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

bought for later. He smiles at me gratefully, and I wish I could do more. If I can find a way to cash this lotto ticket, then I could set up a shelter or a charity or do all sorts of good in the world, just like Holden and I talked about yesterday.

If, though.

If is the operative word here.

Because the only way I can do anything like that is IF I can find someone to say they bought the ticket and then give me the money.

I glance at Mom. She’s peering in the thrift-store windows and checking her watch. She bounces on her toes impatiently as the minutes tick down to opening.

How could I even trust her with my secret? Much less all this money?

I just can’t. There’s no way.

Which leaves Grandma and Holden. I shove those thoughts away for now, as they’re full of too many unknowns to contemplate this early in the morning.

Finally, at two minutes past nine, when Mom’s ready to ram through the store door—sheets of glass and laws about property destruction be damned—a woman finally unlocks St. Vinny’s.

Mom pushes past her, calling over her shoulder, “Hurry, Fortuna Jane! Grab a cart!”

I get to my feet slowly and follow Mom into the store.

Inside is a riot of secondhand clothes, Green Bay Packers memorabilia, used books, old furniture, pots and pans, broken appliances, and all sorts of other junk. St. Vinny’s takes up most of a city block, and it has lots of small rooms tucked into the space. Pulling a rickety silver cart from a tangle of baskets near the registers, I trail behind Mom as she navigates a corridor between shelves covered in ceramic figurines and coffee mugs.

She darts toward a coffee mug with a smiling toddler on it, as if she can’t help herself, but then she whispers, loud enough that I can hear, “Focus, Joy Lynn. We’re here for wedding dresses.”

Oh my God.

We’re here for wedding dresses.

Of course we are.

It takes everything in me not to abandon the cart right then and there.

Mom marches ahead, heading straight into the enormous Halloween section, which fills a room larger than my school cafeteria. A rainbow of prom dresses covers an entire rack, and I can’t help but run my hands along the sequins and silky fabrics. Mom strides on, stopping only when she gets to the wedding dresses, which fill the end of an aisle like enormous exploded meringues on The Great British Bake Off.

I pull a turquoise silk dress with a halter neck and no back off the rack. It’s solidly out of, like, 1997, and it falls to the ground in an ombré of blues that remind me of waves and the ocean. Or Holden’s eyes. For a moment, I let myself imagine going to prom with him. Or us hanging out after prom and going to a party at the beach …

My phone chimes with a text.

BRAN: Where are you? Are you still alive after that storm last night?

JANE: I’m alive, though I got caught on the lake during the storm.

BRAN: With Holden?

JANE: Yes, but it was no big deal.

BRAN: I don’t believe you. Where are you?

JANE: In Madison with Mom. She’s having a Miss Havisham moment.

I drop the turquoise dress on the rack and snap a selfie with mom in the background, pawing through the wedding dresses, and send it to Bran.

BRAN: Wait. Is she buying wedding dresses? What are you not telling me? Is your mom getting married? Or did Holden propose? Because I’m a supportive BFF, but there’s no way you’re marrying that guy.

JANE: Snort. That’s exactly it. How did you know?

BRAN: LOL. Told you I had investigative skills.

JANE: You do indeed. And before you ask, nothing is going on between Holden and me. We just hung out for a bit.

Which is not exactly the truth, but there’s no reason to alarm Bran via text about my kissing habits.

BRAN: Uh-uh. I deduce you’re lying about that, but I’m here when you’re ready to talk.

JANE: Thank you. Hey, any new leads on the lotto winner?

I really, really hate myself for asking him about that. It’s such a blatant move away from deep emotional waters, and how could he have any more leads? I’m still here, holding onto the unsigned ticket and lying to him.

I swear, when I find a way to cash this ticket, I’m going to do something incredible for Bran.

BRAN: Nothing yet. I’m keeping an eye on the Facebook group, hoping someone says something. Also emailed Wanda, but I haven’t heard back yet.

“Jane! Come help me!” Mom screeches from the end of the aisle. There’s a great clattering as the rack she was riffling through collapses and a dozen wedding dresses fall on top of her.

JANE: Gotta go! Mom’s just been buried by a wedding-dress avalanche.

I snap another quick picture of the mountain of tulle and lace, with Mom’s hand thrust out of it, and send it to Bran.

BRAN: Let me know if you need me to come pick you up.

JANE: If we’re here for more than three hours, I’ll call you for a rescue. xoxo.

MOM WANTS TO BUY ALL THE DRESSES.

When I finally pull her out of the pile (she emerges a bit breathless and with a flourish, kind of like a stripper jumping out of a cake), she stacks them all into our cart.

“We can’t get every dress, Mom,” I say. I tug a fluffy dress that looks like something from the ’80s out of the pile and flip over the tag. “This one is twenty dollars and”—I flip over another price tag—“this one is twenty-five. For all fifteen dresses, you’re looking at, like, three hundred dollars.” Carefully, I pull another dress out of the cart and hang it on the closest unbroken clothes rack.

Mom lets out a frustrated breath. “I know that, Fortuna Jane. But we need these.”

A high-pitched laugh escapes me. “We don’t. In fact, we absolutely do not need any of these dresses at all.”

“We do! These are