets up Libby on the space next to her, and Dad flips through the bulletin, both of them saying hello every now and then to people they know.
Though my lips are buttoned, the secret of You Know What beams out of my eyes anytime I look at someone. I radiate with You Know What. You Know What fills my stomach and leaks out of my pores. How can we just be sitting? We should be leaping with joy, shouting with happiness. Every good gift comes from God—that’s what the Bible says—and if you can think of a better gift than MILLIONS OF DOLLARS, you’d better tell me because I can’t.
Later, when the basket passes to me,
I empty my peanut butter jar into it—my complete savings from the past year’s allowance, birthday, Christmas, and lucky findings. Since buckets of money are coming my way, I feel good throwing some God’s way.
The pastor’s talking. I’m trying to listen. I reach forward, grab a bulletin from the holder, and nab one of those stubby pencils without erasers. Why does the church put out pencils without erasers? Makes me feel like I’m not allowed to make mistakes.
I turn the bulletin over to the place where you can take notes on the sermon.
11. Mansion
12. New backpack
13.
Mom swipes the notes and frowns. That’s okay. Not to brag, but I have a good memory and by the time church lets out, I’ve added eight more things to my mental notes.
The pastor stands in the doorway and says good-bye to people. I’m surprised when he shakes my hand and twinkles his eyes at me. “Hailee, I couldn’t help but notice you today.”
My mouth drops open. God has told him! God has told him the secret! I am so relieved to finally be able to say something to someone. “Can you believe it? We’re—”
“Hailee.” Mom’s using her TV-mother voice. “I think you interrupted the pastor.”
“That’s okay,” he says. “I saw the joy of the Lord on your face today. I’d like to see that on more of our parishioners.”
Not me, because I don’t want to share that lottery money with anyone, except the Lord, of course. Still, I’m disappointed that the pastor didn’t know why he saw the joy on my face because now I can’t tell him.
When the van takes the usual left turn toward home, I stretch against my seat belt and pop my head between Dad and Mom in the front. “Let’s go out to eat!” I say. We can’t go home to the same old boring grilled cheese and pickles we have every Sunday—we’re millionaires.
Mom twists in her seat. “I’ve got to feed Libby and put her down for a nap.”
A Whole Lot of Lucky Page 3