Chapter 7 Hazel
HAZEL
Turns out, we’re not the only winners.
Unreal.
“I can’t believe there were four winning tickets,” Logan says with a disbelieving laugh. “You know how hard it is for one person to win?”
“It’s still a lot of money,” I say.
“Yeah, it is.”
In the week since Logan and I had our second fortune reading, we each met with financial advisors, lawyers, and tax accountants. We filled out the right forms, checked all the boxes, and agreed to the press event and public announcement that New York requires, which is where we are this afternoon.
My phone vibrates with a text message from Emma. Excited for you to start on Monday! Getting matching aprons. (Gloria insisted.)
I imagine us all in tangerine-colored aprons, filling up candy jars. I wonder how much my employee discount will be.
“What are you smiling at?” Logan whispers to me when we have a moment to ourselves.
“The thought of candy half off. I accepted a temporary job until I can land a full-time role,” I tell him.
“I couldn’t accept this money and not be working.
” I nod toward the stage. “I thought we just got a check, smiled for the cameras, and went on our way. But an interview? On TV? This was a bad idea. Very, very bad.”
All the winners are gathered in a nondescript building in an unmemorable room with a wide backdrop printed with the New York Lottery logo against a white wall.
Given that their brand is big money, the lottery doesn’t hold fancy press events.
I guess it’s because we’re the ones walking away with the checks—metaphorically, that is—and not them.
“Keep answers brief and don’t make direct eye contact,” Logan coaches. “They’ll see through our eyeholes. And maybe stop playing with your jowls.”
I lift my fingers from the soft jowls of the hyper-realistic silicone mask covering my entire head.
We decided to go with Logan’s idea to disguise ourselves, and his Broadway friends helped out.
My name will be made public, but it could conceptually be any Hazel Yen.
And if someone goes one step further to find the photo, I won’t look like myself.
We picked from his friend’s premade silicone mask stash.
Our options came down to the masks of lagoon creatures or older people.
As much as I’d love to be green and have scales for a day, we went with the obvious choice.
I went from being a single twenty-nine-year-old to being a married eighty-year-old.
A cover-up story Logan and I created together.
Easily removable masks also allowed us to show our real faces at check-in when we had to be verified against our IDs.
They aren’t accurately representative of what we’d look like—Logan’s friend didn’t have a mask of an aged, mixed-race Chinese American woman—so today I’m fully white and thankfully haven’t been asked about my last name.
Logan’s sporting a crew neck sweater over a button-down, which covers the edges of his mask. His khaki pants are a tad too short for his long legs. Socks and loafers complete the look.
My own mask extends down over my neck and chest, the flap tucking under my white T-shirt and cream-colored cardigan.
I knew Coastal Grandmother was the look I wanted from the second we decided to go as older versions of ourselves.
Because we’ll be holding checks and our arms and hands will be on display, we’ve aged those, too.
I squeeze my fingers into a fist. I need to relax.
We’ve been in this room for fifteen minutes, and no one’s seemed suspicious of us so far. This will be fine.
“How’s your arm doing?” Logan asks. “Healing okay?”
“Surprisingly well,” I say. “I don’t think the scratches will leave scars. Which is odd. With my skin, I can’t even get rid of papercuts.”
He shoots me knowing eyes. “It’s the fortunes. You’re lucky now.”
My instinct is to deny this. To tell him he’s wrong and that he needs to forget about the fortunes. That it’ll be a self-fulfilling prophecy if he keeps thinking about them every single day.
But the truth is, I’ve been noticing differences.
There have been small things: more jobs than I anticipated there being in industries I’m actually interested in, the guy at the cupcake shop who always gives me the wrong flavor accidentally giving me three of the right cupcakes instead of two, and a movie I wanted to watch being free on the streaming site that’s included with my cell phone plan.
There have also been big things: Jerry calling to tell me that the total cost of the surgery will be $5,000 less than he anticipated. That he’s recovering well but still wants space.
While we’re waiting for the event to begin, I check my emails. My heart speeds up when I see one from a recruiter.
Hazel,
Thank you for your interest in the Sr. Data Analyst role.
I’d like to set up a phone interview to learn more about your background.
If you’re interested, we’re also hiring for a manager role that I think you might be a great fit for.
Including the job description for your review.
Let me know when a good time to chat might be.
Best regards,
Milly Wilson | Talent Acquisition Partner
I gasp, the sound muffled under my mask.
This mask takes away all peripheral vision, but I feel Logan’s arm move as he turns to me. “What is it?” he asks.
“I got an interview request,” I say. I don’t know if it’s because we’re dressed like an old married couple or what, but I hand the phone to Logan like this is standard behavior. “It’s for a job that’s way higher than the role I was in before.”
He scrolls through the email. “This is great!” he says, handing my phone back. “Congrats. You’re one step closer.”
“Logan, I was qualified for half of the bullet points in the senior analyst job description.” I don’t share that I only applied because the application process just required uploading my résumé.
“I seriously doubt that if they’re asking you for an interview,” he says. “Looks like they’re eyeing you for the manager role, too.”
“That makes no sense,” I say. “I don’t have experience. It’s probably a mistake.”
Any minute now, a follow-up email from Milly will come in about how she meant to send that to a different candidate.
Logan fixes the buttons on his sleeves, adjusting his watch and red string bracelet. “This is the second fortune,” he says. “The one about executing on your goals. You did that, and it’s officially October.”
This, again.
“Wasn’t that not supposed to be driven by money?” I recall. “This goal was specifically driven by the need for money.”
“Part of the fortune was that you have everything you need to make your dreams a reality,” Logan says. “I think you’d make a great manager. This is a good thing, Hazel. You’re allowed to enjoy it.”
I don’t know what about me makes him think that I’d be good at managing people. Before I can ask, a tall woman in a yellow dress and chunky jewelry taps on her microphone so we can get started.
We watch the first winner, Marlin from Queens, talk to the woman, who introduces herself as Gretchen. Marlin’s wearing a Knicks jersey that appears to be signed, which makes me wonder if he’s already received his money.
“I went lump sum,” Marlin tells Gretchen. “I need the funds for Marlinworld.”
“Marlinworld?” she asks.
“A water park,” he says like it should be obvious. “There’ll be an area with rides and slides, but you’ll also find the most exotic sea life you’ve ever seen. I’m talkin’ deep-sea stuff.”
“Wow! You’ve got a whole plan,” Gretchen says. “Which exotic marine life are you most excited about?”
We never do find out. Before he answers, two police officers burst through the doors. There are gasps and murmurs in the crowd of media.
Logan positions himself in front of me as the scene unfolds. Instinctively, I grab his arm.
“Marlin Mavers?” one officer asks.
“Shit,” Marlin says, tossing his microphone and running toward the door across the room.
A third officer steps between the doorframe, blocking Marlin. In a flash, the guy’s handcuffed and escorted out. The whole scene is captured on cameras and phones.
Guess there won’t be a Marlinworld after all.
I expect the press conference to be rescheduled, but Gretchen has a show must go on attitude and doesn’t miss a beat. Which means we’re up second.
“You still good to do this?” Logan asks.
Once my heart rate settles, I feel oddly relieved. We’re here. We’re dressed up. I need the money. So yeah, I better be ready. And after that excitement, no one will even be thinking about Logan and me. This might not have to be a big show, after all.
Still, Logan leans in and whispers, “We got this.”
It’s the way he says it, low and steady, that makes me believe him.
As we approach the podium, Gretchen’s assistant hands us a replica of our ticket.
The numbers Logan picked are slightly blurry with how blown up they are.
I stand to Logan’s right, keeping him between me and Gretchen.
The lights of all the cameras shine directly in our faces.
I worry that the brightness will reveal our fake creases.
“And now we’d like to congratulate Logan Wells and Hazel Yen!” Gretchen announces, stretching the “n” in my name for a few seconds with enthusiasm. “Married all these years, and still different last names, huh? How many years has it been?” She flips the microphone over to Logan.
This is hell. I am living my actual nightmare.
Or… wait, this is good. Gretchen thinks we’re really in our golden years. This boosts my confidence.
Apparently, Logan’s thought it all out because when he talks, he sounds nothing like himself. Instead, he’s an older… Australian man? “Fifty beautiful years,” he replies. “Give or take.”
And because we’re not just supposed to look like a couple who’s been married for five decades but need to act like one, too, I wrap my arm around Logan’s waist. He follows my lead and drops a kiss right on my fake forehead.