Chapter 3Ditching Him Made Me A Billionaire

I spent the morning hours completely locked in, drowning out the world with schoolwork.

When the lunch bell rang, I slipped away from the crowds and ran out of the school gates.

Three blocks down was a dingy, smoke-filled convenience store that ran an underground sports book out of a back room.

Inside, several middle-aged men in dirt-stained work shirts were shouting at a flickering TV screen.

As a teenage girl in a school hoodie, I stuck out like a sore thumb.

I nervously gripped the strap of my backpack, my palm slick against the damp roll of five hundred dollars in my pocket.

The voice in my ear was calm, commanding.

"Don't hesitate. Walk to the counter. Put the money down."

I squeezed through the crowd of men and placed the cash on the scratched glass countertop.

"I want to place a bet on the World Cup," I said, my voice shaking slightly.

"Germany versus Brazil. Exact score: seven to one."

The bookie, a balding man with a lit cigarette dangling from his lip, looked up from his ledger and burst into a loud laugh.

"You kidding me, kid?"

"This is the semifinals. Brazil is the host country. Seven to one? You think this is a varsity team playing middle schoolers?"

The men around the counter joined in, guffawing loudly.

"High school girls are hilarious. Throwing away her lunch money on a dream."

"Go buy yourself some Starbucks, sweetie. You throw five hundred bucks on those odds, you'll never see it again."

My neck burned under their mocking stares.

But the words "This is your only ticket out of this dump" echoed in my head.

I raised my chin and looked the bookie dead in the eye.

"Five hundred dollars. On the exact score. Print the ticket."

Seeing I wouldn't budge, the man shrugged and tapped the keys on his terminal.

"Suit yourself. It's your funeral. Don't come back crying to me when you lose."

The machine spat out a small, thermal-printed slip of paper.

I took it with trembling fingers, folded it neatly, and slid it into the zippered inner pocket of my hoodie, right against my chest.

Back at school that afternoon, I paused at the corner of the second-floor hallway.

In the shadow of the stairwell, two people were standing close.

Courtney was wearing a short tennis skirt, her hair styled in perfect beach waves, holding an iced Starbucks drink.

Travis was leaning against the lockers, all his usual anger gone, replaced by a desperate, eager-to-please grin.

Courtney poked him in the chest with a manicured nail, her voice dripping with sweet poison.

"That townie with the bleached hair from the vocational school was staring at me yesterday. It was so gross. Travis, I thought you said you ran things around here."

Travis immediately puffed out his chest, his eyes flashing.

"That idiot is nothing. Don't worry. During study hall, I'll corner him behind the bleachers. I'll break his legs."

Courtney giggled, covering her mouth.

"You promise? Because if you chicken out, don't bother talking to me again."

I watched them from the shadows, a wave of nausea rolling through my stomach.

The vocational kid hadn't even done anything to her. Courtney was just bored. She wanted to see two dogs tear each other apart for her amusement.

And Travis was more than happy to be her loyal hound.

I drew back into the hallway, turning toward my classroom without a second glance.

If Travis wanted to jump headfirst into hell, I wasn't going to pull him back.