Just My Luck by Adele Parks (best interesting books to read TXT) 📕

is rippling. What is he on about? There isn’t a syndicate anymore. They dropped out!

Mum opens her mouth, but no words come out, just a little phut sound. She reaches for my hand and puts her other arm around Logan’s shoulders, but her gesture isn’t comforting, it’s freaking me out. She’s behaving like when she had to tell me Grandpa Greenwood had died. And I’m behaving a bit the same, too. My brain is heavy and slow, like wet cotton wool.

“Fuck off,” says Dad. “You are not the fucking winners. We are not a syndicate.”

The “ladies and gentlemen of the press” suddenly turn from lethargic doughnut-eating sloths into twitching, hungry beasts sniffing out a story. So much closer to the journo stereotype I had imagined, but also quite frightening. They leap to their feet and start yelling questions at us. “So, this is a syndicate win? The six of you are winners?” one journalist shouts loudly. It’s basically the same question that everyone is asking, so people pipe down and wait for a response.

“No, there are not six fucking winners,” my dad yells back. It’s not like him to swear so much. I mean, if he hits his thumb with a hammer the air turns blue, but mostly, in front of Logan and me, he’s pretty careful not to say any of the words that we hear constantly at school. I don’t like to see him losing control. I don’t think it’s helping, and I get the feeling we do need help. A number of journalists scribble something in their books. I can’t think that’s a good thing.

“We have all been doing the lottery together for fifteen years, four months,” says Patrick loudly, although no one asked. He sounds calm and smooth. Authoritative. “We, as a group, have bought a ticket every single week for all those years.” He has hold of Carla’s hand. She is smiling at the cameras, she is very photogenic.

“That’s not true,” insists Dad.

“What’s not true?” asks Patrick. He turns to my dad, smiling. But it’s a bullshit, so obviously fake smile. How could anyone be convinced by it? “Have we, or have we not, been a syndicate for over fifteen years?”

Oh, no. I can see the train wreck that is coming. This is such a classic move. I see it at school all the time. But I can’t warn my dad. He walks right into it, admitting, “Well, yes.”

“And have we, or have we not, always used those exact same numbers?”

Dad nods and tries to say something else. He’s stuttering. His spittle makes it into the room but not his words, because Patrick smoothly turns back to the journalists, smiling triumphantly, point seemingly proven.

“But you pulled out of the syndicate the week before we won,” Dad protests.

The Heathcotes and Pearsons pull their faces into textbook expressions of confusion and incredulity. Carla tuts, shakes her head. Jennifer looks to the floor as though she’s embarrassed for my dad, shyly tilting her head. Then Fred slaps Dad on the back, quite forcefully, “Good joke, old man, but enough is enough now.”

“I’m not fucking joking,” yells Dad.

Mum touches his arm. “Stop swearing, Jake.”

He stares at her murderously. “Is that all you can say? You are worried that I am swearing when these bastards are up here trying to steal from us?”

“Okay, okay, that’s enough now.” Gillian is on her feet. She signals for help and suddenly the hotel manager swiftly ushers us out of the press conference into another room. The Heathcotes and Pearsons follow us, as do a couple of the hotel staff, sensing that all sorts of crazy is about to go down. They probably haven’t had as good a day at work ever. The journalists are being ushered by security into the foyer. Gillian seems to be talking to everyone at once.

“We will release a full statement before anyone goes to press. If I can ask you to refrain from reporting anything, either online or in print, until you get that statement that would be a great help.” I suppose she’s appealing to their better natures, hoping that the local press will be generous as they’ve enjoyed the doughnuts, but I wonder what the legal position is. Everything that has been said has been said at a press conference. Probably they can report what they like and at least one of them most likely will.

The moment we are out of the journalists’ sight, Patrick pounces on Dad. It’s really scary. “What’s the fucking game, Jake?” he demands. He pushes Dad up against the wall, holding him around the neck. Patrick’s face is puce. He’s a really good actor. He keeps glancing around the room to ensure all the staff are seeing him put on this performance. They seem scared. I look around for the two security guys but they are busy escorting the journos off the premises. Patrick looks genuinely wild. I’ve never seen such unadulterated violence and anger in a person’s face. Dad is way fitter than Patrick and I expect him to just push him away, but he doesn’t—he glares with contempt. This seems to infuriate Patrick more. He tightens his grip around Dad’s throat.

“Let him go!” yells Mum, lurching forward. I wrap my arms around Logan, restraining him from piling in, but also because I really need to hug him. Then Fred leaps into action. He roughly grabs Patrick’s shoulders and pulls him off Dad. I guess he’s effective because none of us expected Fred to become embroiled physically, he’s a pretty mild-mannered man. My body relaxes as I feel a huge wave of relief and gratitude. Fred has calmed things down. But then—shocker—Fred punches Dad in the stomach! “You bastard,” he growls.

Dad goes down like a sack of potatoes. Mum rushes to him and covers him with her body. “Jesus, Fred, what are you thinking? Stop this!” she yells. Neither Jennifer nor Carla say anything to their husbands. Jennifer walks calmly to the table that is set up with ice water