Chapter Seven — New Clothes, Old Wounds
The morning after the drawing, I walked into the lottery office with my parents at my side. The ticket in my hand felt heavier than gold.
The clerk scanned it once, then twice. Her eyes went wide. "Congratulations. You've won the jackpot — one million dollars."
Mom's knees buckled like she might faint. Dad leaned heavy on his cane, grinning like a man who hadn't had a reason to smile in years. Me? I just nodded, steady. Because I already knew.
The check slid across the counter, crisp and unreal. For the first time in our lives, we weren't broke.
---
First thing we did was hit the mall.
Mom picked out clothes she'd never dreamed of wearing — soft sweaters, real leather shoes, a purse that made her beam like a teenager again. Dad got fitted for new slacks and a tailored jacket, the salesman fussing over him like he was a senator.
And me? I stepped into the barbershop first, got a fresh fade that made me look sharper than I ever had. Then I walked into the stores I used to avoid, came out with bags full of gear: fitted jeans, crisp button-ups, a pair of Jordans I'd only ever seen through glass. For the first time, I didn't feel like a shadow walking beside Malik and Haneef.
I felt like somebody.
When we left the mall, Dad stopped dead on the sidewalk. Parked at the curb was a cherry-red Dodge Charger. He'd always dreamed of one, even used to talk about it back when he worked before the injury.
I looked at him, then at the salesman with the keys. "We'll take it," I said.
Dad's eyes filled with tears as the man handed him the fob. His hands shook as he sat in the driver's seat, running his fingers across the wheel like it was holy.
"Son," he whispered, voice breaking, "I don't even know what to say."
"You don't gotta say nothing," I told him. "Just drive."
---
Two days later, we signed papers on a modest apartment in Lower Merion. Two hundred thousand in cash. Quiet neighborhood, clean streets, no gunshots at night. Mom stood on the balcony overlooking the trees and cried, saying she never thought she'd live anywhere like this.
That night, to celebrate, I took them out to a restaurant I'd only ever seen from the outside — white tablecloths, waiters in black vests, the smell of steak and butter thick in the air.
For the first hour, it was perfect. Mom laughed more than she had in years. Dad sipped wine, cheeks flushed with pride. I felt light, like I'd finally done something for them.
And then the door opened.
---
In walked the in-crowd.
John and Rebecca Smalls, Pretty Rich, Marly Jackson, Smooda Da Shooter, and — of course — Kelly Greenbird. Dressed to the nines, shining under the chandelier light, moving like the whole place belonged to them.
I froze for a second, then straightened in my seat.
Kelly's eyes swept the room, then landed on me. For a moment, she hesitated. Her gaze flicked over my new clothes, my clean haircut, my family sitting proud at the table. Something flashed in her eyes — surprise, maybe even approval.
But the others noticed too.
Pretty Rich smirked, nudging John. They laughed and walked over, their crew trailing behind.
"Well, look who it is," Pretty Rich said loud enough for half the restaurant to hear. "Nasir, in a place like this? Thought they only served broke kids at McDonald's."
The table behind us chuckled. My mother's smile faltered.
John leaned down, fake-polite. "Where'd you steal the clothes from, huh? Or maybe the soup kitchen having a good week?"
Laughter rippled. Rebecca smirked behind her glass.
My father set down his fork, eyes narrowing. "That's enough," he said firmly. "Show some respect."
Pretty Rich blinked — then grinned. "Respect? Man, you can barely stand. You gonna swing that cane at me?"
The words cut deep. My father's hand shook on his cane. His legs wouldn't let him rise fully, but still he tried, pushing against the chair, jaw clenched.
And they laughed. Loud. Cruel.
The sound tore through me like a blade.
I stood so fast my chair scraped the floor. "Say that again."
The laughter dimmed, surprise flickering across their faces. Pretty Rich smirked wider, stepping closer. "What, you gonna fight us here? In front of Mommy and Daddy?"
I clenched my fists, my blood boiling. The whole restaurant had gone quiet, eyes on us.
Kelly shifted, frowning. Her lips parted like she wanted to speak, but she stayed silent.
The tension snapped when the restaurant owner stormed over, face red. "That's enough! You're disturbing my guests." His eyes swept over me and my parents, cold and dismissive. "Out. Now."
I blinked. "What? They started this—"
"Out," he repeated, sharper this time, pointing toward the door. "Take your family and leave."
The in-crowd smirked as I helped my mother from her seat, my father leaning heavy on my shoulder. Their laughter followed us as we walked out under the chandelier light.
On the sidewalk, my father muttered curses under his breath, his pride shattered. My mother dabbed her eyes with a napkin, whispering that it wasn't worth it.
But me?
I burned.
Humiliation sat heavy in my chest, hotter than fire, sharper than steel. I clenched my fists so tight my nails dug into my palms.
That night, I swore it: never again.
Not them. Not anyone.
If the game was the path to power, I would walk it. If the Abyss was the price, I would pay it.
Because I'd rather drown the world in darkness than let them laugh at my family again.