The-Lucky-List-Rachael-Lippincott

She doesn’t stop when I call her name. She just keeps her head down, ignoring the sound of my
voice.
“Blake!” I call again, reaching out, my fingertips barely meeting the skin of her arm before she pulls
it away.
“Leave me alone, Emily,” she says, without even slowing down, her voice low.
“Blake, please. I just want to talk about—” I reach out, grabbing for her hand again, but her fingers
slip through my grip.
“I don’t want to talk about it!” she says, whirling around to face me, her brown eyes angry as she rips
out one of her earbuds in frustration. “Okay? I don’t want to talk about the list, or about Matt, or
about the kiss. I don’t want to talk about how you were my friend all summer long because your
friends ditched you, and then you dropped me and ignored me when it was no longer convenient for
you. I get it, okay? You got what you wanted.”
“Blake, I’m sorry, I—”
“I don’t want to talk to you at all, Emily,” she says, finally making it abundantly clear. “I don’t want to
talk to you,” she repeats, soer this time, her voice crackling slightly on the “you,” her words making
me feel sick to my stomach.
We stare at each other for a long moment before she turns on her heel and walks away from me,
throwing her bag into the back of her truck and slamming the car door loudly behind her.
I feel like my legs might give out from under me.
I watch her drive away, her truck fading into the distance. My head swims as I turn around, willing
myself to walk back over to the bus, one foot in front of the other. Right, left. Right, left.
I fight through the sea of arms and legs for my bag, breaking out into the open air, my eyes landing
on my dad’s truck in the parking lot.
I hear Matt saying my name, but I keep moving, keep walking.
Dad waves enthusiastically out the window at me, calling out to me as I get closer, still trying his
best to patch things up after our fight.
“Well, how was it?” he asks as I close the truck door behind me, a huge smile on his face.
“Fine,” I say. I put my seat belt on, pulling my legs up and wrapping my arms around them as we
drive away, hoping I can literally hold myself together until we get there. Until we get home.
“You okay, Em? Midnight bonfire got you a bit tired?” he asks, shooting me a concerned look. “Did
something happen? Are you still upset about the house, or—”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
I wait for him to ask another question, to say something, but like always, he doesn’t push.
For once, though, some part of me wishes he would.
But I shove that aside, focusing on the only certainty I have. e only thing that can get me
through this drive, and through all of this, is my mom’s closet. Being completely surrounded by the one
place I can feel her. The only safe place I still have in the entire world.
If I can make it to the closet one last time, I’ll be fine. I’ll be able to make sense of everything if I
can just get there.
My dad pulls onto our street and into the driveway, and the second we’re parked, I unfurl and head
inside.