Jackpot Page 6

  “You guys done with your shopping?” Zan asks. “We can hit the checkout lanes together.”

  “That would be awesome!” Jax says.

  And so we do. Could I have really said no?

  Zan even bags our groceries. Which is so freakin’ weird. Especially since he’s good at it. As a matter of fact, I don’t think I realized bagging groceries is something one can be good at until this very moment.

  Actually, what’s he even doing in Kroger? Don’t people of his economic ilk shop at like Whole Foods or World Market or whatever? Do they even do their own shopping?

  Who is this guy?

  Once we’re outside, he says, “So where’d you guys park? I’ll help you load up.”

  And before I can make up something about a ride, Jax is saying, “We take the bus, dude.”

  Dude? Who is this kid?

  Zan looks at me, but to my shock, the pity I’m bracing myself for isn’t there in his face. “You want a ride?”

  “No thanks. We do this twice a month. We’ll be fine.”

  He smirks. Narrows his eyes. “Hey, Jax, you see that Jeep over there?” He points to a yellow four-door Wrangler with gargantoid tires, a light bar on the top, and the word TONKA printed in massive letters at the top of the windshield. A Jeep I—and probably most of our town—would recognize just about anywhere.

  Jax nods. “Yep.”

  “You wanna ride shotgun in that guy?”

  Jax turns to me, excitement twinkling in his hazel eyes. “Can I, Rico? Please, please, PLEASE?”

  And, shit.

  I glare at Zan-the-Man. My hatred intensifies.

  “Well, big sis?” he says. More smirking.

  Asshole.

  “Rico, come onnnnnn!” Jax tugs on my arm.

  I haven’t seen the kid this amped since Christmas morning. But do I really want Mr. Money-Bags Macklin to know where my relatively shithole-ish abode is?

  “Ashley Run Apartments, right?” Zan says.

  No doubt the look on my face screams How the f— do you know that, you stalker?! ’cause then he goes, “Don’t you live in the same building as Jess?”

  “Jess?”

  “Jessica Barlow? Blondie, cheer captain, National Merit Finalist, fierce leaderess of the NHS free world?”

  Oh. Duh.

  “Yeah. I guess I do.” Not that I’ve seen her in the vicinity since the other morning.

  Zan whips out a pair of sunglasses that I’m sure are worth more than my entire wardrobe. Slips them on all suave-like. “So let’s ride.”

  “WOO-HOO!” from Jax.

  Did I say yes? I don’t recall saying yes.

  But again, I can’t really say no now, can I?

  What I do know is I really didn’t need another reminder of how few real choices I have in my own GD life. Fine, this is just a ride home, but it does feel like an encroachment on the little autonomy I prize probably more than any physical possession.

  Man, how different would all this be going if I’d just picked the other ticket?

  When we get to the Jeep, I climb into the backseat, and Jax sits up front with the toilet-tissue titan. I have qualms about this because Jax is such a shrimp and this monster-mobile has passenger-side airbags, but I can’t crush the kid’s dreams.

  Have I mentioned I hate Alexander Gustavo Macklin? (And fine, hate is a strong word considering I don’t actually know him, but like who even has a name like that?)

  “Dude, this car is SO COOL!” Jax says. Bro can hardly see over the dang dashboard. “And are those fidget spinners?!”

  I peek between the seats to follow Jaxy’s eyes. There in one of the between-seat cup holders is a literal stack of the (variously colored) things.

  “They are,” Zan say. “You want one?”

  “Uhh, YEAH!”

  “Go ahead. Take your pick.”

  Jax grabs a royal blue one that has little spikes all over it.

  “And thanks for the compliment on the Jeep.” Zan starts the engine, and I swear the whole parking lot shakes from the rumble. “I bought it myself.”

  “You did?” Jax snatches the question straight from my lips.

  “Yep. Hard work pays off, you know?”

  “You have a job?” I blurt.

  Zander looks at me in the rearview. Bah, stupid (serpentine!) green eyes. “Been working since fifteen, IQ.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Started out bagging at Publix. When I turned sixteen, my dad put me to work at the family business.”

  “Ah, that doesn’t count.” I look out the window.

  Zan laughs, but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t sound forced. Did what I said bother him?

  “I can almost guarantee you make more per hour than I do,” he replies.

  I snort. “Doubtful.”

  “I’m serious. Minimum wage-er up here.”

  So I have him beat by fifty cents. Big whoop. “Why don’t they pay you more?”

  “Not how my dad rolls.”

  Hmph.

  Not like any of it matters, though. Job or not, he certainly didn’t have to help pay any bills. I wish my income could go toward buying myself a monster truck.

  Grumpy now.

  “Jax, your sister’s a really hard worker. You should definitely follow her example,” Zan continues.

  “I know, man. If it wasn’t for Rico, we’d prolly be homeless. She makes the budget and really keeps us afloat. Our mom’s terrible with money.”

  “Jax!” Is he for real right now?!

  “You know it’s true, Rico!”

  Zan laughs, which kind of makes me want to set this precious toy truck of his on fire.

  “It’s a hard-knock life,” Jax goes on, and I expect Zan to laugh again….

  But instead he says: “I get it, little dude. My mom’s pretty awful with money too.”

  For the rest of the week, Zanny Gusto, as I call him in my head, sits beside me in history and infiltrates my Castaway-esque cafeteria island.

  But still: when he pulls up in front of my apartment building Saturday morning, I’m so nervous, I could collapse. I’m wearing the second-most-expensive thing from my closet: a maroon V-neck sweater dress that Mama splurged on for my Sweet Sixteen birthday dinner (that she also splurged on—definitely bad with money). Black tights, Goodwill coat, church-drive Doc Martens.

  I still feel like a pauper.

  Also not helping: pretty sure I caught Zomeboy semi-checking me out two days ago and now I feel like my ass has gotten bigger. When he pulls up, I’m waiting out front because the last thing I want is for Jax to invite him in to look at his Lego collection. It would involve him discovering that I, a high school senior on the cusp of full womanhood, share a room with my nine-year-old brother.

  He whips his Tonka truck into a parking space—nearly sideswiping Mama’s rust bucket in the process—and then hops out and runs around the car to open the door for me. He’s wearing a button-down beneath a nice cardigan, dark jeans, brown Clarks Wallabee boots, and a navy peacoat with gold buttons.

  He looks me over. “Thou art lovely as a freshly bloomed rose this morn, m’lady,” he says with a bow.

  “You are so much weirder than I expected.”

  With a grin, he extends his hand to help me into the Jeep. The interior smells extra like his cologne today, aka warm sunlight and dizzy spins through an enchanted forest all while inhaling the holographic rainbow dust of hypermasculine unicorn fairies.

  I buckle my seat belt as he pushes my door shut, and then close my eyes and breathe in super deep, even though I should really be trying to stay focused. (TICKET, Rico!)

  That’s when I hear what I guess are chicken sounds—bawk bawk!—coming from the speakers.

  He climbs in and pulls his door shut. Buckles up.


  “What the holy hell are you listening to?”

  “Project Pat, fool!” he says.

  I just stare at him.

  “Cardi B sampled the track for a semi-remix, but the original can never be topped.”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea of what you’re talking about, Macklin.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Quite.”

  He gapes at me like I just confessed to not knowing the name of the first black president. “I know it’s a little old-school, but…you really don’t know Project Pat?”

  Still staring. I blink.

  “Three-Six-Mafia?”

  “Oh, them.” I look out my window as he finally backs out of the space. “Weren’t they like devil worshippers or something?”

  “Devil worshippers?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “ ‘Triple-Six’ Mafia, as in 666, the number of Satan?”

  “I dunno about all that, IQ—”

  BAWK, BAWK! Chicken head…

  “What is this guy talking about?” I say.

  “Father in heaven, what am I going to do with you, Danger?” Zan shakes his head. “The song is called ‘Chicken Head,’ which was a derisive term for girl who—” He stops and presses his lips together. “Mmmm…Well, we’ll just say she’s a rap groupie. I think the modern-day equivalent is THOT.”

  “How do you even understand what they’re saying?”

  He looks at me with his caterpillar brows drawn together (note to self: when I work up the courage, I must ask if he gets them threaded), then back at the road. “Okay, I’ve avoided asking you this because Ness told me it might be offensive—something about a microaggression. But your downright baffling response to this formerly very popular rap song has me really wondering.” We stop at a light, and he looks at me. “What are you, Danger?”

  A) Takes me a second to figure out he’s talking about Finesse. B) I have no idea what to do with that question. “Huh?”

  “Like ethnically. I’ve been struggling to figure it out.”

  Offensive indeed. But of course he asked anyway. “Does it matter?”

  “Well, no…” He shifts in his seat and clears his throat. “Pure curiosity. Humor me?”

  I sigh. This is a sore spot for me because honestly…I don’t actually know all the pieces. I’m black by societal standards—something Mama’s been drilling into me since I made the mistake of requesting a blond/blue-eyed American Girl doll for my sixth birthday (that’s not to mention the fact that we couldn’t afford a one-hundred-dollar doll). But I’d be lying if I said Zan’s the first person to ever ask me the question. Apparently naturally curly hair and *high cheekbones* suggest other elements in my heritage?

  Which is stupid and kinda confusing. And another thing that makes me feel out of place—not being entirely sure of where/what I come from.

  Too many missing pieces.

  Like a dad.

  He’s still waiting for a response.

  And I can’t seem to resist giving him one. “I’m…a mutt,” I say, and I totally regret it the moment it’s out of my mouth.

  “Well, that’s self-deprecating.”

  I shrug. “It’s true. My mom’s dad was a white guy. According to the story he told me, he had a one-night stand with an…escort he’s pretty sure was black, then ten months later, my mom was left on his doorstep.”

  “Whoa.”

  “Uh-huh. Then the first semester of my Mama’s junior year of college, she spent a month in Spain and came back pregnant with me. The Afro-Spanish guy she’d fallen in love with was named Rico.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  “Yeah…but she didn’t know about his wife and kids until after she’d named me.” And now she refuses to talk about him. Ever. Which is a point of contention between us.

  He’s silent.

  “She never finished undergrad even though my granddad offered to take care of me so she could. Gramps died when I was six.”

  No clue why I’m telling him all this, but I can’t seem to stop now. “When I was eight, she started dating this…white guy. Corporate lawyer named Tristan McIntyre. He let me call him Dad for a while, but when she told him she was pregnant with Jax, he broke up with her,” I say. I don’t say that good ol’ Tris kicked us out of his penthouse and took out a restraining order on pregnant Mama to keep us from coming back. That for four months we lived out of the fifteen-passenger van my grandfather left to Mama in his will, and that a very compassionate black cop discovered us one night in a Walmart parking lot and threatened to call DFACS if Mama didn’t move us into a shelter immediately.

  That’s where we were living when Jax was born. “Neither Jax nor I have ever even seen our dads. It’s kind of shitty.”

  When Zander still doesn’t respond, I quickly swipe at my damp eyes. “Really didn’t mean to unload like that. I’m sorry.” And humiliated. Despite the fact that I didn’t tell the really ugly parts.

  He looks over at me. “I’m sorry you and Jax have never known your dads, Rico.”

  Okay, walls back up now!

  “So how long is it gonna take us to get where we’re going?” I say.

  (The words now coming out of the speakers: Don’t save her…she don’t wanna be saved…Highly appropriate in this moment.)

  “It’s in Decatur, so probably another twenty minutes or so.”

  Twenty minutes?

  I clear my throat. God, what do kids my age even talk to each other about these days? “Soooo…where are you going to college next year?”

  “I’m not.”

  I don’t think my head has ever turned so fast. “But you’re an honor grad, aren’t you?”

  “Geez, stalker. A little breathing room, maybe?” He makes those trimmed bushes above his eyes wiggle. (Definitely threaded.)

  “What about the football thing?” I say. “You didn’t get any scholarship offers?”

  “I did.”

  “Well?”

  “Well, not every high school quarterback is after a scholarship.”

  “Oh.” I mean, clearly he wouldn’t need one….Leave it to the poor girl to assume all jocks are in pursuit of free college. “So where were the offers from?”

  “Few places.”

  “Like?”

  There’s the blush again. “I don’t wanna say.”

  “Oh come on. Can’t be that bad.” I gently shove his shoulder.

  He sighs. “Duke, Stanford, and Notre Dame.”

  Holy shit! “Are you serious, Zan?”

  His cheeks go redder, and he shrugs.

  “And you’re not going?”

  “Nope.” He shrugs. “College isn’t for everyone, you know.”

  Hmm. There was some bite to that. And he doesn’t sound convinced, but I decide not to push. Especially since I’m (uncontrollably) crunchy now. To have all that presented to you on a diamond-encrusted platinum platter for the taking and you just…decide not to? Seems so wasteful. “What are you doing instead?”

  “Remember how I mentioned working for the family company?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Well, it’s always been in product development. You wouldn’t know this, but a few of my ideas have become huge hits.”

  “Yeah? Like what?”

  “Like the flushable moist wipe. Working on a prototype right now for a flushable damp wipe on a roll.”

  Dang. “Impressive.”

  “Yeah. Haven’t quite deciphered how to keep the whole roll from drying out. Anyway, after graduation, I’ll be stepping into a salaried, full-time position. I’ll eventually climb the ranks and take over just like my dad did from my grandpa, but Dad feels it’s important for me to start at the bottom so I’ll ‘appreciate the view from the top.’ ” He narrows his eyes.

  I mean…sounds va
lid to me. “And this is what you want to do?”

  The pre-answer pause stretches so long, I begin to wonder if he heard the question.

  Which makes me think…“Guessing the answer is no?”

  “I mean…It’s not really as simple as what I want.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “Of course not, Rico.”

  Touchy. “Why not?”

  “Well, there are…familial factors to consider. Eldest bro is a lawyer, and middle bro died. Sister’s a mechanical engineer, which leaves me as heir to the porcelain throne.”

  Now he’s just oozing sarcasm. Which…I have no clue how to respond to. “Sorry about your loss.”

  He shrugs. “I wasn’t even born yet.”

  And then I have nothing to say.

  Air in the Jeep definitely feels different now, and I’m beginning to wonder what all is hiding beneath the overpriced clothes and helmet of perfect hair. It’s a bit barbaric when I think about it now, but I assumed a dude—and a white one at that—with the kind of coin Zan has access to would think pretty exclusively about what he wants and the easiest way to get it.

  So this is interesting.

  “You okay over there?” he says once the silence grows legs.

  “Yeah, I’m—” Surprised. “Sounds like your dad’s a little tough on you.”

  He snorts. “You don’t know the half of it, Danger. People think I’m ‘rolling in it,’ ‘ballin’,’ ‘making it rain,’ take your pick,” he says. “But I’m not: my parents are.”

  An alarm bell rings in my head, but I let him keep going.

  “Since I was small, my dad’s drilled the fact that the only money that belongs to me is what I earn from working. Definitely don’t come from rags, but he’s determined to make me feel like I do.”

  Okay, so definitely possible he’s after the ticket for his own gain.

  Also: screw him for his entitled-ass complaint. Wonder if he’d feel like I was adulterating the pristine nature of his Tonka upholstery if he knew I’m basically wearing the rags he *doesn’t come from*.

  But I force a smile. We should be at the cab place pretty soon. Just gotta figure out a way to get the info without him having it.

  He glances over and smiles back. “Thanks for asking me that.”

  “What?”