A Whole Lot of Lucky (5 page)

Later, when the basket passes to me, I empty my peanut butter jar into it—my complete savings from the past year's allowance, birthday, Christmas, and lucky findings. Since buckets of money are coming my way, I feel good throwing some God's way.

The pastor's talking. I'm trying to listen. I reach forward, grab a bulletin from the holder, and nab one of those stubby pencils without erasers. Why does the church put out pencils without erasers? Makes me feel like I'm not allowed to make mistakes.

I turn the bulletin over to the place where you can take notes on the sermon.

11. Mansion

12. New backpack

13.

Mom swipes the notes and frowns. That's okay. Not to brag, but I have a good memory and by the time church lets out, I've added eight more things to my mental notes.

The pastor stands in the doorway and says good-bye to people. I'm surprised when he shakes my hand and twinkles his eyes at me. “Hailee, I couldn't help but notice you today.”

My mouth drops open. God has told him! God has told him the secret! I am so relieved to finally be able to say something to someone. “Can you believe it? We're—”

“Hailee.” Mom's using her TV-mother voice. “I think you interrupted the pastor.”

“That's okay,” he says. “I saw the joy of the Lord on your face today. I'd like to see that on more of our parishioners.”

Not me, because I don't want to share that lottery money with anyone, except the Lord, of course. Still, I'm disappointed that the pastor didn't know why he saw the joy on my face because now I can't tell him.

When the van takes the usual left turn toward home, I stretch against my seat belt and pop my head between Dad and Mom in the front. “Let's go out to eat!” I say.
We can't go home to the same old boring grilled cheese and pickles we have every Sunday—we're millionaires.

Mom twists in her seat. “I've got to feed Libby and put her down for a nap.”

Blah, blah, blah, boring.

“C'mon, Dad!” I say. “We need to celebrate!” When he dashes a hopeful glance at Mom, I know I've hooked him. “Eat, drink, and be merry!” I turn to Mom. “Ecclesiastes, eight fifteen.” Brownie points for remembering a Bible verse.

Mom laughs. “Wow!” All her lines fade—the two lines that look like an eleven between her eyebrows, the lines that cup her mouth whether she smiles or frowns, and even the equator across her forehead—all gone. Her skin is cover girl dewy. She lays a hand on Dad's shoulder and raises her eyebrows.

“Say no more.” Dad cranks the wheel and we U-turn toward downtown Orlando.

The car bumps over brick roads. I stare at the homes of Orlando's rich. Spanish moss hangs like lace from wide and twisted oak trees; some branches are so huge, they dip, touch the ground, and spring back up as big as another tree. We pass the brick two-story mansion I like, another one that sits on a pond, and then my favorite: the two-story yellow house with white columns and a brick circle drive. Pink and purple azaleas explode everywhere. Shiny cars crouched low like panthers line the driveway.

Just then, the front door opens. I get to see a real-life
rich person! It's a lady. Disappointing, because I wanted to pick up rich-kid tips, but still. She's tan and dressed in a skirty tennis outfit. Turning back to the house, she yells to someone inside as she gathers her dark hair into a ponytail.

No kids playing out front. Rich kids practice squash and polo; they don't play kickball in the street like common people.

I wonder which sport I will play.

We sit outside at a restaurant on Lake Eola. Torches are lit to keep everyone warm, and I'm glad because my goose pimples have their own goose pimples here in the shade.

A guy comes to our table wearing a white shirt, black pants, and a black vest. F-A-N-C-Y. “Hello, my name is William and I'll be taking care of you today.”

Before William can say another word, I ask, “Do you have lobster?” I don't know if I like lobster, but I know it's expensive.

“Hailee!” Mom says.

William the Waiter chuckles. “Actually, we do have lobster bisque—”

Dad cuts him off. “Give us a minute, please.” William bows out of the picture. I fold my arms and frown. At least Libby gets what she wants—Cheerios and juice—but the rest of us haven't ordered yet.

“Lobster?” Dad shakes open the kids' menu and sticks it in front of me.

“Dad.” I push away the paper with mazes and tic-tac-toe on it. “I'm not a baby.”

Mom peeks over her reading glasses. “Don't be difficult.–

Libby throws Cheerios from her high chair. A pigeon struts across the patio on pink legs, pecking his shiny green head as he nears the rings of nutrition provided by my sister. The pecking must involve some kind of Morse code, because he's joined by other pigeons that crowd closer to the high chair.

“Aah!” Libby sprays them with another handful. A seagull dive-bombs from the sky and pushes his way to the front. I snatch some cereal and throw it to the pigeons in the back; they were here before Mr. Important I'm a Seagull.

Libby raises her little fist; in it is a lucky Cheerio—two circles stuck together. She squeals and waves the double Cheerio. The seagull unfolds his wings, opens them fully, then lifts off in a flurry of white and gray. I've never heard it so close:
whap, whap, whap!
I duck my head while Mom shoots up from her chair, flapping at the bird, but not before he's grazed Libby's hand and stolen the double ring. He touches down for a moment, then sails out over Lake Eola with Libby's lucky Cheerio. It's taken about three seconds for all this to happen.

Then the howling begins. She doesn't even warm up or anything, just lets out with the loudest, most
horrifying, high-pitched wail ever emitted by a human. Mom tries to inspect Libby's hand, but Libby flails about in her high chair like a fish on dry land. I don't see any blood, so I'm guessing she was just scared. I steal Dad's menu and peruse my selections.

Other diners turn our way with their fake-sympathetic looks, which really mean,
Get that crying baby outta here! I'm trying to enjoy my shrimp!

William the Waiter appears out of nowhere. “Anything I can do to help?”

Dad's standing up, trying to free Libby from the high chair as she bites his arms. “Ah—OW!”

“Ryan, help me …” Mom's hands wrap around Libby, lifting; Libby's hands wrap around Mom's hair, pulling.

William takes a step backward.

“We might need a minute,” Dad says.

“I know what I want.” I point to Dad's menu. “Lobster bisque!”

William raises his pencil, but instead of writing down my order, he chews on the eraser. “I'll give you folks a few more seconds.”

“Dad!”

“Hailee!”

“Aa-ee! Aaee!” Libby's face is red. Gooey snot dribbles from her nose, and her fuzzy baby hair is damp with sweat.

Mom makes a hammock of her arms and swings
Libby. Mouths drop open.
Not child abuse,
I want to yell.
Saw it on TV.
But it doesn't work in real life—Libby outdoes herself; her squalling reaches octaves I've never heard before. Windows shatter; birds drop out of the sky; people's ears spurt blood. None of that happens, of course, but you get what I mean.

Grabbing the sippy cup and Mom's purse, Dad says, “You ready?” Mom's already halfway down the stairs from the restaurant.

“I'm hungry!” I say. “I want my lobster bisque!”

Dad swings Mom's purse onto his shoulder. “Come on.”

“I could get it to go!” I call to his back. “Dad!”

He turns around, slumps his shoulders, and retraces his steps. “Hailee, your mom and I are tired. We stayed up all night long trying to figure out what we should do next. And this”—he gestures around the restaurant—“isn't working, so let's go.”

My eyes water. This day started with sunshine, but Libby's ruined it with her storm clouds. I march behind Dad all the way to the car, where Mom is making Libby giggle in her car seat. By the time we get home, Libby is fast asleep. Anyone looking would coo at her. Mom slips her out of the car seat, and before I know it, everyone but me is taking a nap.

I pull out the frying pan and make a grilled cheese.

Money is the root of all evil.

What the Bible really says is that the
love
of money is the root of all evil, so that's how I know I'm not sinning; I don't love money—I just can't wait to lay my hands on it. The ticket sits in a secret hiding place in Mom and Dad's bedroom. They haven't claimed the money yet! They say they're thinking. Them thinking looks a lot like them staring out windows while their coffee gets cold on the table. They drift through the house like ghosts, Mom rattling her chain necklace and Dad moaning as he rises from chairs.

“Today? Can we get the money today?” I ask, dancing around them. I refill their coffee cups. I put carrot muffins on plates and push them across the table. I get Dad's good shoes and stick them in the front room, toes pointing forward so all he has to do is slide into them
and go on out the door.
Not today,
one of them will say, and the shoes are carried back to the closet.

They are taking so long to get rich that the poor seeps into the framework of the house, causing it to groan against the March wind. Meanwhile, I'm supposed to not say anything about winning the lottery. Do you know how a secret grows inside of you every day you don't tell it? When I was little, I swallowed an apple seed and even though my mom said it wouldn't, I imagined that little seed growing into a big fat tree in my stomach. This secret is bigger than any apple tree. I feel it pressing against my ribs. I feel it straining for the light of day. For every word I speak, twenty more try to get out. You Know What is killing me.

“Vegetable,” Mrs. Rice says. It's Thursday, the day of our weekly pretest. Mrs. Rice paces across the language arts classroom, dictating our vocabulary words. We not only have to spell them; we have to use them in sentences. “Vegetable.”

My pencil goes to work:

If one hates the vegetable on the plate, especially if it is broccoli, one should simply ring the butler and order carrots.

Satisfied, I wait for the next word.

“Equator.”

I tap my pencil against my desk.

“Shh!” someone behind me snaps. I ignore her. Equator.

The equator divides the Earth into hemispheres, and we own mansions in both of them.

I smile to myself. Good one.

“Last word, people,” Mrs. Rice says. “Knowledge.” She repeats it, but my sentence is already pouring onto the paper.

It's common knowledge that when a regular person talks to a millionaire, he or she should always bow or curtsy before them.

I can't believe how every single spelling word has something to do with winning the lottery. It's almost as if Mrs. Rice knows. I stare at her as she collects our papers.

“Great spelling words,” I say, watching her face for a revealing sign, like a wink or a smile that she tries to press down, but her face is the same Mrs. Rice face I see every second period.

The same thing happens in all my classes. In social studies, we talk about Henry Flagler, a rich guy in the old days; in math, we calculate the cost of a granite countertop; in science, we prepare to dissect clams, which sometimes have pearls.

By the time the bell rings, my hands are sweaty and
I'm nervous as a tick. I jump from my seat and rocket to the cafeteria. I spot Amanda at our table, rush over, and plop down across from her. The words that have been straining against the backs of my teeth finally pop out.

“If you won a million dollars, what would you buy with it?” Finally! I said it out loud. I feel like I do when the dentist puts that mask on my face. I want to giggle; I want to laugh; I want to leap onto the lunch table and shout.

Amanda considers the question between bites of the sub her mom made. I can see the layers: brown-sugared ham, oven-roasted turkey, Swiss cheese—all from Leonard's Deli downtown. Where
we'll
be able to shop now.

“Maybe a horse,” she says.

“A horse?”

She shrugs.

As I open my lunchbox to my peanut butter and marshmallow sandwich, I think about a horse. Seems like something a rich girl should have.

“What else?” The peanut butter and marshmallow gum up my mouth, but Amanda understands me.

“A yacht.”

“A yacht!”
All
rich people have yachts!

“An indoor pool. Home movie theater. Chandeliers.”

My mental notes can hardly keep up with her.

Later that night, I add all her ideas to my list, which—even though I've crossed out a few things—still takes up two sides of a paper.

“Hailee!” Mom calls out gaily. The reason I said gaily is because it has the right old-fashioned ring to it and Mom is acting like the mother from
The Brady Bunch
or one of those other old TV shows where moms wear dresses and the house is always clean.

She's acting this way because tonight someone called a financial adviser is here to help Mom and Dad decide what to do with all our dough. I want to make sure the financial adviser knows all his options, so I hand copied the list of Things I Need and gave it to Dad. I was careful to not make any cross outs or erasing marks because you know how hard those can be to read.

The financial adviser talked to Mom and Dad all night long. I was supposed to watch Libby, and while my eyeballs stuck to her, my ear holes got extra sensitive, picking up secret information from the dining room. “College funds,” “IRAs,” and “installments.” I didn't understand what they were talking about, and more important,
none
of that stuff is on my list.

The next day, Dad drove to Tallahassee for the money. I thought he'd race home with fat burlap bags of one hundred dollar bills sitting belted neatly into their seats, but he came home empty-handed. “They're wiring the money over,” he told us when Mom, Libby, and I rushed him at the door. Mom said she was glad he was safe. I was glad the money was safe; I got worried when I didn't see those bags.