Free Dumb Luck by Lesley Choyce Page A

streak. And forget the stars. What are you doing? Reading the astrology column in the mornings now?”
    â€œNo. I just think that maybe I have more good luck coming my way. Like you say, my eyes are open now. I’m—what was it?—‘fully engaged.’ All I have to do is recognize what’s around me, what’s going on, and I’ll be the luckiest eighteen-year-old on the face of the earth.”
    Wow. Now I was giving speeches. Carver was so right that this was a new me. I never talked like this before. I just let the world happen—I let events wash over me. This was different.
    â€œAbout that luck thing. ‘Luck,’ someone said, ‘is a dividend of sweat. The more you sweat, the luckier you get.’”
    â€œWho said that?”
    â€œGuy named Ray Kroc.”
    â€œNever heard of him.”
    â€œHe was the founder of McDonald’s.”
    â€œKind of a funny guy to be quoting.”
    â€œI’m not saying the man is my kind of hero. I’m just saying he’s probably right.” The bell rang in the hall. Carver smiled and looked directly at me. “Better get to class, Brandon. Stay in touch, cowboy. Go as slow as you can with whatever you decide. And thanks for dropping in.”
    I didn’t see Kayla at all that day. Taylor found me, though, at my locker and gave me a big hug and a kiss on the cheek, making enough fuss to ensure that plenty of people saw. But it wasn’t quite real. More like something you do in a movie. All show.
    Back in history class, as North America was moving through the Depression, I was strangely more interested than usual. All that stuff about banks failing, people losing their money. Me, with my afternoon meeting with my first banker. Maybe I was going to have to get up to speed on this financial thing pretty quickly.
    And then math class. Numbers. Calculations. Percentages. Mr. Grimer would put a really large number on the board and I saw that number with a dollar sign in front of it. Six zeros in three million, right? What if I could turn three million into ten million? Then what? My dad had already been hinting at me “investing” some of my money. Such a thing had not really occurred to me. You have money, you spend it. That’s the way it’s been for me all my life.
    My dad was there at the end of school, right on time. We drove to the bank. My dad seemed a bit nervous and talkative. “You’ll like Len Cranmore,” he said.
    â€œWho?”
    â€œGuy at the bank. He’s set up the loan. And he’s a financial advisor.”
    I nodded. So I was going to have to look at the sober side of this whole thing, maybe. Loans. Investments. Who knows?
    Funny thing—walking into the bank. All I’d ever done was take twenty or forty bucks out of the bank machine or deposited a check or two I’d gotten for Christmas, birthdays, or mowing someone’s lawn. I’d always felt like I’d been treated like a kid whenever I’d walked up to a teller. Like I didn’t belong there. And now this.
    The receptionist led us immediately into Len Cranmore’s office.
    â€œCoffee?” she asked me and my dad.
    â€œNo, thanks,” we both said at once.
    Len was all about business. Clean cut. Suit and tie. Picture of his family in a frame on his desk. He handed me a business card and spoke directly to me instead of my father, which seemed weird. “Brandon, congratulations.”
    â€œThanks.”
    â€œHey, lucky us, that you were one of our customers. Thanks for staying with us.”
    â€œNo problem.”
    â€œNow, it’s our job—my job—to help you make the most of your winning.”
    I could tell he was trying hard to sound sincere. Heck, maybe he was. I just knew that we were here because of me and my luck. Len Cranmore would not have loaned me a hundred bucks to buy a bicycle if I’d walked in here three months ago.
    â€œSo, Brandon,