Authors: Kristen Brockmeyer
Everything was a furious blur for a few minutes after that, until big hands grasped me under my arms and pulled me off of my brother. I swung around, still fired up from the heat of battle, my fist connecting with Chance's cheekbone before I could stop myself. I glanced back at Jack, whose perfect aquiline nose was now bleeding profusely and canted slightly to the right. For the first time in his life, Jack was eying me with wary respect mingled with a healthy dose of fear. Around us, dozens of gaping students, eight flabbergasted teachers, three stunned teachers' aides and one incredulous principal all avidly watched and waited for further drama to unfold.
I was suddenly and completely mortified and my eyes filled with tears. I turned to run out of the gym, but Chance grabbed my arm.
I didn't want to look up at him, keeping my eyes on his burgundy and gold Panthers football sweatshirt, but when I did, he was smiling that devastating smile and looking down at me. I mean, really looking at me.
Like he was seeing something new. Leaning in close, he murmured in my ear.
"Let's make sure they all have plenty to talk about while you're out of school on indefinite suspension."
And then, despite his already swelling cheek, he kissed me. Yanked me right up against him, hip to hip and chest to breasts—in front of God and everybody—and kissed me brainless. His breath smelled like peppermint and his mouth tasted like glory. It felt like every dream and wish I'd ever had all came true in that one explosive moment, and all I could think was,
I'm in so love with him.
Louie, bored with my mental retrospection, had fallen asleep on my lap, and the rain pattering against my windows was the only sound in my otherwise silent apartment. A chilly breeze teased the back of my neck, reminding me that the hole in my window was still gaping, and my kitchen floor covered with window and chandelier shrapnel. I carefully transferred my sleeping cat to his favorite afghan, and went to the kitchen. I tried to shake off my now-morose mood enough to wonder if I had renewed my renters insurance and how much an Art Deco chandelier that had been picked up off the curb was worth, but I couldn't bring myself to care.
Once the counters were wiped clean of rainwater and glass, and the view from my window of the vigilant Fisher in his blue sedan had been obstructed by a giant piece of duct-taped cardboard from the basement storage room, I sat down at the kitchen table and tried to decide what to do next.
It was only Monday afternoon and I didn't need to go to work until Wednesday. Addy was on her honeymoon, so I couldn't call her and invite her out. Julian had already gotten his
Y&R
fix and was probably back at the old folks' home contemplating the delicious salisbury steak dinner he'd be experiencing at 4:00. I probably wouldn't see him again for a couple days.
I was suddenly depressed. My life, which had been bumping along just fine, felt like a whirlwind had torn through, ripping off that big old Band-Aid I had on my heart, covering the hole where Chance used to be. And everyone knows it's impossible to
restick a Band-Aid that's been ripped off.
I could feel myself rapidly descending into a stupid case of the mopes. I decided I would check my email and see if Addy had dropped me a line to let me know she'd made it to her hotel (or sent any death threats after the wedding reception debacle) and then I'd get dressed up and take myself out to dinner. Dressing up and eating food always made me feel better. Doing both at the same time was a surefire mood lifter.
No email from Addie. I would have preferred a blistering message from my irate best friend to the sad little wave of self-pity and loneliness that washed over me.
Distraction
, I told myself.
You need a distraction
.
My eyes wandered around the kitchen and landed on my purse—the Quick Pick ticket. I clicked on my Massive Millions site bookmark and pulled it up.
14-16-26-43-52 and the Big Money Ball… 18!
My distraction worked. I pulled the Quick Pick ticket out of my purse, scanned the numbers and immediately forgot all about Chance.
Disbelieving, I read the numbers on the ticket again, holding them up next to the numbers on my screen. 14. 16. 26. 43. 52. 18.
I triple and quadruple checked, but the numbers on the little orange square of paper and my computer screen both stayed the same.
Exactly the same.
Holding my breath, I scrolled back up the page to where the jackpot amount was listed.
Holy shit. I had just won 176 million. Freaking. Dollars.
Rather than dance about my kitchen wildly, screaming "I'm going to Disney World!" my palms went clammy, my eyes rolled back in my head, and I hit the kitchen floor hard in a dead faint.
When I opened my eyes, I gasped for breath. Not because I immediately remembered that I'd won the lottery, but because Louie was sitting on my chest, washing his privates and squashing the air out of me.
I turned my head away in disgust, and there on the floor next to me was the lottery ticket.
I sat up so fast that Louie rolled ass-over-teakettle to the floor, puffed up like a blowfish and scrambled into the living room hissing. Ignoring him, I grabbed the ticket and compared the numbers again.
For Pete's sake.
My fingers flew over the keyboard as I typed in "how to claim lottery winnings," and within seconds, I was dialing the number for the state lottery office.
"Please direct me to the person that can give me 176 million dollars," I replied breathlessly when my call was answered by a monotone receptionist. "I won the freaking lottery."
"I'll forward you to the Prize Disbursement Center," she replied mechanically. "Hold please."
I stared at the phone incredulously. How often did she hear that kind of thing? Ten times a day?
I tapped my nails on the countertop, glancing at the clock. 3:30.
"Prize Disbursement, how may I help you?" The man that answered sounded bored.
"I won the lottery," I said in a rush. "I need to come claim my winnings before something awful happens and it turns out to be a mistake."
"Well, ma'am, it depends on the size of your winnings," he said, unperturbed. "Typically, we'll set up an appointment for you—."
"No!" I hollered. "You don't understand. I'm the unluckiest person ever, and this has got to be some huge, colossal mistake. If I don't come claim it now, something rotten will happen."
"How much—."
"The jackpot," I blurted.
"The whole fricking shebang."
"Well, technically, you don't need an appointment for anything over 50 thousand. Where are you located?"
"I'm an hour away, but I can be there in 45 minutes."
"We only accept claims until 4:30," he said cautiously, probably sensing the imminent hysteria in my voice. "It would probably be better if you came in first thing in the—"
"No!" I interrupted again and then took a deep breath. "What's your name?" I asked sweetly.
"James… Smith," he answered hesitantly. From his tone, I figured it was a fake name and I sounded so unpredictable, he was afraid to give me his real one.
"Well, James, I swear I'm not crazy. Work with me here. Let me tell you my ticket numbers and then you tell me if they're right. "
I rattled them off and after an interminable two seconds, he agreed that they were in fact the winning numbers—the only winning numbers for that drawing—and his voice sounded marginally more interested
"Then, James, I need you to tell me how the hell to get to your office."
I grabbed my purse, pulled on my shoes, locked the door and clattered down the steps. The blue car was still parked across the street. I sprinted to the driver's side window. Fisher, a slim-looking brown-haired guy in jeans and a black t-shirt shirt rolled his window down quickly.
"What's wrong?" He asked, concerned. He reached for the door handle.
"Nothing," I said breathlessly. "I just have to go. You can leave now. Thanks!"
I left him staring after me, reaching for his phone, and ran back across the street. Let him tattle to the FBI, I thought. I had things to do. My car was parked in the driveway. Luckily, my neighbors all had afternoon classes, so I wasn't blocked in, because I sure would have driven my Buick over their cars like a Sherman tank.
I made the hour-long drive to the lottery headquarters in 36 minutes, losing Fisher shortly after I got on I-69 heading to Lansing. A half-hour later, James Smith was photographing me with a gigantic check. Since I was there alone, someone else from the lottery office had to hold up the other end of it. Soon after that I was sitting in the Roadmaster, the engine still ticking from my insane drive there, in a daze.
I started the car again and backed slowly and carefully out of my parking spot. Being worth roughly 78 million and some change, which was what I had left after the cash option I had opted for and the removal of Uncle Sam's hefty bite, I couldn't afford to die in a car accident. Not until I wrote up a will, anyway.
I'd talked the lottery people into holding off the official winner press release until the funds were transferred, which would take about 10 days, to give myself time to plan my next move before relatives and friends I didn't have started crawling out of the woodwork. But wouldn't the snippy girl at the credit union—the one who always gave me a hard time when I overdrafted—be surprised to see my balance when that money hit my checking account?
I made it home without incident and spent all the money in my head on the way. I was bouncing up my rickety front stairs, planning how to buy back Julian's house, when I saw a black fedora hat pinned to my front door with one of my antique letter openers.
My rollercoaster luck had lurched into a downswing again.
For a second, I just stared at the hat as my brain struggled to switch gears. Julian had a pretty bizarre sense of humor sometimes, but this was definitely not his brand of weird. A cold ball of dread settled into my gut.
I tried to pull the hat off the door, but it was stuck tight. I gripped the letter opener harder.
I didn't realize my teeth were bared and my breath was coming in harsh pants as I wrestled the hat free. When I did, and a piece of paper that had been pinned under the hat fluttered down. I grabbed it before the gusty wind could catch it, and picked up the letter opener gingerly with two fingers, out of a belated concern of preserving fingerprints. Stuffing the fedora under my arm, I dug in my purse for my keys, but as I did, my shoulder bumped the door and it swung open.
What.
The. Hell.
I darted a look over my shoulder for any suspicious white vans, and seeing nothing, my fear shifted abruptly into Grade
A, duck-and-cover, white hot rage. Someone had taken my friend's hat, stabbed a letter opener in my front door, broken into my apartment, and then had the nerve to leave a note. Someone was gonna get it if they were still in there. I flipped the letter opener around so the business end pointed forward and gripped the handle with steely purpose. If it could be stabbed in the door, it could jab into a person just fine.
I flicked the light switch in my miniscule entryway.
No thugs, gangsters or crazed cleaning women were there to greet me, but a mess of massively epic proportions was. My apartment had been tossed. My TV was brutalized, my couch dismantled and unstuffed, and every knickknack and tchotchke I owned was scattered in shards all over the floor. My antique typewriter was in pieces. Same deal with my record player. From what I could tell, the Sinatra collection was just gone. Picture frames were torn off the walls and smashed, and in the kitchen, my lovely daisy-patterned dishes had each met the same fate. Not one of my personal possessions remained intact. The bastards had even torn down my temporary cardboard window cover and ripped that. Everything I owned was now trash.
A sudden, awful thought occurred to me and I dropped everything and ran to my bedroom closet. Yanking the string to turn on the light, I stepped awkwardly over piles of shredded clothes to get to the now-empty shelves. With a little climbing and contortionism, I could just get my head and shoulders up into the open attic access in the ceiling.
"Louie?" I whispered, trying to adjust my eyes to the gloom.
A faint hiss sounded from the corner, where one reflective green eye glared balefully, and I started bawling in relief. They hadn't gotten Louie.
I don't know how long I stood like that, alternately sobbing and calling "Here kitty, kitty," before it registered that there was someone else in my apartment. Still hiccupping from my tears, I twisted frantically, trying to maneuver back down into the closet, but I was wedged tightly.
"Lose something?"
I was abruptly grateful that I was wearing my vintage Levi's dungarees and not a skirt. That would have looked way more ridiculous.
"Help me out of here, asshole," I yelled, trying unsuccessfully to squirm my way back down through the access hole.