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

People. Persons. One person. A person who is at least eighteen …

Ahhhh. There it is. An idea.

This is what I need to do: I have to find a person who’s at least eighteen who will say they bought the lotto ticket; let them cash it; and then they can give me the money.

Sure sounds easy, but who do I know who could do it? If I were Bran, I’d ask my mom, and it would be fine. But I’m not Bran, and I can’t even imagine what my mom would do with that much money. We’d likely have a whole castle full of other people’s questionable photo-based gift choices. No, thank you.

So, okay, I can’t ask Mom.

But can I really give up $58 million?

Of course I can’t.

I’ve just got to find a way to get the money that doesn’t involve my mom becoming a millionaire or me going to jail. And that means finding someone else who—

“Hey, you okay?” Bran says as he walks up to me and pulls me out of my thoughts. He’s wearing an orange-and-black-striped apron over his clothes, and he has his pumpkin-shaped nametag on.

I am absolutely not okay.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I say, closing Instagram and shoving my phone into my pocket. “I was just heading in. Holy catstronauts, it’s busy out here.”

Bran laughs. “I know.”

“Are you offering free hayrides or something?” I say as we walk through the parking lot. I chain my bike up outside the gift shop.

In addition to the corn maze and pumpkin patch, the Kim family pumpkin farm has a barn for making crafts, an awesome playground, and a snack stand that sells cider, caramel apples, hot dogs, and cotton candy. Tonight, every table in the outdoor eating area is full, kids scream with glee from the bounce house, and lots of couples walk around drinking steaming cups of cider.

Bran shakes his head, leaning against an antique farm wagon filled with pumpkins. “It’s the time of year. Everybody just wants to be out and doing something before winter hits.”

“It’s definitely perfect pumpkin-patch weather,” I say.

And it is. The air is crisp and cool. If I could bottle autumn in the heartland, it would look like this: twilight in mid-October at a Wisconsin pumpkin farm. I take a deep breath, inhaling the wood smoke and the hint of cold weather on the wind. It’s immensely calming.

I could just ask Bran about his latest Instagram post. Or see if he knows any loopholes for criminal teens who bought lotto tickets that against all odds happened to win. Maybe I’ll ask him anonymously later.

(I won’t. I don’t want to plant that idea in anyone’s head.)

Before I can say anything else, a news van pulls into one of the parking spots near the gift shop. A young female reporter wearing a flannel shirt, leggings, and tall rain boots hops out of the front seat, looks around the farm, and walks over to us, microphone in hand.

“Excuse me,” she calls out. “You work here, right?” She gestures toward Bran’s apron and nametag. He nods. The reporter continues, “Can you point me in the direction of the owners of the farm? We’re hoping to do a segment about the lotto winner.”

Bran stands up a little taller. “This is my family’s farm. I’m Brandon Kim, and we’re happy to let you film here.”

The reporter pauses for a moment, as if she’s trying to figure out if she should ask someone else for permission, but she shrugs. “Good enough for me. We’ll set up near the corn maze.”

“Can I be on air?” Bran asks, his voice tinged with excitement.

The reporter nods as she’s waving to the camera guy, who’s walking toward her. “Sure thing. Just find me in about ten minutes when we’re all set up. I’ll put you on first.”

Once the reporter has walked away, Bran grips my arm. “Yes! This is great. I can put this clip on my website and use it for my CNN internship application.”

“Are you sure your parents are okay with this?” I ask, gesturing toward the news van.

Bran nods. “They expected some news coverage because the lotto winner is such a big story. And we’re so busy tonight, they told me to keep an eye out.”

“If you say so.”

“How do I look?” he asks, taking off his orange-and-black apron.

I take a moment to appraise him. Under his apron, he wears boots, jeans, a T-shirt, and a vintage suit jacket that’s somehow tailored perfectly. Out of nowhere, a grey fedora with a black hatband has appeared on his head. The look is somehow both stylish and also film noir detective, and I half expect him to drop into a weird 1930s accent and start smoking while drinking whiskey.

“Nice fedora.” I snatch it off his head and plop it onto my own. “Where did that even come from? Are you hiding spare hats around the farm in case you need one?”

Bran snorts and grabs it back. “I had it on the wagon. And no fedora jokes, remember?”

I groan. “I still can’t believe I lost that bet. Can I make just one fedora joke? Please?”

Bran shakes his head. “You knew the stakes when you agreed to guess the weight of the great pumpkin last year. Since I won—and let me remind you, your guess was off by an astonishing fifty pounds—I have clearly earned a year without fedora jokes. You promised.”

The only excuse I have for such a sentence even leaving his mouth is that Bran went through a truly alarming fedora phase last year and doing things like guessing the weight of oversize pumpkins is how we entertain ourselves during the long (usually slow) hours as seasonal pumpkin-farm employees in rural Wisconsin. If I’d gotten the closer guess for the weight of last year’s great pumpkin, Bran would’ve had to watch a new ocean documentary with me every weekend for the year. His loss.

“Year is almost up,” I say. “Expect a rain of fedora jokes in approximately two weeks.” Bran’s mostly over