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Powerball, by Karin Bishop

Part 4

Chapter 10

Even knowing how much I wanted it, Jenny was still freaked out when I told her about the shot. Mom and I had gone back on Friday and met with Dr. Grover, who was all smiles. I realized something—I’d been accepted and I’d been accepted. I’d been accepted into her program, but even more importantly, I could tell that I’d been accepted by her as another female. She told us that she was really excited to be able to ‘work with somebody so young and yet so mature, intelligent, and self-aware’. Mom beamed at me and I blushed. Because of my age, however, only Dr. Grover would know my identity. For everything else, even anybody I spoke to at the clinic, I was ‘Patient CK14-3565’, whoop-de-doo.

But the shot was impressive, one big needle high on my hip, and I was sore until the next day. But I knew they were androgen blockers and as much as I really wanted female hormones, too, I knew that because of my age they had to go slow and evaluate things before giving me estrogen. The good news was that my fluids showed I was very low in the male hormone department naturally, and Dr. Grover guessed that I’d see rapid and noticeable changes very soon just by allowing my body’s natural estrogen production to continue unchecked.

So that was my really cool Friday afternoon—but there was another development.

When Mom had gone to the lottery office, she’d registered and all that, but there was something else. Our state’s lottery laws require the public announcement of winners. For identity purposes—and really, I think, for publicity—the winners’ photos and names were a matter of public record. They had a crew that would come out and would even film a faked ‘Omigod, I can’t believe I won!’ moment at the front door if we wanted. Mom and I talked and we didn’t want that, but there was something else to discuss, which we did over salads at a new vegetarian restaurant, celebrating my acceptance and shot.

“Sweetheart, there is a downside to winning anything. The whole world will know about me. And, by extension, about you. You’re at a …we’re at a crossroads in our life. Not just because of the lottery. Today you took your first true step to becoming Jessica completely.”

She didn’t have to go on; I was chilled by the implications. “I’d be outed, as they say.” My joy at my ‘first true step’ faded.

Mom fished around her salad bowl. “If they see you as Jessica. But I don’t want you to think I’m embarrassed or ashamed about Jessica. I’m proud of my pretty daughter, and would love the world to know what a wonderful girl you are …but I don’t think you want that just now.”

Numbed, I slowly shook my head.

“So we’ll have to continue to pretend that I have a son named Jimmy, for the lottery folks?”

I nodded. “Yeah. It’s like …in a way, it’s like school. We pretend there, too. Same reason, really; it’s the public record thing.”

Mom smiled sadly. “I’m glad to hear you say that. I was worried you’d think I suddenly wanted to hide Jessica away. The moment the lottery people drive off, you could take off the Jimmy-mask.”

Even Mom had come to use the same words I’d written to Dr. Grover, the same phrases that Jenny and I used: Jimmy-mask, Jimmy-mode, the Boy-costume, and so on.

I grinned at her. “So as soon as you’re done being famous, Jessica can come out to play!”

So that’s what we did.

Arrangements were made and Jimmy was looking as butch as Jimmy ever could when the crew arrived. There was a bored-looking photographer, a lottery rep, a female assistant to him; also a guy from the local paper and his photographer. Mom tried the ‘Omigod!’ thing at the door but kept cracking up so they scrapped the idea. They photographed the handing of the papers, the winning ticket, all sorts of things, between Mom and the lottery guy. I wasn’t in the lottery photo because I was a minor, but the local paper guy did get a shot of Mom and me at the door.

We stood in the door waving goodbye to the caravan; I wondered if they were still photographing even as they drove off. Mom closed the door and leaned against it.

“Whew! I’m glad that’s over!” she chuckled and shook her head. “Just not cut out for being a celebrity, I think.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Mom; you’re certainly pretty enough,” I said casually.

She laughed. “Flatterer!”

I’d actually meant it; Mom is pretty, but I lightened things up by saying, “Of course you’re pretty; that’s where I get it from!”

”Strange thing for a boy named Jimmy to say!” she said seriously, nodding towards my clothes. She was having trouble keeping a straight face and finally burst out with a laugh. “Oh, go ahead and get changed. Then let’s get out of here; maybe try Oakbrook Mall. We haven’t tried there, yet.”

I sighed with happiness as I came back out in a black skirt and flats with a light blue blouse. “I don’t look too parochial school, do I?” I asked as I walked into the living room.

Mom was on the couch frowning at a business card. “Hmm—what? Oh, no, you’re fine. Sensible for trying things on …” She drifted off and went back to the card. She pursed her lips. “Sweetie? Did you see anybody leave this?” She held up the card.

“No. Leave it where?”

“I turned around and there it was. I mean, you’d gone to change and I looked down on the foyer table and …there it was. Somebody from that mob left it. Don’t think it fell out …”

I sat down next to her and she handed me the card. I had never seen it before. It read:

And a corporate name and number.

I asked, “Is this one of those lottery scams you were told about?”

“Maybe. Something about it, though …something just feels different. Maybe it’s the printing or the way it was left? It just appeared like magic.”

I shrugged. “Easiest way would be a lottery scam pays a photographer, or an assistant, maybe. They leave the card with every winner. It’s only because you didn’t see them put it down that it seems like magic.”

“You’re probably right, but …it’s the phrase ‘contact us with your attorney’. What scam would do that?”

It was a mystery; we delayed our start while I checked the internet for info on the corporation. There was none. I reentered the name and later tried entering the phone number. The number seemed to be for a car dealership in Scranton, Pennsylvania. Mom called and sure enough, it was a car dealership. Ford.

We talked about the mystery on the drive to the mall.

“Curiouser and curiouser,” Mom said. “That is the number. A code word, maybe?”

“They’re closed now; maybe if you call during the day and say the name of the company, something happens? Like a different extension, maybe?”

“Maybe. I’ve certainly seen enough spy movies over the years to know how that’s possible.”

We managed to put it all out of our minds and just enjoy our time together. It was lovely shopping at Oakbrook; they had more upscale stores and different boutiques than our mall. I was trying on a peasant blouse when I turned to Mom.

“Maybe the code is actually the thing you thought made it genuine—‘contact us with your attorney’. Maybe only an attorney can contact them.”

Mom chuckled. “Thought we’d dropped the subject?” Then she nodded. “You mean like having our attorney call the Ford place in Scranton and somehow, magically, he’ll be talking to the corporation?”

“Hey, the card appeared by magic, you said!” I teased. “What do you think?”

I was wearing the peasant blouse and a mid-calf length skirt, cut on the bias.

“Needs heeled sandals but my word you’re a pretty girl, Jessie!”

“Thank you, Momma!” I teased as I held my long skirt to the sides and did a little curtsy.

Needless to say, we got both blouse and skirt, and stopped to get some sandals with a heel higher than I’d ever worn. On a whim Mom had the salesman bring black peep-toe pumps with a four-inch heel.

“Mom, I’ll get a nosebleed from the altitude!” I teased.

“I just think …” She sighed. “You’re a very pretty girl, and you’re growing up, and soon you’ll be …at occasions where you need a formal dress shoe like that.”

“At occasions?” I quoted. “Meaning …”

“Well, maybe an award ceremony.”

“Mom, why would I be getting an award?”

“So egotistical!” she rolled her eyes, chuckling. “Maybe I’d be the one getting an award …”

My eyes widened. “Really? Are you getting an award, Mom?”

“Not that I know of, but …maybe,” she chuckled, then got serious. “Or you might be on a date …Oh, could we see that in the blue?” she asked the salesman.

She’d tossed the word ‘date’ out there, knowing it was loaded.

“Mom …” I said as the salesman left us. “I’m still …I’m still really freaked about that.”

“I’m not,” she said calmly. “My girl is pretty, boys already know it—oh, don’t pretend you haven’t seen the guys all checking you out here at the mall!—and sooner or later, my girl will go on a date with a boy. Relax, sweetheart; knowing that it’s going to happen should take some of the stress off you.”

She smiled as the clerk came back with the blue; it didn’t really do but Mom said we’d take the black ones. As we left the store, I said, “Mom, I should have said this back in the store before you bought anything, but I’m worried about spending money.”

Mom laughed. “I’m glad that you’re thrifty, and thinking of our budget, but really, honey, you can relax. Two pair of shoes won’t break the bank.”

“But I got that peasant outfit, and the two skirts at Macy’s, and those cute tops—”

“And you really should start thinking about a swimsuit, honey. Maybe a maillot with a long cut in the back—you’ve got a lovely back. Or a bikini …”

“I can’t tell if you’re teasing or not. The maillot …yeah, if we can find one. There’s no way I could do a bikini.”

“Two-piece, then. But your bikini time is coming faster than you think.” She mimicked a shot from a hypodermic needle.

“Geez, Mom; you heard Dr. Grover say how ‘iffy’ everything was; no timetable or anything.”

“A mother just knows these things,” she smiled placidly.

“Still; I don’t want you spending too much.”

“I appreciate that, honey, but between you and me …” Theatrically, she looked both ways and leaned down to whisper, “I did win the lottery!” She comically held her hands over her mouth, like ‘oops!’

Chapter 11

There was an interesting new restaurant on the edge of the mall, all organic and full of salads and smoothies and healthy stuff. We ate there and Mom commented on how lovely it was to be mother and daughter, out shopping. There were other groups of mothers and daughters—it didn’t seem like the place many guys would go to—and we looked around. There was one booth where there was a fight going on. Every so often, a pained, whiny ‘Mo-ther!’ could be heard.

Mom sighed. “That may be our future, but I hope not. I don’t think it will, because of our circumstances.”

I chuckled. “That girl’s had fourteen or fifteen years to get to the point where she’s screaming, ‘Get off my back!’ which would mean we’re due for that when I’m twenty-eight or so.”

Mom almost snorted her drink from her nose and had to hold her hand over her mouth. “Look what you made me do!” she chuckled as she grabbed her napkin and dabbed.

I sighed. “I’m so happy, Mom.”

“I know, sweetheart. That—maybe more than anything else—proves to me that this is right for you.”

“I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, you know?”

“Do you have any actual …fear of that?”

“Oh, not like I’m being psychologically scarred or anything. Maybe it’s just that thing where people don’t allow themselves to be happy; they feel guilty or something.”

“A remarkably astute observation from one so young,” Mom beamed. “But then, your doctor called you ‘mature, intelligent, and self-aware’ and I couldn’t agree more. I’m very proud of you, Jessica.”

I smiled at her.

Then Mom said, “So …this shoe …any idea what form it might take?”

I sighed. “Just the fear of discovery, I guess. That I’ll be walking through the mall and somebody shouts ‘That’s a boy!’ or walking through school and somebody shouts ‘Jimmy’s transgendered!’ or something.”

Mom folded her hands, business-like. “Well, let’s examine that. First of all, do you truly believe that anybody anywhere is going to look at you and say that you’re a boy?”

“It sounds like bragging to say this, but …not anymore.” I pushed some salad around. “Spending time with Jenny, and these shopping trips …well, they’ve pretty much convinced me that I look like a girl.”

“Not just look like; are a girl,” she said softly with a raised eyebrow. “Right?”

I nodded firmly. “Yes. And I know nobody at school’s going to shout that; heck—I wonder how many even know the word ‘transgendered’.”

“Probably more than you think, but I still don’t think they would make the connection. It pains me to say this, but most likely they’d accuse you of being homosexual.”

I snorted and rolled my eyes, both. “Mom, I get that already.”

Her eyes widened and her temper flared. “Really? Somebody has said something?”

“Somebody? Something?” I shook my head. “Mom, I thought I’d told you. Almost every day I get called—”

I broke off, looking around. The waitress came and refilled our water and left the check on Mom’s nod. I waited until she was gone.

“Mom, nearly every day I’m called a fag, faggot, queen, sissy, fairy, fruit, whatever. Even sweetie-pie, but that was more how they said it.” I shrugged. “It’s just a fact of life.”

“A fact of Jimmy’s life,” Mom said, but I could tell she was still mad.

“Mom, I don’t want to make this all about me, and I don’t want to go crazy spending your money, but …Do you think at some point we could move? So I could start in another school as Jessica, I mean?” It was hard to keep the pleading from my voice.

Mom reached over and squeezed my hand. “Exactly what I’ve been thinking, honey. As for our house, well …we’re still there only because we’re still there. One of the things your father did right was the house; I didn’t know how he did it …at the time …but it’s paid in full.” A shadow quickly passed over her face and was gone.

I was used to that shadow, whenever she talked about my father. I thought she’d phrased oddly, ‘at the time’, but then figured it that way because they bought the house so early in their marriage that she didn’t really know much about him. Her best friend even talked to her about him. I thought of Mom’s sadness at her loss, and her loneliness, and resolved that I would not be one of those girls who couldn’t wait to get away from their mothers.

Mom’s mood improved. “So we haven’t had to deal with a mortgage all these years. Own it free and clear and that gives us the flexibility to sell when we want and go where we chose. Even if I hadn’t won the lottery, I was thinking along those lines.” She nodded. “We’ll see if there’s any way you can stay close to Jenny, but it might not be possible for the two of you to still go to school together.” She looked at me, sad and concerned.

“I know,” I said, deeply saddened.

There was a pause.

Mom casually said, “Honey, you haven’t asked me how much I won.”

“Well, you said that there were all sorts of variables, and options, and maybe other winning ticket holders. I mean, I know what the computer said, when you hit for all six, but I never really thought that was a …real number, you know?” I chuckled, remembering. “Like the lottery people trying to get you to pretend that you didn’t know you won, at the door. I figured the number was fake, just like that photo session.”

“So cynical, so young …or maybe so wise?” Mom smiled, tilting her head. “I’m glad that you’re not running around crazy about any actual amounts. Like the old ads say, ‘Your mileage may vary’ and I actually don’t know how much it’s going to come down to.”

“Do you know which option you’re going to choose, though? Lump sum or annuities?”

Mom laughed. “You say that like an adult! I guess I have been talking about it a lot.”

“Not that much, really.”

“Thanks for that, sweetie. I’m leaning towards the lump sum for a number of reasons that I won’t go into now. Not that I’m hiding anything or playing cagey, but I’ve got to see what our attorney thinks.”

“Mom, the card said ‘our attorney’ and now you just said it. Do we have an attorney?”

“Sort of,” she said, waving a hand back and forth. “Not on retainer, not regularly paid to be at our beck and call. But Craig Harrison handled our divorce—my side of it—and I’ve consulted with him from time to time over the years. So I really have to call Craig. If he can’t answer my questions, maybe he’ll know somebody who can.”

As it turned out, Craig ‘knew a guy who knew a guy’ or however lawyers worked, and Mom met with a Stanley Rutherford, reputed to be very knowledgeable in the ways of lottery scams.

Mom told me about it later. After all the initial information was given, they’d discussed the pros and cons of lump sum versus annuities and mapped out a strategy. Only then did Mom produce the card. Mr. Rutherford turned the mysterious card over and over. Mom said his voice was high and thin, like he was an old, old man, although he was only in his fifties.

“This is …remarkable. If it’s what I think it is, I mean. There are rumors …more of an urban legend sort of thing.”

He continued looking at the card, feeling the paper, feeling it, Mom said, as if for its truth.

Finally he set it down, folded his hands in front of him the way Mom does when discussing business, and nodded.

“I can certainly help you, Mrs. Brewer. My specialty is investments, and you will have a sizeable amount to invest. I believe that we can work with the state lottery to mutual satisfaction. And Craig Harrison was right about my knowledge of scams. There are many new ones popping up all the time, and I try to stay on top of them, but some might get away from me.”

He looked down at the card again and looked up at Mom.

“This card …seems to be from a …well, I’m about to launch into something more like a camp-fire story. Or a best-selling novel; maybe something by Grisham. Or that …” He snapped his fingers, thinking. “Baldacci fellow. Have you read him?” Mom shook his head and the lawyer shrugged. “One of his books is about a lottery scam; that’s why I read it.”

Mom said at that point his cheeriness faded and he frowned and looked back at his desktop. He put his two index fingers in the top corners of the card, rooting it to the desk but she said it almost looked like a tug-of-war. He cleared his throat.

“This card seems to be from a shadowy corporation known in lottery legends by several names. There might be several corporations or one that keeps changing its name; it’s unimportant. What’s important is what they do.” He looked at Mom. “What they do is make you disappear.”

Mom said she gasped and exclaimed, “You mean they’d murder me?”

“No,” he smiled but she said she couldn’t read the smile. “Although that might …” He waved a hand. “Too much, too soon. Alright. Let’s attack it from the winner’s standpoint. The statistics on winners can be dreary reading. For every happy story there’s somebody dying of drinking in two years. A shockingly high number file for bankruptcy three, five or ten years down the road. I don’t know of studies that have broken it down specifically between lump sum and annuity winners, but I’d guess the lump sum folks have the most upheaval in their lives; it just stands to reason.”

Mom said she nodded agreement and he went on.

“But the word here is ‘upheaval’. In the cases of some winners, everything works out for the best. Dad and Mom get new cars, a new house, go to Hawaii, the kids’ colleges are paid in full, and everybody has a lovely retirement package. Others fall victim to the scams, of course, and lose some or all of it. But there’s that middle ground that can be merely tolerable or intensely unpleasant. It’s the area where relatives come out of the woodwork with their hands out. Friends turn bitter. Bad things start to happen because people can be careless around people with money. Somebody scratches your car? No big deal; she can buy another, they reason. Or they trip on your doorstep and sue. That sort of thing.”

Mom told me at that point she was about to veto the lump sum idea, but one thing kept her pursuing it—me. Mom said that my medical bills could be taken care of, and that was her most important goal.

Mr. Rutherford was looking at the card. “These folks—if they’re the ones that I’m thinking of, if they truly exist—make you disappear, and not by murder. More like a spy novel, or the Witness Protection Program the Federal Government uses. These folks will give you a whole new life. Identities, work, everything. The catch is that you must turn your back on your old life. Cut off completely. No going back. They don’t fake a death or anything, although there are rumors to that effect, but you just …leave. You sell your house, quit your job, pull your child out of school. Wave goodbye and tell them you’re going to Cleveland or Schenectady, or wherever. And then you don’t go to Cleveland or Schenectady; you go to your new town with your new identity. Now that I say it, it really is just like Witness Protection.”

“But …my job …J-Jimmy’s school records,” Mom said.

She told me she’d almost said ‘Jessie’s school records’ and I loved her for it, but Mr. Rutherford only knew his client as having a son.

“All changed,” Mr. Rutherford said with a magician’s hand gesture. “They transfer school records—that’s probably what worries people the most, besides their jobs.”

“Yes, I can understand the records, because that’s all computerized, but you mentioned jobs, and …If I’m applying for work, won’t they call my previous employers? And then, if I have a new name, it all goes nowhere?”

Mom said he smiled at that when he said, “Mrs. Brewer, the amount you stand to invest …a job search may be less of a stretch than you think. But part of the service these folks provide,” he nodded to the card, “is maintaining the fiction that your new identity has always been around. They somehow intercept the phone calls or use dummy numbers—I’m not sure how, exactly—and give the proper responses. ‘Jane Doe? Of course I remember Jane Doe. Marvelous gal, hard worker. Sorry to lose her. You’re lucky if you hire her’ and so on.”

“It doesn’t seem possible,” Mom said breathlessly.

“It is for the cost. That’s the other big point about these corporations.” He chuckled. “They don’t murder you, but they do cost you an arm and a leg!”

Chapter 12

It’s interesting how being shoved in a garbage can turn out to be a good thing.

I’ve gotten to be a connoisseur of garbage. Specifically, trash and garbage cans I’ve been shoved into. Usually face-first but often butt-first.

Face is worse.

What I’ve discovered is that if you get dumped into a can where adults are, an hour later the only thing you can smell is coffee. God help you if they used one of those big filters and dumped it, because then you’ve got grounds in your hair. You stink overall, but no matter what else was in the trash, oddly enough it’s the coffee smell that lingers.

In middle school garbage cans, you wind up smelling like bananas. Even when I haven’t seen the peels as my face heads towards the mess, an hour later it’s that odd banana smell that sticks.

I’d thought my days would stay pretty regular, as they’d been: Some books knocked down, the occasional swirly, lots of trips and slams into lockers.

The usual.

I could endure them better because they were done to Jimmy, to the mask, the costume. I hadn’t realized the psychological power it gave me, being able to separate Jimmy from Jessica. I think that’s also what guys read in my eyes, which reduced the attacks from the front even as all the others continued from the backs and sides. Or from the front if they didn't bother to actually look at me.

I got lulled into Life As Usual and was on my way to meet Jenny to walk home after school, when Eddie Trompero and his Gang of Dolts swooped in on me. Backpack ripped off, opened, contents flung by Eddie while a Dolt held me against the lockers, his arm straight to my throat. Then the four-handed aerial toss into the can. This one was well-chosen; I’ve got to give them that. It was at the edge of the Great Court, the big plaza-thing in the middle of the school. Everybody that didn’t eat in the cafeteria ate their lunch there, sitting in groups of friends. I always thought it was odd that there had never been a food fight there, as opposed to near-daily food fights in the cafeteria. Because of the food-fights, the cafeteria was heavily patrolled, leaving the Great Court relatively teacher-free. And yet there were no food fights and it was trash-free; everybody seemed to dump their garbage in the appropriate can.

Which was the one I was thrust into. Face-first. Well done, Dolts and Eddie.

I knew enough to struggle a bit to increase their pleasure and lessen their stay. Too much struggle and they’d stay to make sure I didn’t come out fighting. Too little and they’d stick around to come up with some additional torture. It was a Goldilocks sort of thing, and as the undisputed champion of garbage can-stuffees at McKinley Middle School, I knew how to play my part.

The game required I go to the Office, dripping and with candy wrappers stuck to my shoulders. There I would let them know of the incident but steadfastly not name names. My line was always, ‘I don’t know; it was from behind and I was face down so fast I never saw anything.’ Then I’d received a Tardiness Excuse slip and there was the inevitable trip to the Boys Restroom to clean up as best I could. Or when it was after school, they made an Incident Report and sent me on my way. Same thing; restroom and then on my way.

When I’d pulled myself out of the garbage, the first thing I did was text Jenny that I had to stay after class; sorry and all that, and I’d call her as soon as I got home. She texted back okay and maybe I could stop by her place on the way?

Not smelling of bananas and Yoo-Hoo, I thought.

My walk home wasn’t as miserable as past ones had been because of the Jimmy-mask thing. I was thinking of how I really needed my shower today—the one to get my ‘Boy’ off—and that I’d like to wear a blue babydoll dress that Jenny had loaned me, just to feel extra girly and get my mind off bananas.

Needless to say, I didn’t stop at Jenny’s but continued to my house. There was an unfamiliar car parked in front, big shiny black thing, and an unfamiliar guy got out. Reasonably good-looking and fit, styled hair with a touch of gray, with tailored slacks and an open-collared shirt that looked expensive.

Except for that, I figured he might be a reporter, or even a lottery scammer making a personal appeal. My guard was instantly up.

“Jimmy?” the man said, uncertain but then I turned into my driveway even as my brain shouted that I should have said ‘No’ and kept walking.

Seeing me turn, he smiled. “Jimmy Brewer?”

I stopped. “Yes?” I said, wary, with as much maleness as I could. Cold, impersonal—that was me.

“I’m your father,” he said.

“Oh.”

A thousand things swirled through my head. What I actually said next was, “What are you doing here?”

He smiled. “Well, I’ve been talking to your mother, and we thought it was time that you and I …well, be formally introduced, maybe.”

Everything about it was a lie. ‘We thought’? I doubted there was very little he and my mother would agree on other than the world was round. Introductions weren’t needed. And I seriously doubted he’d ‘been talking’ to Mom.

And she’d just won the lottery and the announcement had been made.

And maybe it was because of Eddie and the Dolts doing me a huge favor—no; two huge favors. They’d dumped me in the garbage can which made me walk home later and alone, so I was still in Jimmy-mode. I don’t know how long he’d been waiting, but if my father had arrived and gone to the front door, I might have answered as Jessica and then things would have gone to hell in a hand basket!

The other favor Eddie & Dolt Co. did was what they said to me as they attacked me.

“Ooh, thinks he’s special, does he?” one said.

“Little faggot might be rich but he’s still a faggot,” Eddie said.

“Think winning the lottery makes you safe?” said the third.

My only response—strangled because of the Dolt at my throat—was from the deny-and/or-confuse playbook.

“Eddie, guys …if I won the lottery do you think I’d still be in this place?”

Mentally I apologized to my school, which I liked very much except for the torture.

I did see frowns appear on their faces before I was reacquainted with gravity and garbage.

So I was hyper-aware that the news of Mom’s winning was out there and not everybody would be happy for us. Facing my alleged-father—because there didn’t seem to be any sense of ‘father’ one way or the other, I thought of what to say.

“Hello.”

That was it; he said ‘formally introduced’ and now I’d formally said ‘hello’.

“Don’t I get a hug?” he asked, smiling and with arms wide.

“Uh …don’t think you’d want one. I stink.” I shrugged. “Got tossed in a garbage can.”

His arms dropped a bit as did the smile. “Who did this to you?”

“Big kids,” I said as if it was no big deal. True, Eddie and the Dolts were bigger than me, but then, just about everybody was. But ‘big kids’ implied much older, bigger kids. I treated it as if it was no big deal. “Caught me after school; didn’t see it coming.” That was true.

“Hope you gave as well as you got.” It was a sort-of question.

“I got a few licks in,” I said, thinking ‘verbal licks’. It was a stretch, but everything about this encounter felt like a lie. “But there were three of them. And bigger.” I shrugged. “No biggie. But I really do stink.”

Gotta watch my stressed words, I thought. That last part almost came out like a girl would say it—like Jessica.

My alleged-father nodded. “Yeah, three against one. Not much you can do. Okay, hug later. What time does your mom get home?”

I thought, you say you’ve been talking and you don’t know things like that?

“Not sure. It varies; about now some days. Some days later, like if there’s a union meeting or something.”

He nodded. “She’s still doing the union thing, huh? Good for her.”

To the best of my knowledge, Mom did not have the same job she’d had when they’d divorced. In fact, from what I knew, Mom had no job at the time I was born, but definitely not when they divorced. She’d told me once she’d been trying to be the best wife and mother she could but failed. You didn’t fail, Mom, I thought.

I was pretty sure there had been no contact between them over the years other than bank deposits from him; we didn't even get Christmas cards. Mom only started the union thing about three years ago.

He didn’t know squat.

“Well, let’s go in and get to know each other while we wait for her,” he said, smile back in place.

This is the Moment of Truth, I thought.

I turned and faced him, trying to square my shoulders and be as tall and as macho as I could, which was probably laughable.

“I’m sorry; I can’t do that. My mother is very strict that nobody can be in the house when she’s not there, not even my best friend.” Not telling him that my best friend was a girl named Jenny. “I have to go over to their houses if I want to hang out.” Did that sound enough like I had friends, guy friends? “That’s a nice car and I hate to make you wait, but I’ve got to follow her policy. You’ll have to wait until she comes home. Sorry.”

“But I’m your father!” he said, arms open wide again.

“Okay, but I have to live by her rules. You understand, right?”

I did a head-nod thing as I said that, like we were both in agreement, and turned to go into the house.

“Hey, you gonna leave your old man out on the street?” he half-joked.

I turned. “No, in his nice car. Me, I’ve got to get in the shower. I stink of banana.” I turned back and went in the house, carefully locking the front door and making sure the back door was locked, too.

For the first time in my life, I thought, ‘Eddie Trompero—thank you!’

Chapter 13

I watched the two of them. Mom stood absolutely still, her arms cross across her chest. My alleged-father was waving his arms and pacing back and forth in the four-foot width of our front walk. He was getting redder and redder. I was worried that he might actually attack her; I had my hand on our phone to call 911 if he did, and then I’d run out and help her. I’d called her as soon as I had the house locked, got a garbage bag for my clothes and dumped them all in and folded it over and then took a quick shower. I dressed in Jimmy’s clothes—clean ones—even though I hated to, on the off-chance I’d have to make a reappearance out front. I went to the window to watch, phone in hand. Mom had pulled up and gotten out of the car as he got out of his and then she turned to face him.

And then his yelling began.

Finally, he waved a single hand in the air, stomped back to the car and slammed the door and peeled out of there. Mom’s only movement was to watch the car roar off. I walked back out to join her.

Mom only said, “He’s …” Then she shook her head.

“Let me guess, Mom. He’s only here because he found out you won the lottery. He’s gone, but not for good. He’s a jerk. How am I doing?”

It worked; she chuckled sadly. “Three for three, honey.” She smiled down at me and then frowned.

Hoping I was still reading her right, I said, “I didn’t think it was smart to let him know about Jessica. I dressed like Jimmy again and sat at the window with the phone to dial 911 if he tried anything.” I still held the thing and showed her.

“Smart g—” Her eyes widened. “Smart boy.”

“No, smart girl; you were right the first time,” I smiled with my happiness. “Dressed up like a boy. An alleged son for that alleged father.”

Mom made a face. “No, he really is your father. I can’t believe I …” She shook her head.

“Mom? It’s okay,” I said. “And to be technical about it, he’s Jimmy’s father. Not Jessica’s. You are Jessica’s mother, though. Anyway, can I get out of these things now?”

“Certainly. How’d you come to be home so late? Hanging at Jenny’s?”

I told her about Eddie and the garbage and she was both angered and laughing at the cosmic chances that allowed me to avoid my father finding out about Jessica.

That made me think of something that I discussed with Mom later, when I was comfortably in a skirt and tank top.

“Mom, I think he’ll be back. Maybe not in person, but he obviously wants to cook up some way to get some money.”

“Maybe he wants ‘go-away’ money,” Mom nodded. “Money to just never bother us again.”

“You don’t really know how much you won, but however much it actually is, greedy people won’t settle for ‘go-away’ money unless it’s a really big amount. And then where do they stop?”

“How’d you get to be so wise?”

“Lots of TV and reading,” I grinned. “But camping out on our doorstep like that …”

Mom frowned. “I know. It’s funny; you and the garbage weren’t the only lottery-related things happening today. Some of my co-workers, people I’d thought were …well, if not friends at least friendly to me …made snarky comments just like Eddie made. And I got three phone calls from people who said they were ‘family’ and just happened to be calling to ‘touch base’, and two from companies wanting to invest my money.”

“And nobody knows how much you won, either! It’s weird,” I said, shaking my head.

“They all think that I won the whole jackpot and anybody that reads the lottery rules would know it’s a lot less than that.”

“Yes, but you said yourself the lottery itself loves that people think you won the whole thing; I bet a big winner like that makes lottery tickets spike. So they’re not going to tell the truth.”

“Very wise. And a wee bit cynical. But you’ll have a better chance in life that way, I guess,” she sighed. “It’s just a sign that my baby is growing up.” Then her face brightened. “Vertical garbage assault aside, how was your day?”

Later, as I pulled on my nightie, I thought about my father. I’d only spent five minutes with him but I didn’t like and didn’t trust the guy. And watching him yell at Mom for ten minutes, I really didn’t like the guy. I had no doubt that if he was really greedy, he could stir up major trouble if he found out about Jessica. Maybe even try to declare Mom an unfit mother, or at least threaten to unless he got some money.

I was ashamed to be his child.

Things escalated quickly after that—or maybe they spiraled downward; whatever the right metaphor was. Winning the lottery—or at least once Mom’s name and face were made public—was like painting a big bull’s-eye on her. She became a target for scammers of every persuasion, from threatening and aggressive to sweet and pathetic. And not just scammers; there were inventors that needed ‘just some seed money’ for the world’s greatest invention, people needing ‘just enough to cover our medical bills’ for some life-saving operation, and even some rock bands that needed ‘just enough to make our demo’ and become the next Rolling Stones.

It was taking a toll on Mom because she was a good person. If she wasn’t, she could treat them all with equal disdain, but I found her in tears, agonizing whether she should give money to a family whose child needed an operation to see. Fortunately, I recognized the email address and had her drag all of the email requests—we got snail-mail, too—into a folder I marked ‘Needies’. Then I clicked on the bar that alphabetized them, and to my mother’s shock and growing fury, several of them were from the same addresses! Among them was a plea for money for clean water for Africans, an alternative energy inventor, and a family with a blind kid—all from the same ‘needy family’ address!

Mom glared at the screen. I proposed a generic email—she’d been trying to answer the bleeding-heart ones individually. We came up with this boilerplate:

‘Thank you for your interest. Unfortunately, I am unable to do anything further because I do not have the money you believe I do. Lottery winners never get the amounts they supposedly win—go ahead; Google it and you’ll see—and I’ve been told that I won’t be getting anywhere near the amount you think I would. It would be nice, but even a little cash can help with our bills. And any money would be in dribs and drabs over the next twenty years, and then they take so much out with the taxes …it’s almost a joke to think that I won all that money. I wish you the best of luck in your quest, and if you find a source of funds, maybe you could throw some my way—because I haven’t seen one red cent of my so-called winnings!!’

The last sentence, including the double-exclamation mark, was my idea, and Mom thought it was genius. She thought it might be too long, but I said it sounded like her talking directly to them, and frustrated and maybe feeling a little cheated that she didn’t get all that money.

“If you just said, ‘Sorry, not interested’, they’ll just come up with craftier ploys. Or maybe wise up and come at you with different addresses!”

“They insult me, being that sloppy. I’m glad you caught it; I’d like to think I would have but I was so dismayed by those poor families.”

“Those poor families are probably unmarried twenty-something hackers,” I chuckled.

Mom copied and pasted and that became her standard answer and she had more time and less stress.

Still the scams and requests came.

Then I came home and saw a guy peering into our windows. My first impulse was to do what I wanted to do when I saw my father, which was to walk past. Then I thought of something that would be better, I hoped.

Instead of walking up the driveway to the back or cutting across the lawn, which were standard procedure, I walked to the front walk and up towards the house.

“Is Jimmy home?” I called out.

“Huh? What?” The guy was frowning when I turned around. “Who are you?”

“Eddie Trompero,” I said easily, blessing that idiot bully again. “Is Jimmy home? You his dad?”

“What? No. But I work for his dad. You know this kid Jimmy?”

I figured he was a private detective, just not a very good one if he didn’t recognize me. But then, as far as I knew my father didn’t have any recent photos of me, and hadn’t taken one. The one photo shot of Mom and me when the lottery people arrived ran in our local paper, but they’d been a distance away and as it happened, my face was mostly blocked by the big rhododendron in our yard. So this guy didn’t know me.

“I got class with him,” I shrugged, trying to sound Eddie-ish. “He said he’s got something to give me for a project we got in History.”

The guy already appeared bored with me.

“Don’t know anything about that,” he said, looking up the street. “Did your school just let out?”

“Yeah,” I said as bored as I could. “I’m not sure, but he might have detention. I thought I’d check if he had that book for me. I can always get it tomorrow.” I turned to go.

“Wait,” the guy called, which was good because I hadn’t thought of where I’d go to. “What can you tell me about Jimmy? What kind of guy is he? Do you know his mom?”

I thought quickly and tried to act casually. “I met her at Parent Night. I think my mom knows her somehow. Nice lady, I guess.” I shrugged. “Jimmy’s, well, kind of a dweeb. Good guy and all that, but …he’s not my bud.” Another shrug.

“Is he …weird at all? Into weird stuff, I mean?”

“Yeah,” I nodded, watching the guy perk up. “Every Tuesday before Math class he sacrifices a chicken to the gods—geez, Mister!” I snorted derisively. “He’s just a dude, you know?” I made a rude sound, turned and walked back the way I came.

I got to Jenny’s and was shaking as she let me in. I called Mom and told her everything; she told me to stay at Jenny’s and that she’d square it with Jenny’s mom.

Jenny led me to her room—after fortifying me with Diet Coke—and showed me the cutest dress she’d got last night. It was midnight blue with ruching everywhere and a sweetheart neckline and I wanted to wear it.

“Argh! I can’t do this, Jenny!” I complained.

Jenny looked hurt. “Why not? And I thought it’d get your mind off things.”

“Thank you for that; you’re such a sweetie and—argh!” I growled again. “It’s so hard to keep this Jimmy thing going. I was so worried that …” I cleared my throat and worked to sound more like Jimmy. “I was worried that I’d slip in front of that guy—or my father.”

“This guy said he works for your father?”

“He might have just cooked that up but I think he was a private detective or something, maybe hired by my father to get something on Mom. Or maybe he really works directly with my father; I don’t know. He sure was interested in if Jimmy was weird …well, like if Jimmy liked to dress like a girl, maybe?”

Jenny’s eyes widened. “I never thought of that! Maybe he thinks that if he can find out something, they can use it to take you away from your mother …” She frowned. “But why? You don’t have any money.”

“No, but you know Mom would move heaven and earth to save me if they could threaten her.”

Jenny nodded. “You’re right; she would. Heck, I would!”

“Aw, that’s so sweet!” I said, and we hugged. Then I pulled back, angry with myself. “No! I can’t be Jessica right now!”

“I understand,” Jenny said sadly, and then a playful smile tugged at her lips. “But she is you!”

End of Part 4

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