A Whole Lot of Lucky

by Danette Haworth

  Blah, blah, blah, boring.

  “C’mon, Dad!” I say. “We need to celebrate!” When he dashes a hopeful glance at Mom, I know I’ve hooked him. “Eat, drink, and be merry!” I turn to Mom. “Ecclesiastes, eight fifteen.” Brownie points for remembering a Bible verse.

  Mom laughs. “Wow!” All her lines fade—the two lines that look like an eleven between her eyebrows, the lines that cup her mouth whether she smiles or frowns, and even the equator across her forehead—all gone. Her skin is cover girl dewy. She lays a hand on Dad’s shoulder and raises her eyebrows.

  “Say no more.” Dad cranks the wheel and we U-turn toward downtown Orlando.

  The car bumps over brick roads. I stare at the homes of Orlando’s rich. Spanish moss hangs like lace from wide and twisted oak trees; some branches are so huge, they dip, touch the ground, and spring back up as big as another tree. We pass the brick two-story mansion I like, another one that sits on a pond, and then my favorite: the two-story yellow house with white columns and a brick circle drive. Pink and purple azaleas explode everywhere. Shiny cars crouched low like panthers line the driveway.

  Just then, the front door opens. I get to see a real-life rich person! It’s a lady. Disappointing, because I wanted to pick up rich-kid tips, but still. She’s tan and dressed in a skirty tennis outfit. Turning back to the house, she yells to someone inside as she gathers her dark hair into a ponytail.

  No kids playing out front. Rich kids practice squash and polo; they don’t play kickball in the street like common people.

  I wonder which sport I will play.

  We sit outside at a restaurant on Lake Eola. Torches are lit to keep everyone warm, and I’m glad because my goose pimples have their own goose pimples here in the shade.

  A guy comes to our table wearing a white shirt, black pants, and a black vest. F-A-N-C-Y. “Hello, my name is William and I’ll be taking care of you today.”

  Before William can say another word, I ask, “Do you have lobster?” I don’t know if I like lobster, but I know it’s expensive.

  “Hailee!” Mom says.

  William the Waiter chuckles. “Actually, we do have lobster bisque—”

  Dad cuts him off. “Give us a minute, please.” William bows out of the picture. I fold my arms and frown. At least Libby gets what she wants—Cheerios and juice—but the rest of us haven’t ordered yet.

  “Lobster?” Dad shakes open the kids’ menu and sticks it in front of me.

  “Dad.” I push away the paper with mazes and tic-tac-toe on it. “I’m not a baby.”

  Mom peeks over her reading glasses. “Don’t be difficult.–

  Libby throws Cheerios from her high chair. A pigeon struts across the patio on pink legs, pecking his shiny green head as he nears the rings of nutrition provided by my sister. The pecking must involve some kind of Morse code, because he’s joined by other pigeons that crowd closer to the high chair.

  “Aah!” Libby sprays them with another handful. A seagull dive-bombs from the sky and pushes his way to the front. I snatch some cereal and throw it to the pigeons in the back; they were here before Mr. Important I’m a Seagull.

  Libby raises her little fist; in it is a lucky Cheerio—two circles stuck together. She squeals and waves the double Cheerio. The seagull unfolds his wings, opens them fully, then lifts off in a flurry of white and gray. I’ve never heard it so close: whap, whap, whap! I duck my head while Mom shoots up from her chair, flapping at the bird, but not before he’s grazed Libby’s hand and stolen the double ring. He touches down for a moment, then sails out over Lake Eola with Libby’s lucky Cheerio. It’s taken about three seconds for all this to happen.

  Then the howling begins. She doesn’t even warm up or anything, just lets out with the loudest, most horrifying, high-pitched wail ever emitted by a human. Mom tries to inspect Libby’s hand, but Libby flails about in her high chair like a fish on dry land. I don’t see any blood, so I’m guessing she was just scared. I steal Dad’s menu and peruse my selections.

  Other diners turn our way with their fake-sympathetic looks, which really mean, Get that crying baby outta here! I’m trying to enjoy my shrimp!

  William the Waiter appears out of nowhere. “Anything I can do to help?”

  Dad’s standing up, trying to free Libby from the high chair as she bites his arms. “Ah—OW!”

  “Ryan, help me …” Mom’s hands wrap around Libby, lifting; Libby’s hands wrap around Mom’s hair, pulling.

  William takes a step backward.

  “We might need a minute,” Dad says.

  “I know what I want.” I point to Dad’s menu. “Lobster bisque!”

  William raises his pencil, but instead of writing down my order, he chews on the eraser. “I’ll give you folks a few more seconds.”

  “Dad!”

  “Hailee!”

  “Aa-ee! Aaee!” Libby’s face is red. Gooey snot dribbles from her nose, and her fuzzy baby hair is damp with sweat.

  Mom makes a hammock of her arms and swings Libby. Mouths drop open. Not child abuse, I want to yell. Saw it on TV. But it doesn’t work in real life—Libby outdoes herself; her squalling reaches octaves I’ve never heard before. Windows shatter; birds drop out of the sky; people’s ears spurt blood. None of that happens, of course, but you get what I mean.

  Grabbing the sippy cup and Mom’s purse, Dad says, “You ready?” Mom’s already halfway down the stairs from the restaurant.

  “I’m hungry!” I say. “I want my lobster bisque!”

  Dad swings Mom’s purse onto his shoulder. “Come on.”

  “I could get it to go!” I call to his back. “Dad!”

  He turns around, slumps his shoulders, and retraces his steps. “Hailee, your mom and I are tired. We stayed up all night long trying to figure out what we should do next. And this”—he gestures around the restaurant—“isn’t working, so let’s go.”

  My eyes water. This day started with sunshine, but Libby’s ruined it with her storm clouds. I march behind Dad all the way to the car, where Mom is making Libby giggle in her car seat. By the time we get home, Libby is fast asleep. Anyone looking would coo at her. Mom slips her out of the car seat, and before I know it, everyone but me is taking a nap.

  I pull out the frying pan and make a grilled cheese.

  Chapter 5

  Money is the root of all evil.

  What the Bible really says is that the love of money is the root of all evil, so that’s how I know I’m not sinning; I don’t love money—I just can’t wait to lay my hands on it. The ticket sits in a secret hiding place in Mom and Dad’s bedroom. They haven’t claimed the money yet! They say they’re thinking. Them thinking looks a lot like them staring out windows while their coffee gets cold on the table. They drift through the house like ghosts, Mom rattling her chain necklace and Dad moaning as he rises from chairs.

  “Today? Can we get the money today?” I ask, dancing around them. I refill their coffee cups. I put carrot muffins on plates and push them across the table. I get Dad’s good shoes and stick them in the front room, toes pointing forward so all he has to do is slide into them and go on out the door. Not today, one of them will say, and the shoes are carried back to the closet.

  They are taking so long to get rich that the poor seeps into the framework of the house, causing it to groan against the March wind. Meanwhile, I’m supposed to not say anything about winning the lottery. Do you know how a secret grows inside of you every day you don’t tell it? When I was little, I swallowed an apple seed and even though my mom said it wouldn’t, I imagined that little seed growing into a big fat tree in my stomach. This secret is bigger than any apple tree. I feel it pressing against my ribs. I feel it straining for the light of day. For every word I speak, twenty more try to get out. You Know What is killing me.

  “Vegetable,” Mrs. Rice says. It’s Thursday, the day of our weekly pretest. Mrs. Rice paces across the language arts classroom, dictating our vocabulary words. We not only have to spell them; we have
to use them in sentences. “Vegetable.”

  My pencil goes to work:

  If one hates the vegetable on the plate, especially if it is broccoli, one should simply ring the butler and order carrots.

  Satisfied, I wait for the next word.

  “Equator.”

  I tap my pencil against my desk.

  “Shh!” someone behind me snaps. I ignore her. Equator.

  The equator divides the Earth into hemispheres, and we own mansions in both of them.

  I smile to myself. Good one.

  “Last word, people,” Mrs. Rice says. “Knowledge.” She repeats it, but my sentence is already pouring onto the paper.

  It’s common knowledge that when a regular person talks to a millionaire, he or she should always bow or curtsy before them.

  I can’t believe how every single spelling word has something to do with winning the lottery. It’s almost as if Mrs. Rice knows. I stare at her as she collects our papers.

  “Great spelling words,” I say, watching her face for a revealing sign, like a wink or a smile that she tries to press down, but her face is the same Mrs. Rice face I see every second period.

  The same thing happens in all my classes. In social studies, we talk about Henry Flagler, a rich guy in the old days; in math, we calculate the cost of a granite countertop; in science, we prepare to dissect clams, which sometimes have pearls.

  By the time the bell rings, my hands are sweaty and I’m nervous as a tick. I jump from my seat and rocket to the cafeteria. I spot Amanda at our table, rush over, and plop down across from her. The words that have been straining against the backs of my teeth finally pop out.

  “If you won a million dollars, what would you buy with it?” Finally! I said it out loud. I feel like I do when the dentist puts that mask on my face. I want to giggle; I want to laugh; I want to leap onto the lunch table and shout.

  Amanda considers the question between bites of the sub her mom made. I can see the layers: brown-sugared ham, oven-roasted turkey, Swiss cheese—all from Leonard’s Deli downtown. Where we’ll be able to shop now.

  “Maybe a horse,” she says.

  “A horse?”

  She shrugs.

  As I open my lunchbox to my peanut butter and marshmallow sandwich, I think about a horse. Seems like something a rich girl should have.

  “What else?” The peanut butter and marshmallow gum up my mouth, but Amanda understands me.

  “A yacht.”

  “A yacht!” All rich people have yachts!

  “An indoor pool. Home movie theater. Chandeliers.”

  My mental notes can hardly keep up with her.

  Later that night, I add all her ideas to my list, which—even though I’ve crossed out a few things—still takes up two sides of a paper.

  “Hailee!” Mom calls out gaily. The reason I said gaily is because it has the right old-fashioned ring to it and Mom is acting like the mother from The Brady Bunch or one of those other old TV shows where moms wear dresses and the house is always clean.

  She’s acting this way because tonight someone called a financial adviser is here to help Mom and Dad decide what to do with all our dough. I want to make sure the financial adviser knows all his options, so I hand copied the list of Things I Need and gave it to Dad. I was careful to not make any cross outs or erasing marks because you know how hard those can be to read.

  The financial adviser talked to Mom and Dad all night long. I was supposed to watch Libby, and while my eyeballs stuck to her, my ear holes got extra sensitive, picking up secret information from the dining room. “College funds,” “IRAs,” and “installments.” I didn’t understand what they were talking about, and more important, none of that stuff is on my list.

  The next day, Dad drove to Tallahassee for the money. I thought he’d race home with fat burlap bags of one hundred dollar bills sitting belted neatly into their seats, but he came home empty-handed. “They’re wiring the money over,” he told us when Mom, Libby, and I rushed him at the door. Mom said she was glad he was safe. I was glad the money was safe; I got worried when I didn’t see those bags.

  Nothing about winning the lottery was turning out the way I thought it would. I wanted to go out to eat; they wanted to take a nap. I wanted to go to the movies; they said just watch TV. I wanted to have a party and they said we need to be alone right now.

  Mom shuffled around telling Dad we must be good stewards. The pastor uses that word a lot in church; a steward is a person who takes care of something, especially stuff that has been given to you—like money. Good stewards, Mom would mumble. Good stewards, Dad droned in return.

  Not even when the Action 5 Reporter Live stopped by did they get excited. The reporter practically jumped out of his pants when Dad started telling how it all happened. Of course, Libby being a baby, she just babbled, but still the Action Reporter thought it was cute and he had the camera man zoom in on her, and that’s when I dropped my photo pose because usually when people get all caught up with Libby, my part of the show’s over. Then he stuck the microphone in my face. The camera pointed at me. A red light shone on the top. I forgot which side of my face I had practiced in the mirror.

  “Would you repeat the question?” I asked the Action 5 Reporter Live.

  His rows of white teeth flashed. He had makeup on. And hair spray. I noticed all this in the time it took him to say, “How do you plan to spend your winnings?”

  I froze.

  “Look into the camera,” he whispered through his unnaturally white smile. If he ever lost his job as a reporter, he could be a ventriloquist.

  I looked straight into that camera and forgot everything I wanted to tell it. The Action Reporter hissed. Dad cleared his throat. Only Mom cast a life-saving glance at me, and then I remembered something to say.

  “I want to be a good stewardess.”

  The Action 5 Reporter Live laughed heartily and told Michelle at the station, “Back to you.”

  Suddenly they were wrapping up their cords, folding down their lights, walking out of our house.

  “Oh, my gosh.” I ran down the steps as the Action Reporter climbed into the passenger side of the van. “That’s not what I meant to say!”

  He slammed the door shut and flashed me his teeth. “Good spot. You were great!”

  “No! I don’t want to be a stewardess!”

  “You’ll figure it out!” The van pulled away from our driveway and straight to my embarrassment.

  * * *

  “Hey, you’re that millionaire girl!” a boy shouts as I pass him on my way to school Monday morning.

  I almost fall off my ugly red bike. “Thank you!” I yell over my shoulder, realizing as I say it that it isn’t quite the right response.

  Up ahead, a group of girls clogs the sidewalk. They shuffle along, lollygagging as one of them stops to rummage inside her backpack. Slowpokes. My first car will have a radar detector so I can speed around Sunday drivers without getting a ticket.

  The grass is mushy and hard to pedal through, but it’s the only way to get past the slower-than-snails girls.

  “Wait a second!” yells one with a streak of blue hair.

  Uh-oh. Hope I didn’t splash her with mud or something. I slow down.

  Blue Hair Streak whirls around to her friends. “It is her! I told you!” She turns starry eyes toward me. “I saw you on TV last night! You’re the girl who won the lottery, right?”

  “Um, yeah.” I stop the bike and put my foot down, but I can’t think of anything else to say. It doesn’t seem to matter. The four of them get big cow eyes and stare at me as if I were a celebrity.

  They move closer, slowly, without seeming to realize it.

  “Three million dollars,” one of them says.

  “What?” another shrieks.

  “If I won three million dollars,” says Blue Hair Streak, “you wouldn’t catch me coming to school!”

  Ooh, good point. I tuck that thought away as a possibility for my list of Things I Need.

/>   “Well,” I say, “I gotta get going.”

  Blue Hair Streak nudges one of the other girls. “Move, Trish. You’re in her way.”

  All four of them scoot into the grass while I pedal onto the sidewalk.

  “Bye!” they call out. “Don’t spend it all in one place!”

  I crook my head around, giving them a perfect over-the-shoulder pose. I add a tiny smile to let them know I appreciate their humor.

  The sidewalk down the school entrance becomes a red carpet, with people clamoring after me and shouting questions. “Hailee, over here!” “Hey, I was going to talk to her!” Kids I hardly know ask if I need help locking up my bike or carrying my backpack. Their faces gleam in my presence. Their feet work to keep up with me.

  I had no idea all this was going to happen, yet I’ve been preparing for it my whole life.

  “Hailee! Hailee!” Amanda runs up to me from the bicycle pen, her cheeks flushed, her arms wide open. Everyone makes room for her because she’s my costar. She almost knocks me off my bike with a great big hug. “Oh, my gosh! Someone told Becca you won the lottery, but I told her no way because you would’ve called me—”

  “I—”

  “Then people started asking me if it was true—”

  “It—”

  “So I called your mom!” Amanda’s eyes gleam like they do when she drinks too much Mountain Dew. “YOU GUYS ARE RICH!”

  “I KNOW!” Our capital letter words skip across the waves of love and attention surging toward us—well, really me, because I am The Girl Who Won The Lottery.

  When the bell calls us to class, everyone stops what they’re doing as I walk by; I hear them start up again only after I’ve passed. Teachers and students alike strain for a glimpse or a word from me.

  Cottony puffs of feel-good vibes stuff my brain. I hear and see everything around me, but it’s like I’m floating in a bubble. My feet don’t feel the floor. Think of this: your best birthday when you finally for once get everything you really want. The cake isn’t lopsided, and after your friends and parents sing “Happy Birthday,” someone adds, and many more, then everyone laughs. That’s how good being famous feels.