The F List - Alessandra Torre Page 0,8

wrote down “ascribed celebrities” then put a neat line through it. My father worked as an editor for a gardening magazine, and my mother was on her seventh career—this time as a bank teller. I couldn’t think of less glamorous, or connected lineage—though Dad always said that our lineage dated back to George Washington’s wife.

I hadn’t told my parents about my lotto win, which probably put me into the hall of fame for the worst daughter of the year. If they had been conscientious spenders, I wouldn’t have hesitated. But there was a reason I grew up in a doublewide and already had eight thousand dollars in student loans. My parents had no willpower or money management skills. I could just picture them with their hand out, demanding more. The scorn they’d dish out if I hesitated. The guilt they’d lay on with each additional request. My money would go through their hands quickly, and what would I have to show for it in the end?

Nothing.

I had tossed and turned over the omission, then solved the moral quandary by withdrawing twenty thousand dollars and dividing it into two different envelopes. I dropped one into Mom’s open sunroof five minutes before her bank closed. I put the other in dad’s toolshed, propped up beside his beer fridge. Inside both envelopes, I typed out a short note.

This is an anonymous gift. It contains no strings or expectations, and no one will know about it unless you tell them. Please spend it wisely on anything you’d like. Thank you for being a good person.

I’m not going to lie, it felt good, delivering those envelopes. Exciting, like I was a secret agent in a movie. I hid in my new car and watched as Mom found the envelope and carefully counted the money. She did it twice, and read the note several times. Then she sat in the car for a good fifteen minutes. Just sat there, staring out the front window. It was eerily similar to how I sat in our kitchen, studying the winning ticket.

It was a bit cryptic of me, but I wanted to see how they would respond, and if either of them would call me. The following Sunday, we talked as we always did for a few minutes after dinner. I told them about James Union, and they gave the appropriate murmurs of disbelief and sadness over the death.

“I quit my job,” I followed up. “I just couldn’t go back after that.”

A long pause. My father cleared his throat. “Have you put in other applications?”

“At a few places,” I lied. “But no one has called me back yet. I’m going to see if my apartment will give me an extension on my rent.”

“I’m sure it was traumatic, but you have to work, sweetheart.” Mom sighed, and I could imagine the moment she pushed her bangs out of her face and sighed in exasperation. “You know this. It was dumb to quit your job without another one lined up.”

“I know.” I twisted my hand around and undid my bra strap, needing more room to breathe. “And the air conditioner just broke on my car.”

That was only a partial lie. It had broke, which had been the catalyst for the shiny new convertible, which was now outside my apartment. But I just wanted to test them and see if either would throw me a lifeline. “Could you guys front me some rent, if they won’t give me an extension? Just one month,” I begged. “My portion is six hundred dollars. That would give me some breathing room to find another job.”

“Absolutely not.” My dad’s voice was devoid of sympathy. “You’ve got to figure this out for yourself. Sell blood if you need extra money.”

My mom echoed the denial, though hers was softer in its punch. I ended the call and waited a few days to see if either of them would reach out privately and offer to help. They didn’t. They had each just stumbled onto ten thousand dollars—complete with a ‘thank you for being a good person’ note—and neither one of them had stepped up to help out their only child with her financial need. It didn’t matter if it was a fake financial need. Right then, I decided it was bullshit for me to feel bad about keeping my lotto win a secret from them.

Sure, it was a test. A gift and a test, all rolled into one. They failed, and maybe I failed as well—just by executing it.