It’s old us and young us. I’m still not seeing the connection. The silicone masks weren’t even close to our likeness.
Hazel reaches over and swipes across the screen to the third photo. It’s a zoomed in image of my arm and the stuff on the counter with a timestamp in the corner.
“Logan. Your bracelet,” she says, pointing to the screen.
My stomach plummets like it’s an elevator and my body is a drop tower.
My hand shakes a little as I slide to the next picture. Hazel and I are back in our disguises, but the photo is zoomed in on my arm.
And what’s poking out from underneath my sleeve? My red bracelet.
The last image is of a man standing in front of a bodega with his arms spread wide. He’s grinning likehe’sjust won the lottery.
“Why does that guy look so familiar?” Hazel asks.
I tap the name above the photo, and it takes me to a page with a lot more pictures in a grid. Interior shots of a bodega, new items on sale, and, more recently, a promo of the growing Powerball number. Then I recognize something that brings me back to how all the dots are connected: anIndiana Jonesshirt.
It’s the social media page of the bodega clerk.
I skim the caption:Thanks, Logan and Hazel, for stopping by the shop.
He goes on to say more celebratory-toned words about how the Powerball ticket was sold at his bodega, along with a list of store hours.
Hazel grips my arm and shakes it. “Plane. The plane!”
Right there, on the bodega clerk’s shirt, is the vintage airplane bursting through the clouds.
“This guy really knows how to tell a story,” Nick says. “That was a journey.”
Someone’s finger pulls down on the screen, and the page refreshes. “His follower count jumped by a hundred in the time it took us to look through those photos,” Bruce says.
“It doesn’t seem malicious,” Warren says, who joined the huddle at some point. “The guy’s excited. You know how much business this will bring? They might even have lines out the door. He has a lucky store now.”
Lucky.I wish that word never existed.
“How did he even find out?” Hazel asks.
“Doesn’t the bodega get money when they sell the winning ticket? When the payout hit, he probably wanted to find out who it came from,” Jane guesses.
Warren nods slowly. “If that’s his shop, that would make a huge difference for him.”
Roy gives us a thumbs-up. “Good for you guys for shopping local.”
I already know how this will land with Hazel. “This is an invasion of privacy,” I say, handing Jane her phone.
Jane takes one look at my face and then does what we all do when things get hard. “Why are you upset?” she asks. “You won the lottery! I mean, it’s a lot of money, but it’s not as much as what you would’ve gotten from Dad—”
“Jane, stop,” I say, not wanting to hear the rest of that sentence.
“Your faces are blurry in that footage,” Eva says, probably trying to be helpful.
It’s like we fall into roles when we’re all back together, saying the words from a script in the name of comfort. I find myself trying to spin this into something that will hurt a little bit less.
“This is really bad,” Hazel says, forcefully mushing her toppings into her potato.
“Your names were already out there,” Jane says flippantly, swiping back to the first photo. “Like, literally. Logan Wells. Hazel Yen. Why’d you even bother with disguises?”
“None of you knew until now,” Hazel says. She’s still distractedly mushing, her potato and toppings now a thick paste. “Obviously, we didn’t want to be outed if we were in disguises. Now our real faces are attached to this.”
