We’ll be splitting the thirty million with three other people. Then Logan and I will divide that amount in half, leaving each of us with $3,750,000. After federal and state taxes, our annual payout for this year will be just under forty-four thousand.
Unreal.
“I can’t believe there were four winning tickets,” Logan says with a disbelieving laugh. “You know how hard it is for one person to win?”
“It’s still a lot of money,” I say.
“Yeah, it is.”
In the week since Logan and I had our second fortune reading, we each met with financial advisors, lawyers, and tax accountants. We filled out the right forms, checked all the boxes, and agreed to the press event and public announcement that New York requires, which is where we are this afternoon.
My phone vibrates with a text message from Emma.Excited for you to start on Monday! Getting matching aprons. (Gloria insisted.)
I imagine us all in tangerine-colored aprons, filling up candy jars. I wonder how much my employee discount will be.
“What are you smiling at?” Logan whispers to me when we have a moment to ourselves.
“The thought of candy half off. I accepted a temporary job until I can land a full-time role,” I tell him. “I couldn’t accept this money and not be working.” I nod toward the stage. “I thought we just got a check, smiled for the cameras, and went on our way. But an interview? On TV? This was a bad idea. Very, very bad.”
All the winners are gathered in a nondescript building in an unmemorable room with a wide backdrop printed with the New York Lottery logo against a white wall. Given that their brand is big money, the lottery doesn’t hold fancy press events. I guess it’s because we’re the ones walking away with the checks—metaphorically, that is—and not them.
“Keep answers brief and don’t make direct eye contact,” Logan coaches. “They’ll see through our eyeholes. And maybe stop playing with your jowls.”
I lift my fingers from the soft jowls of the hyper-realistic silicone mask covering my entire head. We decided to go with Logan’s idea to disguise ourselves, and his Broadway friends helped out. My name will be made public, but it could conceptually be any Hazel Yen. And if someone goes one step further to find the photo, I won’t look like myself.
We picked from his friend’s premade silicone mask stash. Our options came down to the masks of lagoon creatures or older people. As much as I’d love to be green and have scales for a day, we went with the obvious choice. I went from being a single twenty-nine-year-old to being a married eighty-year-old. A cover-up story Logan and I created together.
Easily removable masks also allowed us to show our real faces at check-in when we had to be verified against our IDs. They aren’t accurately representative of what we’d look like—Logan’s friend didn’t have a mask of an aged, mixed-race Chinese American woman—so today I’m fully white and thankfully haven’t been asked about my last name.
Logan’s sporting a crew neck sweater over a button-down, which covers the edges of his mask. His khaki pants are a tad too short for his long legs. Socks and loafers complete the look.
My own mask extends down over my neck and chest, the flap tucking under my white T-shirt and cream-colored cardigan. I knew Coastal Grandmother was the look I wanted from the second we decided to go as older versions of ourselves. Because we’ll be holding checks and our arms and hands will be on display, we’ve aged those, too. I squeeze my fingers into a fist. I need to relax. We’ve been in this room for fifteen minutes, and no one’s seemed suspicious of us so far. This will be fine.
“How’s your arm doing?” Logan asks. “Healing okay?”
“Surprisingly well,” I say. “I don’t think the scratches will leave scars. Which is odd. With my skin, I can’t even get rid of papercuts.”
He shoots me knowing eyes. “It’s the fortunes. You’re lucky now.”
My instinct is to deny this. To tell him he’s wrong and that he needs to forget about the fortunes. That it’ll be a self-fulfilling prophecy if he keeps thinking about them every single day.
But the truth is, I’ve been noticing differences.
There have been small things: more jobs than I anticipated there being in industries I’m actually interested in, the guy at the cupcake shop who always gives me the wrong flavor accidentally giving me three of the right cupcakes instead of two, and a movie I wanted to watch being free on the streaming site that’s included with my cell phone plan.
There have also been big things: Jerry calling to tell me that the total cost of the surgery will be $5,000 less than he anticipated. That he’s recovering well but still wants space.
While we’re waiting for the event to begin, I check my emails. My heart speeds up when I see one from a recruiter.
Hazel,
Thank you for your interest in the Sr. Data Analyst role. I’d like to set up a phone interview to learn more about your background. If you’re interested, we’re also hiring for a manager role that I think you might be a great fit for. Including thejob descriptionfor your review. Let me know when a good time to chat might be.
Best regards,
Milly Wilson | Talent Acquisition Partner
I gasp, the sound muffled under my mask.
