Good Luck (8 page)

“So, I have some news,” I said instead.

“You weren’t joking when you told us you won the lottery,” Dad said.

“No. I wasn’t joking.”

“And…it’s true what Emma said? You were fired because a student claimed you sexually harassed him?” Mom asked faintly.

I nodded. “He was angry about a low grade he received, so he made up a story about how I’d offered to change the grade if he’d have sex with me.”

“But that doesn’t make any sense,” Mom protested. “Why would your school fire you just on the word of a student?”

“The kid, Matt Forrester, is from a really wealthy family that’s donated a lot of money to Andrews Prep over the years. I think they were worried that if they didn’t fire me to placate his parents, the donations would dry up.”

“But…but…” My mother struggled to get the words out, before she cleared her throat. “You really won eighty-seven million dollars?”

I nodded. “Yes. Well, sort of. I opted for a one-time payout, which reduced the total amount quite a bit, and then I had to pay taxes.”

“So…?” Dad began, but then stopped. He and my mother looked at each other and then back at me. I knew what it was they wanted to ask me.

“Thirty-four-point-four million dollars and change,” I said succinctly. It struck me as particularly ludicrous that I was in a position to refer to thirty-eight thousand dollars—roughly an entire year’s teaching salary—as change.

“Thirty-four-point-four million dollars,” Mom repeated. And then she swayed suddenly, so that my father had to grab on to her elbow again to steady her.

“I think maybe we’d better sit down. And then you can start over from the beginning and tell us everything,” Dad said.

“Okay. But you know most of it,” I said, shrugging. “I was accused of sexually harassing a student. And then I was fired. And then I won the lottery. And then the press found out about it. That pretty much brings us up to date. Oh, wait—Emma told you that Elliott and I broke up because I found out he was cheating on me, right?”

They nodded in unison.

“Then that’s pretty much everything,” I said lightly. I had no idea where this bravado was coming from. It was almost as though I were observing the whole nightmare from somewhere outside my body. I knew that I should feel horrified, should act horrified, considering that my entire life was falling down around me like a tower of toy blocks. But all I could muster up was a bemused distant interest.

“I think we should all sit down,” Dad said again. He patted me on the shoulder. “I’ll make a pot of coffee. And then we’ll figure it all out.”

“Okay. But I can make the coffee. I’m fine, really,” I said.

My parents exchanged another look. I could tell they didn’t believe me. It didn’t occur to me until later, much later, that they were worried I was in shock—and that they were probably right.

I thought the press would get tired of sitting outside my house for hours on end. I was wrong. Not only did they not leave, but their ranks seemed to swell. More vans pulled up, and more reporters and photographers climbed out, carrying heavy-looking cameras and clutching paper cups of coffee. Some of the reporters stood off to one side, holding microphones and speaking directly into the camera. I didn’t have to wonder what they were saying—all I had to do was turn on the television, and I could hear them updating the viewers on what they knew of the story. There were also reporters stationed at Andrews Prep, interviewing students and even a few parents. Most of those interviewed expressed concern;
very serious allegations
seemed to be the favorite sound bite. However, a few of my students did go on camera to defend me.

“There’s no way Ms. Parker would ever do something like that,” Amanda Franklin said. Amanda was a painfully shy sophomore—she was overweight and had terrible acne—and the bravery it must have taken for her to speak out on live television reduced me to tears for the first time that day.

But despite the scattering of support here and there, I had, overnight it seemed, turned into the town harlot.

“When it comes to these sorts of allegations, I believe a person is guilty until proven innocent,” one of the interviewed fathers said, his jaw tight and his eyes flashing with anger.

I recognized him. It was Xander Lawrence’s father. I’d had Xander in class last year. When he came down with mono, I’d stopped off at the Lawrences’ house to drop off the books we were reading in class so that Xander wouldn’t fall too far behind. Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence had seemed genuinely grateful at the time, thanking me over and over again.

“I’m horrified,” a mother I didn’t recognize said from behind the wheel of her Lexus SUV. The reporter was interviewing her right in the middle of the car line. “We trust the school to protect our children, and then we find out a child molester is teaching them.”

Child molester
. The ugly words hit me like a gut punch.

“It will all blow over,” Dad said soothingly. He had taken the day off from work. He probably had no choice, I thought. The press would just camp out in his waiting room, scaring away all of his patients.

“You think so?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. “The boy’s parents said they had no plans to press charges, right? Not,” he hurried to add, “that there are any grounds for the allegations in the first place.”

“That doesn’t mean anything. It’s my word against Matt Forrester’s,” I said bitterly. “And you heard that father. I’m guilty until proven innocent.”

“I can’t believe that after the ten years you’ve worked there, that school wouldn’t back you up,” Mom said hotly.

I shrugged. “I guess I see their point. What if it was true? Even if they couldn’t prove it, wouldn’t it be irresponsible of them to let me loose around kids again?”

Just saying this out loud made me shudder. My dad saw and hurriedly refilled my coffee cup.

“No,” he said firmly. “What’s irresponsible is ruining someone’s life when there isn’t a shred of evidence against that person.”

“Well…” Mom said. “Lucy’s life isn’t exactly
ruined
.”

“No, of course it isn’t,” Dad said quickly.

“I mean, thirty-four million dollars,” Mom said. “That much money could buy a lot of happiness. Think of what she could do with that much money.” My mom suddenly inhaled sharply and turned to face me, her eyes gleaming almost maniacally. “Lucy!”

“What?” I asked, startled.

“You could build a shelter! A no-kill shelter! The Humane Society doesn’t have the funds to keep all of the stray dogs and cats indefinitely. But you could!” she announced triumphantly.

I stared back at my mother, utterly speechless. What could I say? Her dream of a no-kill shelter was a noble one. And of course I wanted to use this money to do something meaningful. But building an animal shelter—that was my mother’s dream, not mine. And as much as I didn’t want to disappoint her, I also wasn’t ready to commit to such a huge project. My life had been turned so upside down, I was just barely managing to keep on top of brushing my teeth. My dad seemed to sense what I was feeling, for he quickly stepped in to save me.

“Kay,” he said gently. “This is Lucy’s money. We can’t pressure her on how she should use it. She’s under enough stress as it is.” He nodded in the direction of my street, where the unrelenting press was clearly audible.

“But Lucy loves animals,” Mom protested.

“Of course I do. And of course I’ll donate some of the money to your rescue organizations,” I said quickly, hoping to mollify her. “But I haven’t thought through…I just…I don’t know what I want to do yet.” Suddenly I felt incredibly tired and overwhelmed. It seemed to take all of my energy to keep my head up. I sat down heavily on the sofa and pressed one hand to my forehead.

“Sweetheart, are you all right?” Mom asked. She rubbed circles on my back, the way she used to when I was a child.

“It’s a lot to take in,” I said faintly.

“You should talk to a financial adviser,” Dad suggested. “Someone who can keep the money safe for you until you decide what you want to do with it.”

“I have an appointment with a financial consultant next week.” I looked at my dad. “Mel O’Donnell recommended him. I hope you don’t mind that I called Mel without speaking to you about it first.”

“Of course not. It’s exactly whom I would have asked,” Dad said approvingly. “I shouldn’t have worried. You’ve always been a sensible girl. Now if it was Emma…” He looked at my mother.

“Oh, dear.
Emma
.” Mom shook her head. “Wait until she hears about this. She’ll be after you to fund the Wedding of the Year. I wouldn’t be surprised if she tries to book Madonna to play at her reception.”

I laughed. That would be just like Emma.

“I should pay for her wedding, though,” I said.

“Absolutely not,” Dad said, so sharply that Mom and I both looked at him in surprise.

“Why not?” I asked.

“We’re her parents. We’ll pay for her wedding,” Dad said stubbornly. “I don’t want you wasting your money.”

“Dad, it’s a lot of money. One wedding isn’t going to make much of a dent in it.”

“No. I want you to save that money for something important. Something meaningful,” he said.

I could tell from my mom’s wistful expression that she was still envisioning a state-of-the-art animal shelter with my name blazoned across the front.

“You’ve been given a rare opportunity, sweetheart,” Dad continued, his brown eyes intent on mine. “The chance to make your life whatever you want it to be. Please don’t squander it.”

“Okay, Dad,” I said. “I won’t squander it. I promise.”

My dad smiled at me. Relief transformed his face, making him look years younger. I tried to remember when his hair had gone from brown with touches of gray to gray with touches of brown. I didn’t know why it was so important to him to pay for Emma’s wedding—or, perhaps, why it was so important to him that I didn’t pay for it. But it started to dawn on me that this money was going to complicate every area of my life.

After my parents finally left, I started to prowl around the house, feeling caged. I couldn’t go out, not with the press surging around. And I couldn’t use my phone. When the reporters weren’t calling, tying up the line, random strangers were getting through and leaving messages on my answering machine. Some called to request investment money. They had an invention that would make us both rich and just needed the seed money to get started, or they knew of some land for sale in Texas that was guaranteed to be oil-rich. Others had sad stories of sick children and unpaid hospital bills. One woman talked at length about her little girl who was on the transplant list for a new heart, until she broke down sobbing in the middle of her message. I wrote down her name and telephone number and decided that when I met Peter Graham, I’d ask him the best way to go about helping some of these people. Maybe he would know how to sort those who were in real need from the shysters.

More disturbing were the threatening messages I received.

“They should lock people like you up and throw away the key,” one intoxicated woman slurred over my answering machine.

And then there was the creepy man whose low voice caused the hair to rise on the back of my neck: “I heard you like little boys, you filthy little slut. Just you wait, you’ll get what’s coming to you.”

After that, I unplugged the phone.

Luckily, no one had yet tracked down my cell-phone number. Probably because almost no one had it; unlike my cell-phone-addicted students, who practically lived with their phones pressed to their ears, I kept mine only for emergencies. The night the story broke, I used it to call Maisie.

“Hey,” I said when she answered the phone. “So what’s new with you?”

I expected her to laugh. Instead, she said, her voice strained, “Lucy. Are you okay? What the hell is going on?”

“A little of this, a little of that,” I said, still trying to keep up the joke, hoping she’d play along. When she didn’t say anything, I said, “Maisie?”

“I’m here. I just—Christ, Lucy, I don’t know what to say. This is all just so…”

“Surreal,” I supplied.

“Yeah. Surreal. Did you know reporters have been calling my house?”

Guilt squeezed my heart. While I knew I couldn’t control what the reporters did, and it was bad enough that they were permanently camped out in front of my house, it was even worse to know that they were harassing my friends. “I’m so sorry about that,” I said.

“Yeah, well, I’m sure it’ll die down. But the thing I don’t understand is…why, Lucy? Why did you do it?”

“What? I thought—” I stopped and swallowed. My throat was suddenly painfully dry, as though I’d swallowed a fistful of sand. I took a sip of water and began again. “I thought you said you didn’t believe Matt Forrester’s accusations.”

“I don’t!” Maisie said, her voice sharp and spiked with…what? Indignation? Outrage? Anger? And if it was anger, then whom was she angry with? Matt Forrester—or me?

But then she continued. “I meant, why didn’t you tell me you won the lottery?”

“Oh…that. I don’t know, exactly,” I said. It sounded feeble to me. And apparently to her as well.

“I thought you trusted me,” Maisie said flatly.