The-Lucky-List-Rachael-Lippincott

I shrug as we shue o down the hall, each carrying an armful. “Honestly, it was the most enjoyable
night I’ve had in a while.”
We drop them off in the living room, all the boxes now reduced to a flattened pile of cardboard.
As we say our goodbyes, my dad jingles his car keys in his pocket, a contented look on his face I
haven’t seen in years. As we head for the door, Winston’s tail droops to half-mast, his brown eyes fixed
on me mournfully.
Blake pats him on the head, right between his big, doofy ears. “She’s coming back, man. Don’t
worry.”
He wags his tail slightly at her words, comforted by her hand on his head. Something about what
she says comforts me, too. e fact that I’ll be back here, Blake’s friendship not ruined by Matt and the
Huckabee Pool.
At least not yet.
“See you,” I say, more to Blake than Winston, although he wiggles a bit at my words.
“Medium cli, Em,” she says, rehashing the terms of our cli-jumping agreement. “Or else it doesn’t
count. We can’t half-ass any of these.”
I think of how I felt putting that first check mark down at Hank’s. e rush it gave me. But it also
kind of felt like a consolation prize.
I want this one to feel bigger. More earned.
“Might as well find the biest cli in Huckabee,” I say, and her face lights up mischievously. I’m
completely going to regret that, but I can’t deny the fact that our small, shared adventure sends a little
thrill through my spine, carrying me all the way out to my dad’s pickup truck and down the long
driveway.
e ride home is dark, the sides of the road illuminated only by lightning bugs, but for once, the
shadows beyond the trees feel a little less scary.