“Hey,” he says, reaching for my hand across the table. “It’s gonna be okay, you know.”
My answer is automatic: “I know.”
“Nothing’s going to change,” he promises. “Not really.”
And like an idiot I believe him.
The money arrives on a rainy day in the middle of March.
For the past seven weeks, Teddy has been doing a very convincing impression of a contestant on one of those game shows where they set you loose in a store with a bucket of cash and a ticking clock. With his growing assortment of credit cards, he’s already managed to run up a debt so big it would’ve given pre-jackpot Teddy a heart attack.
But now his big win is about to become official, so Leo and I skip eighth period and head downtown for the press conference in the lottery offices. His mom is there, of course, and we stand in the back with her, behind the reporters with their microphones and the news crews with their cumbersome equipment, watching as Teddy accepts the enormous check with a smile nearly as big.
“Teddy,” a reporter calls out when it’s time for questions. “What are you planning to do with the money?”
“I’m not sure yet,” he says as the cameras flash all around him, and Leo rolls his eyes at me because we both know that’s not quite true. He’s already tried his best to make a nice little dent in it. “For now I’m still just getting used to the idea.”
“You’re the youngest winner ever,” says someone else. “Still in high school. Does this change anything for you?”
“Other than my math grade?” Teddy jokes, and there’s a roar of laughter.
I can see it happening: the glint in his eyes, the obvious pleasure he gets when a crowd starts to warm to him. It doesn’t matter whether it’s a gaggle of reporters or a group of high school students: Teddy knows how to win people over, and a press conference is nothing more than a larger stage and a bigger challenge.
As he hoists the check up higher, it slips from one of his hands and a lottery official reaches out to help. But Teddy side-eyes him and steps away, holding on to it even tighter and giving his audience a look of exaggerated concern.
“No way am I letting go of this thing,” he says as the crowd chuckles, and I can’t help smiling too. He looks so handsome up there in his checked button-down, his hair combed neatly to tame the piece that always sticks up in the back. He’s all boyish enthusiasm and barely concealed joy, and even if I weren’t so stupidly in love with him, I’m sure I’d still find it nearly as charming as I do now.
“It’s been reported that a friend of yours bought the ticket as a gift,” someone says. “Can you comment on that?”
I feel the heat rise in my face, and Katherine reaches over to give my hand a little squeeze. From the podium Teddy winks at me, a movement so fast you wouldn’t catch it unless you were looking for it. Which I was.
“That’s true,” he tells the audience. “Which only proves I’m the luckiest guy in the world in more ways than one.”
Without quite meaning to, I put a hand over my heart.
From up onstage, Teddy smiles at me.
When it’s over, he finds us waiting for him in the back. “How’d I do?” he asks, grinning in a way that makes it clear he already knows.
“When did you get to be such a pro at this?” Katherine asks, beaming at him.
He laughs. “I think I was born for this.”
“Careful,” Leo teases him, “or your head is gonna get bigger than that check.”
“You were great,” I say, aware that I’m staring at him. But I can’t help it. Maybe it was the lights or the cameras, or maybe it was seeing him handle those questions like he’s been doing it his whole life, but something about him looks different to me now.
“Thanks, Al,” he says. “And thanks for being here.”
“Of course. I wouldn’t cut class for just anyone.”
He smiles. “That means a lot.”
One of the lottery officials calls his name then, waving him over, and Teddy gives us an apologetic shrug before hurrying off. There are more interviews for him to do, more people to talk to, more hands to shake. Katherine stays behind to wait for him, but Leo and I say goodbye, walking back outside to find that it’s raining. We stand beneath the overhang of the building, the air around us smelling of spring, and wait for it to let up.
“Well,” Leo says, looking at me sideways.
I laugh. “Well.”
“That was…something.”
On the street, people struggle with their umbrellas. We peer out at the sky, which is low and heavy, a deep gunmetal gray that matches the buildings around it.
“Are you going home now?” Leo asks as he pulls up the hood of his jacket.
I shake my head. “Nursing home.”
“Right,” he says. “Wouldn’t want to miss pinochle.”
“Gotta keep my winning streak alive,” I say with a grin. “What about you?”
“I’ve got an application to finish.”
“Michigan?”
He shakes his head, his eyes on the rain. “No, Art Institute. Michigan was due a while ago.”
There’s a catch in his voice, but I let it pass. I twirl my umbrella, listening to the steady patter of rain and the rush of cars on the wet roads.
Leo glances over at me. “Do you think Teddy’ll even go now?”
“To college? Of course,” I say, but he looks skeptical. “He was always planning to go at some point; it was just a matter of when.”
“No,” Leo says, “it was a matter of money.”
“Which isn’t an issue anymore.”
“Right, because he’s a millionaire.”
“So? It’s not like he’s gonna spend his days swimming around in a pool of cash. He wants to be a coach—a college coach—and you need to go to school for that. I already printed a bunch of applications for him, and he promised to look. A lot of them have rolling admissions, so there’s still time. He’ll go. I know he will.”
“If you say so,” Leo says, though he doesn’t seem convinced. “And what about you? Have you figured out what you’re gonna do if—”
“I don’t get into Stanford?” I say, attempting a smile. “Not really.”
“But what happens if—”
“I don’t know,” I tell him. “I just have to get in.”
I applied for early decision back in the fall, but my application was deferred. Which was better than being rejected. But it was still a huge disappointment. I’ve since applied to a bunch of other schools too—eight in all—because Aunt Sofia wants to make sure I cover my bases. But there’s no backup plan for me. Not really. Ever since I was little, Stanford has been the goal.
I remember the night my mom found out she got into a program there for nonprofit leaders. My dad and I made her a cake to celebrate; he even let me help draw a shaky approximation of the Stanford seal across the top, and she laughed when she cut into it and saw that it was red velvet in honor of the university’s colors.
“School pride?” she asked, and my dad had leaned across the table to kiss her.
“All sorts of pride,” he said, his eyes shining.
But in the end she never made it. A few months later she found out she was sick, and my life started to unravel one thread at a time.
Now I have a chance to do what she never could. To follow in her footsteps. To go back to the West Coast. To find my way home again.
“I have to get in,” I repeat, more quietly this time.
Leo nods. “You will. I just wish it wasn’t so far away.”
“It’s not that far. Besides, you could be in Michigan.”
“Which is also really far away.”
“Hardly,” I say, and he groans.
“When your boyfriend’s there, it feels like a million miles.”
“Well, the good news,” I tell him, “is that you get to see him in less than a week.”
Leo smiles at this. “I still can’t believe my parents are letting me—”
/> “Spend your whole spring break alone with your college boyfriend?” I ask with a grin. “I can. They love Max. And they trust you. Plus, you’ll be on your own soon anyway. You might even be in Michigan.”
His expression dims, just slightly. “Maybe.”
“It’s gonna be great,” I say, making an effort to keep my voice light, though it’s hard to get excited about spring break when he and Teddy are both leaving me behind.
Months ago Teddy assured me that we’d make the best of it, since he wasn’t going anywhere either. “You and me,” he promised. “We’ll paint the town.”
“Red.”
“What?”
“I think it’s paint the town red.”
“Why red?” he asked. “Why not blue? Or green?”
“We can paint the town blue if you want.”
“Okay,” he said with a nod. “Then it’s settled. We’ll paint the town blue.”
But then he won the lottery. And plans changed. Now he’s taking the entire basketball team to Mexico, where he rented a private bungalow at a fancy hotel. All his treat, of course. And I’ll be staying behind, the town to remain unpainted.
“Don’t make me feel guilty about leaving you here,” Leo says, smiling at my expression. “Not when you could’ve gone to Mexico.”
I give him a look. “Oh yeah. Me and Teddy and the entire basketball team. Sounds like a dream vacation.”
He laughs. “I’m actually a little jealous. Apparently the place has a hot tub and a private pool. With a waterslide.”
“Of course it does,” I say, not the least bit surprised by this. Teddy might’ve only gotten the check this afternoon, but this is just the latest in a long string of big purchases: a new phone and a new computer, new sneakers and a new jacket with too many zippers, a hoverboard he can’t figure out how to ride, and a watch so expensive it took him a week to work up the nerve to wear it. And all this from a guy who used to agonize over whether to pay extra for guacamole on his burrito.
At school a few weeks ago, the television in Ms. McGuire’s room gave out in the middle of a video about World War II, and to the teacher’s delight Teddy ordered a better one right there on the spot. Then last week he stood on a table in the middle of the cafeteria and waved around a thick manila envelope.
“Season tickets,” he called out. “Who wants to see the Cubbies with me?”
For the remainder of the lunch period, there was a kind of makeshift draft while Teddy doled out tickets with a magnanimous smile.
The next day he bought pizzas for everyone in the cafeteria. And the next there was a coffee cart outside the school, free to anyone who wanted a cup.
“Teddy McAvoy for president,” one girl said as she walked away with a steaming macchiato, which seems to be the general consensus these days.
“He just won the lottery,” Leo says now, as if I need reminding. “You can’t really blame him for living it up.”
“I don’t. I just—”
“You think he’s going overboard,” he says, looking out at the gray drizzle.
“And you don’t?”
“Honestly? I think he’s just getting started.”
I nod, staring down at my damp shoes.
“Here’s the thing you have to remember,” Leo says. “If you give a tiger a cupcake, you can’t be annoyed with him for eating it.”
In spite of myself, I laugh. “Why would you give a tiger a cupcake?”
“Why not?” he asks with a shrug.
But the problem is this: I’m not annoyed with Teddy for eating the cupcake.
I’m annoyed with myself for giving it to him in the first place.
The next morning I’m a few blocks from school when I hear someone honking. I turn around, alarmed to see a bright red sports car—the kind you might find in a cheesy eighties movie—coasting leisurely behind me.
When I realize it’s Teddy at the wheel, I burst out laughing.
He leans out the open window with a grin. “What do you think?”
“I think,” I say, unable to resist teasing him, “that you might be having a midlife crisis.”
“If I am, you should really join me. It’s pretty fun.”
“I’m not sure mine would involve a sports car,” I say, walking around to the passenger side and climbing in beside him.
“Well, I guess we’ll never know, since you didn’t want the money,” he says. “But if you change your mind, I saw one in blue I think you’d love.”
I roll my eyes. “Tempting.”
“C’mon,” he says. “There must be something you want.”
“How about some help with our physics project?” I say, giving him a pointed look. “It’s fifty percent of our grade, and we haven’t even—”
“I know,” he says impatiently, drumming his hands on the wheel. “It’s just that I have a lot on my plate right now, and—”
“What, like car shopping?”
He at least has the good sense to look contrite. “We’ll get it done. I promise.”
“When?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. “It’s due right after spring break.”
“Soon,” he says, which is what he always says about things like this. Teddy tends to be all initial enthusiasm and no follow-through. He flashes one of his trademark smiles. “How about this? I’ll help you build a boat if you let me buy you a car.”
“You have to help with the boat anyway,” I say. “But I appreciate the offer.”
“Worth a try,” he says, putting on a pair of sunglasses, though the sky is overcast. “So really, what do you think?”
I breathe in the new-car smell and run a hand over the soft leather interior. Honestly, it’s a cliché on wheels. But I can see how happy it makes him, so I nod approvingly. “It definitely beats the bus,” I say, which is true enough.
When we pull into the parking lot behind the school, everyone stops to watch Teddy swing the car into a spot, and the moment he steps out he’s surrounded by a crowd of admirers. The lottery might be old news around here, but the press conference—plus the new set of wheels—seems to have sparked a second wave of excitement.
“Saw you on the news last night, man,” says Greg Byrne, giving Teddy a half hug. “You were awesome.”
“My mom read about you in the paper this morning,” Caitie Simpson says. “She couldn’t believe I know you.”
A few others give him high fives as they walk by, and a freshman girl even asks to take a selfie with him. Teddy happily obliges, smiling and flashing a peace sign.
“I’m gonna head in,” I say, and he gives me a distracted wave, busy with his adoring fans.
As I cross the pavement toward the double doors at the back of the building, I pass a group of guys I don’t recognize; they’re standing in a half circle, looking off in Teddy’s direction. “Is he joking with that thing?” one of them asks, eyebrows raised. “He gets one lucky break and thinks he’s a movie star.”
“Did you seem him wearing those sunglasses in the cafeteria yesterday?” says another with a bark of a laugh. “What a jackass.”
I keep my eyes straight ahead as I walk by them, but my face floods with heat, and I can’t help feeling a little embarrassed on Teddy’s behalf.
I have art for first period, and I dash in just as class is starting. Afterward, Sawyer appears by my side. “You have some paint on your forehead,” he says, crooking a finger at me, and I bring a hand to the spot where he’s pointing.
“Guess I’m going through my abstract period,” I tell him with a sheepish grin as I begin to scratch at it.
“Right,” he says. “I know it well.”
We haven’t spoken much since that night at the soup kitchen. In class he sits with a cluster of juniors on the other side of the room, while I muddle through each project alongside some of the girls I became close with back in sixth grade, when the divide between boys and girls briefly unsettled my usual trio.
Sometimes I catch Sawyer watching me and we smile at each other, but that’s a
bout it. After meeting him that night at the church as he made spaghetti sauce, so friendly and open, it’s odd to observe him in school, where he’s a little more reserved, a little more drawn into himself. I wonder if he thinks the same of me.
“So what are you doing for spring break?” he asks as we set off down the hallway together. “Anything wild and crazy?”
“Wild and crazy,” I say. “That’s me.”
He laughs. “Same here. I’ll be spending most of the week helping my grandma at the soup kitchen.”
“Then I’ll probably see you there,” I tell him, and he brightens.
“You still owe me that cocoa.”
“I do,” I say as we turn a corner, coming face to face with Teddy and Lila so suddenly that we all stop short, staring at each other.
My stomach drops as I notice that Teddy’s arm is around her shoulders, but when he sees my face he quickly lowers it. He’s wearing a new sweater, which is pale blue and clearly expensive, and he looks older in it, self-possessed in a way that goes beyond his usual boyish confidence. There’s a little alligator logo on it—right over his heart—which reminds me of his old nickname for me. Somehow, this makes me feel worse.
“Hey,” he says, avoiding my eyes.
I nod. “Hey.”
Lila smirks at Sawyer, and for a second I can see what she must see: a nerdy junior with too-short corduroys and a too-eager smile. “Who are you?”
“That’s Sawyer,” Teddy supplies, giving him a friendly pat on the shoulder. “Nice to see you again, man.”
“You too.” Sawyer clears his throat. “And congratulations. I heard about your…good luck.”
“Thanks,” Teddy says. “I owe it all to Al.”
“Really?” Sawyer asks, looking over at me. He has to be one of the only people in the whole school who doesn’t know this. I’ve spent the past six weeks dodging questions about whether I get part of the money and gritting my teeth when people try to rub my head for good luck.
“It was a birthday gift,” I explain. “The ticket.”
“Hard to live up to that one,” Lila says, arching an eyebrow. “I mean, what are you gonna get him next year?”