The-Lucky-List-Rachael-Lippincott

“You wish.” I smack her water gun out of alignment and start firing my own at the sound of the bell,
hitting the target instantly, my red bear soaring through the air to narrowly beat the grandpa two seats
over.
“Damn,” Blake says as the alarm bell rings noisily over our heads. I look over to see her yellow bear
hardly moved an inch. “I took my contacts out to go in the ocean and I literally can’t see anything. My
eyes were too dry to put them back in.”
“Excuses, excuses,” I say as I’m rewarded with one enormous bear, a bumblebee-yellow bow tied
neatly around its neck.
I turn around to see Blake diing around in her backpack. She pulls out a glasses case, grimacing as
she flicks it open and puts on a familiar pair of glasses, bier than the state of Texas and nearly
identical to the pair all those years ago.
She. Looks. Adorable.
She groans. “They’re awful, aren’t they?”
“Definitely not.” I shake my head. “ey’re really cute, actually.” I feel my cheeks turn bright red at
the words.
But not redder than Blake’s.
Her eyebrows rise, incredulous, her eyes slightly magnified by the thick lenses. “Wait. Really?”
“Yeah,” I say with a nod. “Very Christmas 2011.”
Once her glasses are on, it’s game over for me. Literally.
She wins ring toss, balloon darts, and Skee-Ball, our hands lightly brushing together as we walk from
stand to stand, tiny stued animal heads sticking out of Blake’s backpack. Every time her fingers graze
the back of my hand, it’s like a shock of electricity, warm and tingly in a way that’s new and unfamiliar.
As we head back to the truck, we stop at a snack stand filled with brightly colored signs shouting,
FUNNEL CAKE! BEST ON THE BOARDWALK! and, FRESHLY SQUEEZED LEMONADE! even
though I can see the tub of lemonade mix still sitting on the back counter. We get the two-for-fivedollars
hot dog special, complete with two plastic cups filled to the brim with not-so-fresh lemonade,
and drive the two blocks to her aunt’s house, eating the hot dogs along the way.
When we get there, a female Johnny Carter in a white button-down and flip-flops throws open the
door to the small white bungalow, directing us to drive around to the backyard. I’ve only seen her in
pictures or heard stories about her from Mrs. Carter. She moved out of Huckabee right aer high
school and only comes back when she absolutely has to.
“Aunt Lisa!” Blake says, her door screeching open. She hops out to give the woman a hug.
“Nine o’clock,” Aunt Lisa says, checking her watch. “You kept me up past my bedtime! You know
daybreak is the best time to surf around here.”
She smiles at me, one arm still slung over Blake’s shoulder. “You must be Emily! God, you look just
like your mom.”
Should’ve known it was coming. But it doesn’t sting as much as it used to, Blake’s words from that
day we found the box becoming my reality this summer, keeping her memory alive.
A warm feeling comes with it, radiating across my chest.
I smile politely. “Thanks for letting us stay—”
“In my backyard?” She snorts, throwing her hands up.