The-Lucky-List-Rachael-Lippincott

I drop my bag in the entryway, my vision blurring as I run up the stairs and down the hall. My
hands reach out for the handle to my parents’ bedroom, and pushing inside, I stumble to the closet,
yanking the door open with a desperation that fills every single fiber of my body. I step through the
doorframe and turn on the light to see…
Nothing.
The shelves are completely cleared. The wire hangers are empty, pushed into the far corner.
“Oh my God,” I say as I rip open the drawers, jerking them all the way out of the dresser as I try to
find something. Anything. ey clatter to the ground as I spin around and around, searching. “Oh my
God. No, no, no.”
There’s nothing left.
This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening.
My dad appears in the doorway, a concerned look on his face. “Emily?”
“Where are her clothes?” I shout at him, frantic. I stoop down and pull out the last dresser drawer,
the last empty dresser drawer, his voice stopping me dead in my tracks.
“I donated them. About two or three weeks ago… I guess you haven’t been in here for a bit, but I
noticed there was still some stu le aer you were in here with Blake, and you kept pushing it o, so
I thought I’d make it easier on you by—”
I whirl around to face him, my ears ringing. “You what?”
“I donated them,” he repeats.
“Everything?” I whisper.
“Yes, but, Emily, I—”
“No,” I say, shaking my head as the room begins to tip, my insides concaving. He reaches out, his
hand gently wrapping around my arm. “Get off me!” I yell, pushing past him and out into the hallway.
I have to get them back. I have to get the clothes back.
I grab my bike from up against the porch, my dad calling out my name behind me, but I ignore him.
Houses and cars whizz by, my tears blending everything together as I go.
They can’t be gone.
They can’t be gone.
I pedal as fast as I can, past cornfields and housing developments, my lungs heaving, my breathing
forcing its way out in gasped sobs. I fly down Pearl Street, turning right onto Main, my eyes searching
the horizon for the blue and white sign.
The Goodwill.
Skidding into the parking lot, I throw my bike down and run up the concrete steps. e automatic
doors don’t open fast enough, so I force my way in through the gap, desperate to get inside.
The store blurs around me. Colors jump out at me underneath the fluorescent lights.
I push through the shirts, stripes and polka dots and solid colors, trying to find a part of her in the
middle of it all. e old jeans she would always wear to do housework in and prune her garden. e
maroon dress she wore one Christmas, with the tie around the middle.
Wait. Had it been green? Suddenly, I can’t even picture it.
I frantically attack another rack, the hangers clattering noisily against one another as I move down
the row, pausing on a button-down, a floral maxi, a wool cardigan, none of them feeling right.