Dumb Luck Read Free Page B

one.”
    â€œBut why now?”
    â€œBecause I’d turned eighteen. Because I fell out of a tree.” I had almost said, because you kissed me and I fell out of a tree . But I didn’t.
    What followed was one of those incomprehensible conversations that was made up mostly of one- and two-syllable words. And as I got more excited trying to tell her about all the possible things I could do in my life, she suddenly screamed in my ear (in a good way) and said, “You are so damn lucky, Brando, and it couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.”
    And I think it was the first time anyone had said something so positive about me. Not only was I a multimillionaire but I was (corny as this sounds) a nice guy. And I liked that.
    But there was no sleep for me that night.

chapter six
    No way was I going to school on Tuesday. I needed some more time on this. I had finally fallen asleep near dawn and woke up around noon. The first thing I saw was a squirrel on a branch of a tree outside my window. He was looking right back at me, curious, as if he, too, knew I’d won some big money. He seemed to be saying, “So, you’re the lucky bastard.”
    I got up out of bed and looked at myself in the mirror and answered, “Yes, I am,” out loud, but then suddenly felt rather silly.
    And then a voice in my head slammed out a question. “Now what?”
    Yeah, now what?
    I laughed right at that lucky bastard in the mirror.
    Downstairs, I discovered my dad had taken his second day off from work. No selling silver SUV s for him today. “Welcome back to the world of the living, Brandon,” he said, lowering the newspaper he was reading. I knew he’d been sitting there in the kitchen all morning, waiting for me.
    â€œMorning, Dad,” I said.
    My mom appeared as if on cue. “What would you like to eat?”
    There were the usual options. None of which particularly appealed to me. I thought for a minute. “Let’s order out for something,” I heard myself say. “It’s on me.”
    My father gave me his as-if look, but my mother shushed him before he could say anything. Ordering out for any kind of food in my father’s book had always been considered frivolous and too expensive.
    â€œSure,” my mom said. “What would you like?”
    I thought for a long minute about what someone who was rich and famous would order out for on Tuesday around noon. But I hadn’t a clue.
    â€œI want the most expensive pizza we can buy,” I said. “And I want everything on it. And I do mean everything.”
    My dad gave me a hard look. I gave that look right back at him. Then he dropped the paper on the table and slapped me on the back. “You want pizza, we’ll call for pizza.” But it was my mother who made the phone call.
    I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and the three of us sat there at the kitchen table.
    â€œWe need to talk,” my father said.
    â€œI know,” I answered.
    â€œWe have to come up with a plan.”
    I didn’t like the sound of the word, “we,” but I let it go. I knew that something like this was coming. “I know that, too.”
    â€œI’ve been thinking of opening up my own car lot,” my dad said, suddenly not sounding like my usually grumpy dad. “This would be my chance.”
    Technically, of course, the money was mine, not ours. Who was he, to start thinking about how to spend my money? I was going to blurt out something but I decided to keep my mouth shut. I knew what he could be like if I pushed the wrong buttons. It was beginning to sink in that I was going to have to learn some things about what it was like to have a pile of money. And I guessed it might have to start with my parents. I decided to sidestep my dad for a minute.
    My mother had been hovering, standing by the sink, looking a little nervous. I turned to her. “What about you, Mom? What do you want?”
    She