“Like a phone plan?” I joke, but when he doesn’t smile I shake my head. “I don’t think so. I don’t believe in curses.”
He gives me a funny look, and I know what he’s thinking: that with a past like mine, choosing not to believe in curses is a pretty impressive piece of magical thinking.
But it’s not that.
Bad luck exists; I’d be crazy to think otherwise. But what I believe in—what I have to believe in—is randomness. Because to imagine that my parents died as a result of curses or fate or the larger workings of the universe, to imagine it was somehow meant to happen that way—even I don’t think the world isthatcruel.
“There are so many articles,” Leo continues, “about winners whose lives got completely ruined by it. Suicides, overdoses, family rifts. And a lot of them went broke too. It didn’t matter how much they won. Somehow it all ended in disaster.”
“Those are just stories,” I say, but I’m thinking about Teddy and everything that’s already happened, how I’m the one who put it all in motion, for better or worse.
Leo leans back against his pillows with a sigh. “I think I need some ice cream.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to—”
“Ice cream,” he says firmly, and I nod.
As he hops out of bed, he catches me glancing at my phone and raises his eyebrows. I give him a sheepish look. “I got an email from Stanford.”
“Theemail?”
“I haven’t opened it yet,” I tell him. “I couldn’t do it alone. But I wasn’t sure if you’d be in the mood.”
“Just because I broke up with my boyfriend, who hates me, and only applied to one college, which I probably won’t get into, and will most likely still be living in this room for the next four years, stuck letting Teddy pay every time we go out, and—”
“Stop,” I say, holding up a hand. “You’re going to be fine. You are.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do. You’re an amazing person. And you have the biggest heart of anyone I know. Whatever happens next, you’ll be fine.”
“When did you get to be such an optimist?”
“I think it’s your fault.”
“I think it’s Teddy’s.”
I laugh. “It’s usually one or the other.”
“So,” he says, eyeing my phone, and I pass it to him. He glances at my inbox, then lifts his eyes to check with me once more, and when I nod he taps at the screen. For a few long seconds, his face is impossible to read, but then a smile moves from his eyes down to his mouth, and I breathe out.
“Really?”
His grin broadens. “Really.”
“Wow,” I say, feeling almost weak with relief. I blink fast as I think of my mom. I know she’d be so proud of me. I know they both would. But this is one of those times when I really, really wish they were here to tell me that themselves.
“So, California, then,” Leo says, handing back my phone.
“I guess so,” I say, and we both stand there for a moment, imagining what it will be like to be so far away from each other, half a country apart, just like it used to be, like all these years in Chicago never even happened.
“Maybe we should go downstairs and tell the others,” he says, and I have a feeling he’s not just talking about Stanford; he’s talking about his own news too.
“Can I ask you something?” I say, and he nods. “Were you ever really going to apply to Michigan?”
He hesitates, looking uncertain. “Yes,” he says, then changes his mind. “No. I don’t know. Maybe.”
I nod at this; I’d expected as much. “It’s not a crime, you know.”
