Windfall - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Jennifer E. Smith is the author of seven novels for young adults, including The Statistical Probability of Love at First Sight. She earned a master’s degree in creative writing from the University of St. Andrews in Scotland, and her work has been translated into thirty-three languages. She lives in New York City. Follow her on Twitter at @JenESmith or visit her at jenniferesmith.com.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

One

When the man behind the counter asks for my lucky number, I hesitate.

“You must have one,” he says, his pen hovering over the rows of bubbles on the form. “Everyone does.”

But the problem is this: I don’t believe in luck.

At least not the good kind.

“Or it could be anything, really,” he says, leaning forward on the counter. “I just need five numbers. And here’s the trick. The big secret. You ready?”

I nod, trying to look like I do this all the time, like I didn’t just turn eighteen a few weeks ago, like this isn’t my first time buying a lottery ticket.

“You have to make them really, really good ones.”

“Okay then,” I say with a smile, surprised to find myself playing along. I planned to let the computer decide, to put my faith in randomness. But now a number floats to the surface with such ease that I offer it up to him before thinking better of it. “How about thirty-one?”

Teddy’s birthday.

“Thirty-one,” the man repeats as he scratches out the corresponding bubble. “Very promising.”

“And eight,” I tell him.

My birthday.

Behind me, there’s a line of people waiting to buy their own tickets, and I can practically feel their collective impatience. I glance up at the sign above the counter, where three numbers are glowing a bright red.

“Three-eighty-two,” I say, pointing at the display. “Is that millions?”

The man nods and my mouth falls open.

“That’s how much you can win?”

“You can’t win anything,” he points out, “unless you pick some more numbers.”

“Right,” I say with a nod. “Twenty-four, then.”

Teddy’s basketball number.

“And eleven.”

His apartment number.

“And nine.”

The number of years we’ve been friends.

“Great,” says the man. “And the Powerball?”

“What?”

“You need to pick a Powerball number.”

I frown at him. “You said five before.”

“Yeah, five plus the Powerball.”

The sign above the counter clicks forward: 383. It’s an amount nearly too big to mean anything--an impossible, improbable figure.

I take a deep breath, trying to shuffle through the numbers in my head. But only one keeps appearing again and again, like some kind of awful magic trick.

“Thirteen,” I say, half-expecting something to happen. In my mind the word is full of voltage, white-hot and charged. But out loud it sounds like any other, and the man only glances up at me with a doubtful look.

“Really?” he asks. “But that’s unlucky.”

“It’s just a number,” I say, even though I know that’s not true, even though I don’t believe it one bit. What I know is this: numbers are shifty things. They rarely tell the whole story.

Still, when he hands over the slip of paper--that small square of illogical math and pure possibility--I tuck it carefully into the pocket of my coat.

Just in case.

Two

Outside, Leo is waiting. It’s started to snow, the flakes heavy and wet, and they settle thickly over his dark hair and the shoulders of his jacket.

“All set?” he asks, already starting to walk in the direction of the bus stop. I hurry after him, skidding a little in the fresh snow.

“Do you have any idea how much this ticket could be worth?” I say, still trying to get my head around the number.

Leo raises his eyebrows. “A million?”

“No.”

“Two?”

“Three hundred and eighty-three million,” I tell him, then add, in case it isn’t entirely clear: “Dollars.”

“That’s only if you win,” he says, grinning. “Most people get nothing but a piece of paper.”

I feel for the ticket in my pocket. “Still,” I say, as we arrive at the three-sided shelter of the bus stop. “It’s kind of crazy, isn’t it?”

We sit down on the bench, our breath making clouds that hang in the air before disappearing. The snow has a sting to it, and the wind off the lake is icy and sharp. We scoot closer together for warmth. Leo is my cousin, but really he feels more like my brother. I’ve been living with his family ever since I was nine, after my parents died a little more than a year apart.

In the hazy aftermath of that horrible time, I found myself plucked out of San Francisco--the only home I’d ever known--and set down halfway across the country with my aunt and uncle in Chicago. Leo was the one to save me. When I arrived I was still reeling, stunned by the unfairness of a world that would take away my parents one at a time with such coldhearted precision. But Leo had decided it was his job to look out for me, and it was one he took seriously, even at nine.

We were an odd pair. I was wispy and pale, with hair like my mother’s, so blond it took on a slightly pinkish hue in certain light. Leo, on the other hand, had inherited his liquid brown eyes and messy thatch of dark hair from his own mom. He was funny and kind and endlessly patient, whereas I was quiet and heartsick and a little withdrawn.

But right from the start, we were a team: Leo and Alice.

And, of course, Teddy. From the moment I arrived, the two of them--inseparable since they were little--took me under their wing, and we’ve been a trio ever since.

When the bus appears, its headlights hazy in the whirling snow, we climb on. I slide into a seat beside the window, and Leo sinks down next to me with his long legs stretched into the empty aisle, a puddle already forming around his wet boots. I reach into my bag for the birthday card I bought for Teddy, then hold out a hand, and without even needing to ask, Leo passes over the heavy fountain pen he always carries with him.

“So I ended up stealing your idea,” he says, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket. He twirls them between his fingers, looking pleased with himself. “Another perk of turning eighteen. I know he doesn’t smoke, but I figure it’s still better than the IOU for a hug he gave me.”

“You got a hug?” I say, looking over at him. “I got one for a free ice cream, which I somehow ended up paying for anyway.”

Leo laughs. “Sounds about right.”

I pin the card against the seat in front of me, trying to keep it steady against the bouncing of the bus. But as I stare at the blank interior, my heart starts to hammer in my chest. Leo notices me hesitate and shifts in his seat, angling himself toward the aisle to give me some privacy. I stare at his back for a second, wondering whether he’s just being polite or whether he’s finally...