Lucky Girl by Jamie Pacton (novels for beginners txt) 📕

talking millions) in the Florida Lottery. Abraham was a nice guy. He shared his money with lots of people, but then he met Dee Dee Moore. By all accounts, Dee Dee was bad news from the start. She tricked Abraham into dating her, took control of his home, and bought herself a bunch of expensive stuff. Then, maybe she got tired of Abraham or maybe she wanted the money all to herself, but the short story is that Dee Dee killed Abraham and buried him under some concrete patio slabs in the backyard.

Talk about the death of romance!

But, wild as this tragic tale is, Abraham Shakespeare’s story is not all that rare when it comes to lotto winners. In fact—

My phone rings, interrupting my Googling. It’s Bran. The only person I know under seventy who still calls rather than texts. I almost don’t pick up, but I can’t let it go to voicemail. Because he’ll keep calling.

“Hello?” My tone comes out more guarded than I expect.

“Jane.” Bran’s voice is intense. “Where are you? Are you sleeping? Are you okay? Why do you sound funny?”

“I’m fine. Just got home. Getting ready to start my homework.”

“Don’t do that. I know you’re off tonight, but can you come to the farm? We’re super slammed. Mom says she’ll pay you for tonight’s shift in cash.”

“I don’t know … I’m really—”

“Please. We need you, and it’ll get you out of BJD day.”

Right, I had almost forgotten about Big Junk Dump day.

“Excellent point …”

“Also, if you come to work, maybe we can find some time to talk about this lotto stuff. Have you seen my website or my social media? It’s exploding with questions. Suddenly, I’ve become the expert on all things lotto.”

The thought of him knowing so much about the lotto makes my insides squirm. But all I say is, “That’s because you’re the guy with the news in Lakesboro.”

Bran laughs at that. “Possibly true, and you should check it out when you have a chance. Some of these questions are wild. So, what do you say? Come to the farm? I’ll buy you a caramel apple and some coffee …”

My kryptonite. Of course I would say yes anyway, because I love Bran and his family, but throw in coffee and caramel apples? I’m powerless to resist.

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Okay. I’ll be there soon.”

“Thank you, Janey. You’re the greatest best friend ever.” Bran’s voice carries the smile I know is on his face.

“I know,” I say as I hang up. But I’m pretty sure I’m not the best friend ever. I suspect that person wouldn’t be hiding the fact that she won $58 million from her best friend. That person would be thinking of group vacations they could go on and planning on buying her BFF a car or something.

I shove those thoughts away as fiercely as I shove the book with the winning ticket into its slot on my bookshelf. There. Now Sea Change is just another blue book on the rainbow shelf. Nothing to mark it as special. And I can figure out whether or not I want to tell Bran more later, when I’ve wrapped my head around all this lotto stuff.

Is the ticket safe on my bookshelf, though? I pause for a moment, looking around my room. I think so? I mean, who would think to take it?

Thanks to a strict house rule and the lock on my door, Mom doesn’t come into my room, and the odds of her knowing that Sea Change is my favorite book are slim, so it should be safe.

Then again, perhaps her knowing that is about as slim as the odds of me winning the lotto. How’d that work out? whispers a little voice in my head.

Before I can change my mind—I can’t be hauling this ticket around all over town; what if I lose it?—I grab my backpack and head back into the tornado that is the rest of my house.

I’M SHUTTING THE FRONT DOOR WHEN MOM’S TRUCK PULLS INTO THE driveway. Heaps of stuff stick out of it at odd angles.

Mom clearly left work early to get started on her BJD pickups.

“Fortuna!” she says when she sees me. “Just the girl I was looking for!”

I got Dad’s light-gray eyes and brown hair, but Mom and I have the same blindingly pale skin and short stature. That’s where our resemblance ends. Mom hasn’t had a haircut since dad died—I guess she’s been collecting hair too—and it’s so long that even when in a gray-blond ponytail, it falls past the back pockets of her jeans. She wears a Doctor Who T-shirt (one of Dad’s) and work boots. She’s painfully thin, but her face is completely made up. Like, full country singer/Dolly Parton contoured, with false lashes and everything else in between, because Mom won’t be seen around town “without her face on.” Though she will be seen around town gathering garbage.

I know. It’s a mystery to me too.

I untangle my bike from the piles of broken toys that surround it. “Hi, Mom.”

“Where are you headed?” she asks as I push the bike over to the side of the truck.

“To the pumpkin farm …”

“C’mon, Jane. You can’t go now. We have stuff to pick up.”

She says it like it’s the most natural activity for a mother and daughter to do together. Like everyone in town won’t be staring out their windows as we rifle through the trash they’ve left on the curb.

“Mom. I have to go to work; they’re super busy and need me. I’ll be back soon though,” I say. I’m too tired for an argument.

“Can you help me unload at least?” Mom asks, gesturing toward the truck.

I check my phone. It’ll take me half an hour to get to Bran’s farm, but Mom is not one to let the junk stay in the truck. If I leave, it’ll sit there, niggling at her, like an itch she can’t scratch. She’ll probably try to unload it