Jackpot Page 8

  “I know I’ve made some mistakes, Lord,” Stacia goes on, “but come on. Rico doesn’t deserve this. Help me out for her sake, if nothing less. She and Jax deserve to have lives. To be kids, for crying out loud. To hang out with friends and have fun and go on beach trips—”

  She droned on for a while, then sighed, shook her head, and gave us one last look before returning us to our envelope. We were lifted quickly enough to make our stomachs drop, then shuffly scuffling filled our ears before it got very dark and the smell of human feet filled our paper olfactory glands.

  “I believe we’ve been placed in a shoe box!” Bill Twenty-Three exclaimed.

  “Ah, well. Better than being tossed into the air and made to cascade to the floor like raindrops. I got trampled the last time that happened,” from Bill Six.

  “At least you’re not torn,” said Bill Forty-One. “One of my previous owners left me on a cold marble table next to his Rolex, and a downright beast of a miniature human got ahold of me. Almost ripped me right in two!”

  “I’ve barely been touched,” Thirty-Two said. “Came off the presses mere months ago.”

  “Count yourself lucky, son,” said Bill One. “Eventually the humans will begin to treat you as though you hold the secrets to the universe. It’s exhausting.”

  “That Rico sure was nice to us,” Forty-Eight said with a yawn. “Very gentle.”

  “Too gentle, perhaps,” replied Bill Seven, equally drowsy as the dark settled in. “From the way she cried when removing Bill Fifty from our stack, I suspect that if she had the choice, she would’ve never let any of us go.”

  When I tell Zan about my “family emergency” he’s way more bummed than I expect him to be. His eyes drop, his shoulders slump, and he spends most of History sighing and tossing sad puppy eyes in my direction every few minutes. It freaks me out so bad, I camp out in the library during lunch to avoid seeing him again before the school day ends.

  Right now, I’m thankful for the mindless task that is restocking Coke products in the soda fridge. I even take the time to make sure the label on every bottle is face-out. It actually feels pretty good, being in control of something.

  Last night, I had a dream I found Mama…no longer alive. I woke up in a panic and reached under my mattress so I could ground myself by counting my bonus.

  But of course it wasn’t there.

  I cried for a while before miraculously drifting back to sleep.

  “Ricooooo?” my name rings out in Mr. Z’s signature trill. When I come out of the cooler and pull off my hat and gloves (don’t judge), he smiles at me from his perch behind the checkout counter. “Break?” he says.

  I shake my head no. Gotta stay busy. Breaks equal wandering cyclical thoughts of lack ticket lack (that throws wrenches into plans to find the ticket).

  “You work register then. Come. We’ll refill coins while the store is empty.”

  I shuffle my way up front while he disappears into the office and closes the door to get coin rolls from the safe. As soon as I unlock the register drawer and pull it open, though, the bell on the door rings, and three voices flow into the store:

  Guy #1: *Grunt* Ness, can you hold the door for me? This box is kinda heavy.

  Guy #2: I look like a doorman to you, fool?

  Guy #1: Oh boy, here we go. You carry the box and I’ll hold the door then.

  Guy #2: I’m not a butler either—

  Girl: Oh my God, I’ll hold the damn door.

  Guy #2: No, babe, that’s not your job. The white man gotta do for theyself someti—

  Girl: Can it, Ness!

  And I watch with my mouth open as Zan practically tumbles into the store carrying a massive box with MACKLIN ENTERPRISES printed on the side. Finesse comes in after him, and bringing up the rear is Jessica Barlow.

  Macklin makes it halfway to the office before he sees me, and when he does, he totally drops the box. Unfortunately, Finesse isn’t paying attention—too busy making goo-goo eyes over his shoulder at Jessica—so he crashes into Zan, and they both trip over the fallen box and go sprawling.

  “Imbeciles.” Jessica shakes her head at the guys and then turns her attention to me. “Hey, neighbor!” With a grin that could make a nun drop a habit.

  “Uhh…” is all I can muster. Barring the two smiles she kicked my way—one on the shared strip of concrete between our apartment doors, and one on that fateful day in the cafeteria that started this whole Macklin Mess—those two-point-five words are the most we’ve ever exchanged. “Hi?”

  “You know, I’ve never told you this because I didn’t want you to be weirded out, but you’re really pretty, Rico.”

  “No she’s not,” Zan says from the floor.

  Wow.

  Jessica turns to him as he gets up. “Asshole much?”

  “What?” He’s got the nerve to seem confused. Then he looks at my face.

  Guess I look hurt?

  He flushes bright red. “I didn’t mean it like that—”

  “So how’d the hell you mean it, Zan?” Jess punches the crap out of his arm.

  “Ow!”

  I think I like this girl.

  Finesse comes and drapes an arm over Jessica’s shoulders as Zan narrows his eyes and looks over my face. “Pretty is too flimsy a word to describe Rico,” he says. “She’s like…fuller than that.”

  Nobody speaks.

  Then Finesse coughs, and Jessica glances back and forth between Zan and me with an unmistakable glint in her blue eyes. I peek at Zan to see if he’s as uncomfortable as I am, but he’s still visually dissecting my face.

  Man, is it hot in here? Might need to hop back into the cooler area…

  The office door opens, and Mr. Zoughbi comes out with the coin rolls, instantly spotting Zan-the-Man—who you’d think was Barack Obama (Mr. Z’s favorite) based on the way his mustache quivers with excitement. “Mr. Macklin!”

  Zan’s focus shifts to him (thank God). “Hello, sir!”

  “I didn’t know you were coming today!”

  Rich-boy shrug. “Was supposed to drive to Birmingham, but my travel companion had a ‘family emergency.’ ”

  He blinks enough times for the sarcasm to stab, then forces a smile.

  “Oh no…” Mr. Z rubs his beard. “I do hope everything is all right?”

  “As do I, sir. Haven’t heard anything yet, but since my afternoon was suddenly open, I figured I’d bring some samples by.”

  So he’s mad then.

  Well, whatever. It’s not like I could tell him why I was canceling and what I’d be doing instead. He’d never understand.

  “Oh, wonderful!” Mr. Z claps the way he does when he gets excited. “Come, come! We shall discuss!”

  Zan squats and picks up the box, but before he slips into the office behind Mr. Zoughbi, he looks at me again.

  He’s not mad. He’s hurt.

  Which makes me feel like I just got punched in the stomach.

  The anger I could’ve dealt with. Chalked it up to Hyperprivileged Rich White Kid Syndrome—symptoms include abject fury over not getting one’s way.

  This, though, is making me feel as helpless and unmoored as when I handed over my bonus. No clue why, but I do not like it.

  “Sweetie, will you grab me a Vitaminwater and a couple of PowerBars, please?” Jessica says to Finesse, snatching me back to, you know, my job.

  “Sure thing, gorgeous.” With a li’l smooch. Then he swags off in that way great athletes who know they’re hot do. He and Jess are endlessly cute, and it’s kind of annoying.

  I start cracking open the coin rolls.

  “So you and Macklin, huh?” Jessica says, stepping up to the counter.

  “Mmmm, no. We’re merely…acquaintances.”

  She grins. “That mopey face he gave you didn’t lo
ok acquaintance-y to me. You’re the travel companion who canceled?”

  I shrug noncommittally.

  “You really are gorgeous.”

  Who is this girl? And why are her compliments making me feel so warm inside? This is almost as confusing as dealing with Macklin. “Thanks.”

  “Between the two of us, I think you’d be really good for him.”

  I close the cash drawer. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but considering you and I have never spoken before, that’s a strong conclusion to jump to.”

  Finesse comes back and places her requested items on the counter.

  “Oh drat,” she says. “Honey, I forgot to ask for an ostrich jerky.”

  Ostrich jerky? “Umm, I don’t think we—”

  She cuts me a warning glance, and I’m so startled, my mouth snaps shut.

  Finesse turns to me. “That would be near the beef jerky, right? Right.” He walks off before I can answer.

  Jess waits until he’s halfway across the store before she faces me again. “Just because we don’t talk doesn’t mean I don’t see you,” she says. “We all do, babe. Zan most of all.”

  Babe, huh? I dump quarters into the register just to make noise. All this attention is starting to make me itch.

  “I’m serious,” she continues. “I haven’t seen Zanny this alive in the eight years I’ve known him.”

  Zanny. Gross.

  Finesse comes back to the counter. “No ostrich jerky, babe.”

  “That’s okay, sweetie. Thanks for looking for me.” Jess smiles at me.

  The office door opens then, and Zan comes out with Mr. Z at his heels. “So the triple-ply recycled and the Ultra-Tough Quilted?”

  “Correct, Mr. Macklin.”

  “And I’ll send you a sample of the moist prototype we’re working on through Rico.”

  “Fantastic!” Mr. Z says. “Thank you, Rico!”

  Zan turns to me then. “You’re off at ten?”

  Mmmm…“Yes…”

  “I’ll see you then. Ness, Jess, let’s roll.”

  And they’re gone.

  I cash out, give the overnight dude a rundown, and at 10:04 p.m., I exit the store.

  Zan is leaning against the front fender of his Jeep, with his feet crossed at the ankles, fidget spinner spinning between the thumb and middle finger of his right hand. When he sees me, he shoves the thing into his coat pocket and lifts his chin, half greeting, half beckoning.

  There’s a part of me that wants to walk right past his car to the bus stop—bus should arrive in approximately two and a half minutes….

  But then his gaze shifts off into the distance and he sighs. There’s that hurt again. So I head toward him, feeling like I’m walking to my doom with each step.

  “Rico,” he says once I get to him.

  “Zan.”

  And at first that’s all. Once inside the Jeep and on the move, we take the shortest route to my apartment complex (aka the way the bus doesn’t go): past the local tennis club, golf course, and the subdivisions of big houses most of my classmates live in. The only sound is some rap song about staying “fly till I die” playing softly in the background.

  It’s actually kinda nice—

  But then we pass the Walgreens that denotes entry into the cheap pocket of town. Once we turn onto the poorly lit street that leads to my complex, he turns the music off.

  Oh boy…

  “So?” he says.

  Of course I know what he’s asking without asking, but screw him for refusing to just ask. “So what?”

  “Family emergency?”

  “I don’t owe you an explanation, Zan.” I cross my arms.

  “That’s fair,” he replies. “But I’d appreciate it if you gave me one.”

  His eyes are muted in the light from the dim streetlamps outside, but they’re still so intense. Jessica’s words run laps in my head: I haven’t seen Zanny this alive in the eight years I’ve known him.

  It’s like…confounding. Never in a hundred and six million years would I have expected to exchange a single word with Zan Macklin, let alone be sitting in the passenger seat of his Tonka truck with him *politely* requesting intel on my personal life.

  But still. I hate how entitled he seems to feel to the information.

  How entitled he seems to feel to everything.

  To me.

  He didn’t ask if he could pick me up from work. He didn’t ask me to get in his car. And he hasn’t actually asked me to tell him why I really canceled. Not in a full sentence. With the word please tossed in there somewhere.

  “You’re really used to getting what you want, huh?” I say.

  “What?”

  “You don’t really ask for things.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You like…demand them. The only reason I’m sitting next to you right now is because you basically willed it so by creating an expectation I didn’t feel comfortable defying. Which I have a hunch is kind of a pattern for you.”

  “What are you talking about, Danger?”

  I shake my head. “Even the fact that you insist on continuing to mispronounce my last name. You just do whatever the hell you want, and people go with it. Zan-the-Man Macklin, king of the world.”

  He just stares.

  “And it’s not that I don’t appreciate the ride….Actually, no. What am I even saying? I was totally fine without the ride. I’ve been fine without rides since I started this job. So why am I suddenly taking them? You say ‘See you at ten’ and post up outside my ‘place of employment,’ as you say, and I come out and just hop right in? What even is that?”

  “I’m not understanding—”

  “Of course you aren’t, Zan. Why would you? I’m sure your whole life, you’ve never had to ask for anything. You say jump, people ask how high. Myself included.”

  He doesn’t respond.

  “My mom is sick.”

  Again, nothing.

  “She can’t work right now, so I have to work double my normal hours to make up the slack.”

  “The slack?”

  “The income slack, Macklin.” God. I figured he’d be a little out of touch, but this is…disheartening. “If I don’t pick it up, there won’t be enough money to cover bills this month.”

  He’s back to not responding. Which I expected this time.

  Soon we’re turning into the neighborhood, and then he’s pulling into the space next to Mama’s truck. He sets the brake on the Jeep. “What can I do to help?”

  “Nothing.” It’s knee-jerk, but the moment it’s out of my mouth, I realize it’s true.

  “Come on, Rico. I know there’s something I can do.”

  “There really isn’t.”

  “Nothing at all?”

  I can feel the rage rising from my gut, but I honestly don’t know exactly who/what I’m mad at. At Mama for being sick? At myself for telling the richest boy in school my poor-kid sob story? At Zan for not being able to identify? At life for being so unfair?

  “I don’t need your charity,” I say. “I take the bus to and from work every day. Even this ride was unnecessary.”

  And there’s that bewildered look again. “I don’t get it—”

  “Tell me something I don’t know, Zan.”

  He shakes his head. “Can you just explain how me wanting to help is a bad thing?”

  “I didn’t ask for your help!”

  “But you did,” he says. “If I remember correctly, you dragged me out of the cafeteria to ask for my help.”

  “This isn’t the same!” Almost crying now.

  “Why isn’t it? Aren’t friends supposed to help each other?”

  “Oh, are we friends now?”

  His face scrunches up so tight, it looks like a giant brown
creepy-crawly is perched over the bridge of his nose. “Really? Are we friends? What the hell do you call it?”

  “I don’t need your money, Macklin.”

  “Who said anything about money?”

  UGH! “What other kind of ‘help’ could you possibly mean?”

  “How ’bout rides? Food while you’re at work? Someone to hang with Jax so you can rest while your mom recovers?”

  I don’t say anything. Can’t. Because at the end of the day, everything he mentioned falls under the category of Stuff People Pay For.

  “So?” he says.

  Again with that! “So what, Zan?”

  He sighs again. Looks at me.

  I wish he wouldn’t. It makes me feel too many conflicting things. Especially with that crazy-ass cologne wafting over me.

  “I’m sorry if I offended you, Rico,” he says. “That wasn’t my intention.”

  I hate him so much for apologizing. “Good intentions don’t lessen negative impact, Alexander.”

  I reach for the door handle and shove the creaky thing open before he can see how wet my eyeballs are.

  “By the way, we’re going to Birmingham after school on Friday,” he says once I’ve got my legs hanging out the door.

  And here we go again! “Did you hear a single word I just said?!”

  “Huh?”

  I shake my head and take a deep breath. Guess I gotta pretend I’m talking to Jax….“We’re not going to Birmingham on Friday, Zan. For one: I have to work—”

  “I made arrangeme—”

  “Don’t cut me off. It’s rude.”

  He looks like I smacked him. Good.

  “For two: even if I didn’t have to work, I’d say no.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you didn’t ask me.” I hop down.

  “Wait!”

  I turn to face him and cross my arms. More as a feeble attempt to protect myself from the You can’t talk to me that way, riffraff statement I’m expecting to fly from his mouth than to look tough, but whatever.

  “Rico, will you go to Birmingham with me on Friday?”

  He cannot be serious.

  “Please?”

  Now he’s just making me mad. “I have to work, Zan. I have a job. I mentioned that, but you clearly only heard the part that has to do with you, which is so utterly typical.”