Page 1 of Slots & Sticks
Prologue
Dot
Fifteen Years Ago…
The paint marker squeaks as I trace over the “E” for the third time. It’s still not right. It’s leaning, like it’s trying to fall asleep on the “M” next to it.
“Dot, it’s fine,” Vanessa says. “We’ve been out here forever.”
“It’s crooked.” I wipe my forehead, smearing a little glitter paint. “It looks like I don’t know how to write.”
Vanessa plops down on the curb beside me. “You’re literally the smartest person I know. Now stop messing with that sign and help me put the ice in the cooler before it melts.”
I glance at our setup: a folding card table from my dad’s garage, two mismatched chairs, and a lopsided umbrella from the backyard. A plastic pitcher of lemonade sweats beside a stack of solo cups. The “Dot & Vee’s Lemonade Palace” sign hangs from the front of the table.
Still. It’s ours.
We clink plastic cups and take a test sip.
“Too tart,” I mutter.
“Too bad,” Vanessa says. “Let’s make a million dollars. Or at least enough to get that new lip gloss from Target.”
We giggle in sync, and for the briefest second, I believe this could be fun. Summer sun, best friend, sugar, and lemon slices shaped like smiles.
Then I see them.
Three boys. Older. From the next neighborhood over. I don’t know their names, but I know their eyes—mean, hungry, too old for their faces.
Vanessa’s still chatting, but I stop hearing her.
The tallest one grins. “Hey, stripper spawn! Got any discounts?”
My throat closes.
Another snorts. “Bet your mom taught you how to squeeze those lemons real good.”
They’re laughing. Hands grab at our cups. One slaps the pitcher, lemonade arcing through the air before crashing onto the sidewalk. The ice hits with a crack, scattering across the grass.
Vanessa yells. I don’t.
I can’t.
One boy tips the jar. Our seed coins clatter into his palm. “Thanks for the donation.”
I stare at the mess. Yellow puddle. Wilted sign. All our hard work for nothing. My chest tightens like it’s trying to crush me from the inside.
I’m going to have to ask my dad for more money so my jar doesn’t look empty.
They walk off like they didn’t just ruin the best part of my summer.
Vanessa is shaking. I’m frozen.
“I hate the internet,” I whisper.
She doesn’t ask why.
She knows. Her mom is a manic pixie dream girl who owns a quirky bookstore that everyone loves. Her nickname is literally “Little Tater Tot.”
