Jackpot: Chapters 23–29

Zan’s the reason my brother’s actually been happy at school because he can finally join conversations about the latest gadgets and video games and no longer feels like a “poor-kid pariah’’ (no clue where he learned that word).

Homegirl took me ‘thrifting’ last week cuz she said ‘we need to stop being so conformist in our personal styles,’ or something.

And they recently “redeveloped” the area—you should see the monstrosity they tossed up next door mere months ago—so the black folk who have populated this neighborhood for as long as I can remember can’t (or maybe won’t) pay the exorbitant rent price Ethel’s financial advisor suggested so she’d be “competing with the surrounding renovated homes also listed for lease.”

My hair is curled, and I’m wearing a low-back houndstooth pencil dress I stole from her closet with tastefully ripped black tights.

The tears are flowing with verve now, which just makes me feel stupid and babyish.

When I was small, she used to strut around in the jacket and (playfully?) lament the fact that she’d had to stop riding when I was born.

When my grandpa died, she got rid of the bike and the paraphernalia.

And now I’m...befuddled.

Turns out my dress worries are moot.

“I’ve been carrying that around for a long time. Felt good to like...release it into the ether.”

Apparently Ness and Zan are somehow involved in the wedding, so it’s actually a really good thing I agreed to come—if I hadn’t, Jess would’ve had to “brave the anxiety-inducing waters of expendable wealth” alone.

Why do I get such a strong feeling of impending doom when I start thinking about this?

Of course this makes perfect sense—hello, I’m living it (minus the white-trash part)—but it’s jarring to hear it put so bluntly.

Then there’s Alexander Gustavo Macklin, looking every bit the million-dollar magnate his name implies, in his ultra-debonair charcoal tux.

Then there’s Alexander Gustavo Macklin, looking every bit the million-dollar magnate his name implies, in his ultra-debonair charcoal tux.

I keep my focus forward during the entire exchange of nuptials, largely because I can feel him looking at me.

A couple years ago, Hurricane Irma ripped through Puerto Rico, and I became obsessed with destructive storms. The idea of something beyond human control having the power to wreak such havoc was utterly terrifying, so I latched on to the idea of an eye, that point of relative calm at the center.

How much better a person she is than he. He wishes he had her courage. Her resilience.

After calling to clear it with Mama—who sounds reluctant but eventually caves—I spend the next four hours stocking and restocking everything in sight—working on candy right now—in a futile attempt to keep my nerves in check.

Because at 3:54 p.m., when Zan saunters in looking every bit the son-of-a-millionaire he is, my angst rockets through the fluorescent-lighted ceiling again.

“Your sister’s wedding seemed pretty extravagant.”

“I did the math: if the winner took the annuity option, after taxes they’d get roughly two-point-four million a year for thirty years. That’s over two hundred grand a month, Rico. Only like three percent of American households see that annually.”

And as we roll up the winding driveway, I’ll admit that after the twenty-minute trip here in the geriatric Honda, I halfway expected us to pull up to something moderate.

Sometimes I get so lonely, the distance from my bed to the door seems insurmountable.

The Macklins in two R-words: raucous and #raciallyreconciled.

I’m swept into a series of boisterous greetings and warm hugs, and in a blink, we’re gathered around a ten-seat dinner table.

When I open my eyes, there’s a timbre of unease in the air that wasn’t there before, and everyone’s sneaking glances in my direction.

“Just look at her! Such majesty and poise!”

“All I’m saying is it’d be a waste of four vital fiscal years of Jandro’s life doing ‘college’ when his talents could land him a great starting salary with room for quick advancement at the company.”

The interior of Orion Realty Group smells like Pine-Sol and potpourri.

"The best thing about this place is it’s got an open floor plan and no stairs, so if you’re here long enough for your kid to reach the crawling stage, you’ll be able to forgo the baby gates,” Greg says.

As he takes my left hand so we can walk around this place like we’ve done at the others, I’m reminded of how invigorating the sense of possibility can be.

“What about the Druid Hills house? I know we haven’t seen it yet, but is the owner American?” God, I sound like a xenophobe.

His wife, though, wasn’t so lucky: she returned home despondent over the three hundred dollars she’d lost gambling in the casinos.

Turns out evasive maneuvering takes a lot out of a girl.