Jackpot - Nic Stone Page 0,1

I look away and pretend to do something behind the counter. Really hoping she doesn’t ask about my (nonexistent) college plans. I’d rather not deal with another adult customer’s judgy raised eyebrow when I explain that instead of college, I’ll accept the management position I’ve been offered here at Gas ’n’ Go, and continue to help support my family.

When I turn back to her, she’s rifling around in her purse.

“Thought I had a photo somewhere, but I guess not.” She shuts the bag and smiles at me. “What were we talkin’ about?”

“Umm…your granddaughter?”

“No, no.” With a wave. “Before that. I’ve got a nasty case of CRS lately….”

“CRS?”

She leans forward and lowers her voice again. “Cain’t Remember Shit.”

And now I’m really smiling again. Laughing, actually.

“I’m serious, now!” she says. “Where were we?”

“You were about to purchase a Mighty Millions ticket.”

“Oh yes, that’s right! Let’s do that.”

I step over to the machine. “Do you have specific numbers you’d like to play?”

“I do! Been playing the same ones since 1989.” She calls them out, and as the ticket prints, I stop breathing: three of her white-ball numbers—06, 29, 01—make up my birth date. And her Mighty Ball number is 07. Which is supposed to be lucky, right?

“You’ve got my birthday on here!” tumbles out before I can stop it. Frankly, I do my best not to pay attention to the lottery at all. Mama’s been obsessed with the idea of winning for as long as I can remember, but after years of watching her make sure she had a dollar for a ticket and continuing to cling to this impossible hope while our finances literally crumbled around her (no doubt she bought at least one for this jackpot cycle)…

Hard pass.

Seeing the day I was born pop up on a ticket, though?

The lady’s face is lit up brighter than her Christmas tree sweater. “Your birthday, huh?”

“Mm-hmm.” I point it out.

“Well, I’ll be! Perhaps you’re my lucky charm!”

My eyes stay fixed on the ticket as she takes it from me. What if she’s right? Two hundred and twelve million dollars could be on that little slip.

“Tell ya what, print me one of those Quick Picks, too,” she says.

“Yes, ma’am. Would you like to add the Mightyplier option to this one? For an extra dollar, it’ll double any nonjackpot winnings.”

“Oh no, we’re going for the big bank!”

I laugh. “Coming right up.”

The machine spits out the second piece of paper, and I slide it across the counter to her. She grabs it and then holds both tickets up to take a good look at them.

Then she shuffles them around and puts them facedown on the counter. “So whattaya think?” she asks. “Right or left?”

“Oh, definitely left,” I say.

She nods and pushes the left ticket across the counter to me. “Good. It’s for you.”

Whoa.

“Oh wow, that’s really nice of you, ma’am, but I can’t take that.”

“You certainly can,” she says. “It’s my Christmas present to you.”

I look at it and bite down on my lower lip. God, how amazing would it be to win even part of two hundred and twelve million dollars? The old Bad Boy rappers say, “Mo money, mo problems,” but they all had plenty of it. Me? I work at a gas station for $7.75 an hour, and most of that goes toward whatever bill Mama hasn’t made enough to cover each month (you know, minus the dollars she spends on weekly lotto tickets).

“Go on now. Pick it up,” the lady is saying. “Obviously someone over eighteen will have to claim the prize if you win anything, but perhaps one of us will get lucky.” She winks. Very different feeling than when Mr. Fifty-Dollar-Bill did it.

Makes my skin tingle a little.

I take the ticket and quickly stick it in my back pocket.

Which is good because Mr. Zoughbi chooses that moment to exit his office. Not sure he’d be real keen on a customer buying his underage cashier a lottery ticket. The lady and I exchange a look. She gets it.

“Well, you’ve certainly brightened up my Christmas Eve,” she says loud enough for Mr. Z to hear. “You finish your shift and hurry home now, you hear?”

I smile and nod again. “You be sure to do the same, ma’am.”

“Merry Christmas, baby girl.” She turns to leave.

I swear that ticket has turned radioactive and my right butt cheek is expanding in size right now.

When she gets to the door, it swings wide, and I hear her say, “Why, thank you, young man. My,