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

“I’m hoping to start a conversation with these questions,” Bran says as he takes the list back. “I want to get people talking, and I’m hoping they reveal some useful information. Can you help?”

He looks at me expectantly, and I let out a long breath. “Of course I’ll help.”

“Even if it takes all night?”

“Even if it takes all night.”

Bran grins at me. “That’s what I like to hear. Congratulations, you’ve earned this.” He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a slightly smashed fedora that’s identical to his, except it’s light blue with a pink band.

“You can’t be serious.” I hold the fedora at arms length. It looks like something a Muppet would wear.

“Deadly serious,” says Bran.

He laughs then, and I shove the fedora onto my head. If I can’t tell Bran the truth, at least I can make him laugh.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THE HARVEST FESTIVAL IS REALLY HOPPING BY THE TIME WE GET there. It’s overcast, and a chilly breeze shakes orange and red leaves from the trees. But despite the cool temperature and the threat of storm clouds on the horizon, people fill the center of town. Dozens of tents selling whimsically painted pumpkins, wooden Welcome signs that have somehow taken over every doorstep in town, and lots of unusual crafts line Main Street. Pots of yellow and red mums surround the bandstand in the middle of town, and dozens of enormous pumpkins (“All from our farm,” Bran tells me proudly) are scattered around the square.

Kids laugh and chatter by the children’s area, where there are toffee apples, face painting, and a costume contest.

“Where do we start?” I ask, scanning the crowd. I take a long sip of the coffee Holden brought me and try not to think about how much nicer it would be out on the quiet lake with him, rather than surrounded by surging crowds.

It looks like nearly everyone in Lakesboro is here, along with a bunch of people from out of town too. Cars parked around the square have license plates from several different states. Clumps of preteens stand around, laughing and joking; families with little kids spill into the green space in the middle of downtown; and lots of older people—probably long-term residents of the town—amble slowly around the square, shopping, eating, and greeting one another.

Bran checks his watch. “We have an hour until the music at the bandstand starts, so let’s split up. You go that way, I’ll take this way, and we’ll meet in the middle. Then we can regroup if the questions aren’t working.”

Shit. Splitting up wasn’t part of the plan. What if Bran meets someone who saw me buying the ticket?

That’s unlikely, I know, and this is Bran. Best friend, aspiring investigative reporter, CNN intern-in-the-making. I’d walk through fire for this boy; the least I can do is ask some questions for him so he can possibly get the internship he wants.

“Okay,” I say, forcing a smile onto my face. “See you in an hour.”

He heads into the crowd, and I turn away, walking toward the “Two Witches and a Kettle” popcorn tent.

“Hi there,” I say, stepping into the tent. Two middle-aged Black women stand behind a table at the back of the tent. Although they wear matching flannels and jeans, one is tall, slim, and has shoulder-length red curls; the other is short and plump with frizzy gray hair. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but “witches” had me picturing more pointy hats and less soccer moms.

“Can I get a small caramel corn?” I ask. I’m the only customer in the tent, and my mouth waters as the smell of warm sugar and butter washes over me.

“Sure, hon,” says the red-haired woman. “You need anything else?”

“Nope, that’ll be all.” Then I look guiltily down at the list of questions in my hand. “Well, actually, I was hoping to ask you some questions about the lotto winner.”

The woman’s eyes narrow. “Why? Are you a reporter? Somebody said there’d be reporters buzzing around, trying to get the story. But I told my wife, Cheryl”—she points to the shorter woman filling my bag of caramel popcorn—“we should just leave that poor person alone. Surely they’ve got enough problems without everybody in town trying to find them.”

Amen.

I want to throw my arms around the woman and tell her she’s absolutely right, but then her wife, the gray-haired Cheryl, comes up with my kettle corn. I fish a crumpled dollar out of my pocket and hand it over.

“Stop being such a dragon, Bea,” says Cheryl. She pushes a few wisps of gray hair behind her ear. “What is it you wanted to ask?”

“I’m not a reporter,” I say, gesturing to the ludicrous fedora on my head. As if that signifies anything. “But my friend, Bran, wants to be one. He’s hoping to find the lotto winner, and I’m helping him out.”

“I saw him on the news,” says Bea. “So you’re from around here and helping your friend?”

It’s like she’s asking for my passport or something. Proof of being a local and therefore worthy enough to hear her story.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “I’ve lived here for five years, but my grandparents have been here for decades, or at least they were before my grandpa died and my grandma moved to Madison last year. Anyway, would you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

“Not at all. Fire away,” says Cheryl with a much friendlier tone. She pulls a bag of kettle corn mixed with candy corn from her pocket and starts munching on it.

I start with the last question because it seems like the best one to get Bea and Cheryl talking: “What would you do with the money, if you had won it?”

Cheryl takes a long sip from a mug on the table and shakes her head. “Well, let’s start by saying that we didn’t win it. Though Lord knows we tried. I buy ten tickets a week when the jackpots get big.