Read Lia's Guide to Winning the Lottery Online
Authors: Keren David
Lia's Guide to Winning the Lottery
When I Was Joe
“An ice-cold thriller about identity, pain and veracity.”
Daily Telegraph
“Magnificent.”
Guardian
“David is a believable writer, so good that you never actually notice just how good because you are far too busy turning the pages.”
Sunday Telegraph
Praise for
Almost True
“
Almost True
is certainly a book about big questions. Perhaps Keren David's biggest achievement however is that these issues play second fiddle to the psychological authenticity of her troubled hero, and the longing she rouses in the reader for Ty's ultimate redemption.”
Books for Keeps
“Gripping, well crafted and resisting the temptation to tie things up too neatly, this is a challenging and rewarding book for teen readers.”
InÃs
Text copyright © Keren David 2011
The right of Keren David to be identified
as the author of this work has been asserted by her
in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act,
1988 (United Kingdom).
First published in Great Britain in 2011 and in the USA in 2012 by
Frances Lincoln Children's Books, 4 Torriano Mews,
Torriano Avenue, London NW5 2RZ
www.franceslincoln.com
All rights reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electrical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of the publisher or a licence permitting restricted copying. In the United Kingdom such licences are issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, Saffron House, 6-10 Kirby Street, London EC1N 8TS.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978-1-84780-191-3
eBook ISBN 978-1-90766-678-0
Set in Palatino and Monoline Script MT
Printed in Croydon, Surrey, UK by CPI Bookmarque Ltd. in June 2011.
9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
for Alun and Deborah
Chapter 1
It might be magic, it might be destiny. Or it might just prove that the universe is completely random. It doesn't matter. You're rich.
My mother kicked me out one minute after I won eight million pounds.
She didn't literally manhandle me over the threshold, she just stood there, arm pointing at the door, tears pouring down her face saying, âJust. Get. Out. Now!' in a voice that sounded like she was taking huge gulps of vodka in between each word.
Actually, she was gargling red wine that evening. Burgundy, to match her lipstick and toenails.
It was totally random, this eviction. One of those fights that we'd been having a lot round about then. I thought they were all her fault. She seemed to think they were all mine. We'd been bickering all evening, and I was trying to stay cool and calm and totally
reasonable. But the more I laid out my case for her to hand over twenty quid, the more quivery and emotional she became. It was completely unfair.
My little sister Natasha had struck gold when the evening was young and Mum was getting ready to go out to a party, humming Beyoncé, trying on earrings and admiring herself in her Karen Millen purple satin sheath dress. All Nat had to do was tell her how great she looked and Mum plunged into her diamanté clutch bag and handed over twenty pounds.
By the time I realised I was in desperate need of cash, having over-celebrated my birthday earlier in the month, Dad had announced that he had man flu. Their party outing was cancelled and Mum was back in her jeans, sulking in front of the telly.
âYou're not actually doing anything, Lia,' she said, picking at her Weight Watcher's Shepherd's-Pie-free Pie. âWhy should I give you money? You've had your allowance for this month.'
I opened my mouth wide. âBut . . . you gave Nat twenty quid. That's so unfair. . . I want to go shopping tomorrow. I need twenty quid as well.'
I did need money. I always needed money. There was a fabulous 1960s leather jacket at my favourite stall in Camden â I'd dragged Mum there on my
birthday, begged her with tears in my eyes to buy it for me, but she'd said she wasn't paying eighty pounds for someone's tatty old leftovers. I couldn't believe it â that jacket was a
bargain
. She just couldn't bear letting me make my own decisions â she'd become downright mean and controlling over the last year or so. It was probably something to do with getting old â maybe she was bitter that she was getting all dried out and wrinkly while I looked reasonably OK in a good light and with the right jacket.
Anyway, that particular jacket was my latest ploy in the battle to get the attention of Raf, gorgeous, mysterious Raf, my latest crush. I had forty pounds all saved up. If I could get another twenty pounds . . . and then hit Dad for some more the next day. . .
âNatasha needed money to go out with her friends. It was an unexpected expense. And she doesn't get as much allowance as you do. Come off it, Lia.'
âYou're only giving her money because you're desperate for her to
have
friends,' I said. I knew it was a little mean to point this out â it was really tough for Natters when she fell into the grip of bullies last year â but that still was no reason to award her totally unearned and unfair bonuses.
â
Don't
be so
vile
,' said Mum.
I took a big bite of spaghetti, slurping like a Dyson to pull in all the random threads.
âMust you?' she asked, with her bulimic face on.
âWell, it's true. You think Nat needs a load of extra financial help to bribe people into being friends with her. “Come on, everyone, popcorn's on me!” Actually, it'll just make her look desperate. No offence.'
I really didn't mean to be offensive. I could have given Natasha a lot of help with school politics if anyone had listened to me. Of course, no one ever did.
Anyway, I was older than Natasha by a full eighteen months and two days. Seniority should count for something. Anything she got, I should get more.
âIt's not
fair
,' I said again, totally pointlessly, I knew. Whenever I pointed out basic, obvious, total inequalities, my parents just rolled their eyes and said, âLife's not fair, Lia. Anyone ever told you that?' Possibly the most annoying phrase ever spoken.
Mum was getting a bit red in the face, and sloshing wine into her glass. I helpfully informed her that her mascara had run. She accused me of nicking her super-expensive waterproof wand. I blinked rapidly â to disguise the evidence â and launched into a full
Oh my God, how can you accuse me of stealing,
OMG, your own daughter
defence.
âAnd anyway,' I finished, âif you just increased my incredibly tiny allowance then I'd be able to buy my own.'
âOh, change the record, Lia,' she said. âWhat's wrong with you earning some money? Dad's offered you a Saturday job.'
âOh
please
,' I said, âI've told you. I'm not interested.'
Just because Dad couldn't think of anything better to do with his life than take over the family bakery, didn't mean I had to devote every Saturday to pushing Danish pastries. I supposed I might decide to take over one day . . . one day far, far in the future. When I was about fifty and my life was over. But not every Saturday. That was bringing the inevitable far too near.
Mum rolled her eyes. âYou have the perfect Saturday job lined up for you, but you're too lazy to take advantage. Anyway, keep the volume down. Your dad's not very well.'
âYeah, right,' I said. âPoor old Dad.' We both knew he didn't really have flu. He was just permanently tired from getting up early every day â baker's hours, he called them â and allergic to most of her friends. Understandably.
âNot that you care about anyone except yourself,' she said,
whoosh!
out of
nowhere.
I played an invisible violin. I could've been on
Britain's Got Talent.
The Amazing Lia! She mimes and winds up her mother at the same time.