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

the odds because I’ve been covertly Googling since the start of class. There was a one in three hundred million chance I would be the sole winner of last night’s jackpot.

That’s right. One in three hundred million.

Also—according to Google—it’s more likely I’d date a supermodel, get hit by an asteroid, achieve sainthood, and be eaten by a shark, all at the same time, rather than win the whole jackpot myself.

Which is something my brain refuses to wrap itself around. I keep thinking about it and then bouncing off the truth of my newfound wealth like a kid bopping around in a giant bounce house. Except it’s a lot less fun. Maybe I’m like that kid who keeps falling out of the bounce house and landing on her face. Or the one who keeps slipping and getting pummeled by the other kids. Or whatever.

For perspective: Yesterday, I had twenty-four dollars in my bank account. Today, I have $58 million in my pocket.

To keep from having a full-blown panic attack, I doodle a picture of me and my supermodel date swimming in shark-infested waters while an asteroid races toward us. I make sure to include a halo over my head. Supermodel, shark, star, saint. Supermodel, shark, star, saint. The ridiculous combo runs through my head like a mantra.

Fun as that image is, though, my hand shakes as I sketch, sending a wobbly line across the page. I put down my pencil. Here are some other facts I’ve also learned since the start of math class:

Fact One: Lottery tickets are bearer’s instruments. So, if I want this money, I better make sure I sign this ticket so no one else can cash it.

Fact Two: Even if I sign it, I can’t cash it yet because a minor in the state of Wisconsin can only cash a ticket if it was bought by an adult and given as a gift.

Fact Three: I don’t turn eighteen for another two weeks. But that’s not the big issue, since I have one hundred and eighty days to claim the—

“Holy shit!” bursts out Bran. His phone chirps with a series of texts, and everyone in the class spins around to look at him. Ms. Wallace stops writing on the whiteboard and turns around, glaring at us all.

“Is there something you’d like to share, Mr. Kim?”

“Yeah! My dad just texted me—Wanda’s Quick-Go Shop sold the winning Mega-Wins ticket last night. One person won the full prize of $58 million, and my dad says it could be somebody in town!”

Our town is right off the interstate, and Wanda’s is one of two convenience stores, so there’s a chance it could’ve been bought by anyone passing through.

But it wasn’t, of course.

I shift lower in my seat, making sure the ticket is deep in my jeans pocket. I’m going to have to figure out a better solution for keeping it safe, but I certainly can’t pull it out and shove it into my backpack right now.

Everyone in the class starts murmuring. Mr. Hairgel—who is newly eighteen—tells the girl next to him that he bought ten Mega-Wins tickets at Wanda’s last night. I cringe to think of what he’d spend the prize money on if he had won. Probably a lifetime supply of hair products and dude-bro body spray.

All around me, phones come out, and everyone begins texting. Ms. Wallace starts to say something about putting phones away, but then she throws up her hands.

“Has anyone claimed the prize yet?” she asks Bran.

“Not yet. My dad says news crews are probably coming in tonight. They’re going to interview people in town to see if they know anything.”

My hand slips inside my pocket, and I run my fingers lightly over the winning ticket again.

It’s all about numbers.

And last night they called mine: 6 28 19 30 82.

But considering the fever pitch the classroom has now reached, I’m not sure this is my lucky day after all.

CHAPTER TWO

OR MAYBE IT IS. I DON’T KNOW.

One part of me says: Jane, you big dork. Winning the lotto is marvelous. Stop worrying so much; you’ll figure it out. THIS IS GOING TO CHANGE YOUR LIFE IN AMAZING WAYS.

Sure, right, says my more cynical side. This is clearly too good to be true. Don’t get your hopes up; something will go terribly wrong.

I war with myself for the rest of the morning, feeling deeply conflicted about the whole thing. I have more lotto-winner research to do, which I’m saving for tonight, when I’m at home and not surrounded by hordes of people talking about the ticket and what they’d do with the money.

By lunchtime, the news of the winning ticket has spread throughout the school. Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and Snapchat are all buzzing. Half the school is checking their phones to see if they know the winner, and the other half is posting pictures for the impromptu “Where were you when you found out about the ticket?” selfie stream on Instagram that some industrious soul thought was a good idea.

Bran is offering tidbits of lottery information on his social media and his website, Bran’s Lakesboro Daily. He started the site a few years ago as part of a class project, but since then it’s grown from a small school newspaper to something that covers news for the whole town. Bran’s a brilliant journalist, and he’s hoping the site will help him get a CNN internship this summer and also help with college applications. When I last saw him, he was running an “Ask Me Anything” on Instagram and scrambling to keep up with questions from people at school.

I was following along for a while, but now I’ve turned off my phone, and I sit at a picnic table in the yard behind school, eating a ketchup sandwich and trying not to think about the ticket.

Which is about as easy as forgetting to breathe.

I pull apart my sandwich with a sigh. The blob of ketchup on the white bread looks like a bloodstain, but there was nothing