The-Lucky-List-Rachael-Lippincott

14
I wake up the next day still riding the high from cliff jumping and my new, list-inspired goal.
Talk to Matt. I finally feel ready. Like if I stop thinking about it and just go for it, the right words
will come to me.
e feeling builds and builds through my shi at Nina’s, time moving at a glacial pace despite the
morning rush and the batch of blueberry scones I spend the afternoon baking.
For once, the familiar rhythm of whisking, and adding ingredients, and shaping doesn’t bring me the
same kind of comfort, my mind too distracted to fully concentrate on what I’m doing.
“You good?” Nina asks as she peers at my misshapen triangles. “First you get banned from Snyder’s,
and now you think a triangle looks like a football.”
I grin sheepishly. “Sorry, Nina.”
I’ve thought about telling her about the list, but something always stops me. Where my dad can
hardly talk about my mom, Nina is… almost the polar opposite. e Julie Miller pain is always a
sentence away, always just within reach. And it’s heavy and awful, the shared grief between the two of
us enough to make you feel like you got run over by a train.
So, today, like all the other days, I decide not to say anything.
By the time the clock strikes two, I’m already sprinting out the door. e bells jingle behind me as I
grab my bike out of the rack and pedal quickly down the street before I can talk myself out of it.
e pool is less than a mile away, situated just outside the center of Huckabee and down the road
from the hospital. I usually make it a point to avoid this route, going through a development and
tacking on an extra half a mile, but I don’t want to waste another second. I’ve wasted too many already.
Before I know it, I’m turning into the parking lot and locking up my bike, the too-familiar sound of
kids splashing in the water and muffled music pouring out of an ancient boom box filling the air.
Is Blake still working? I know she was here this morning. I don’t want her to hear this.
But if I can fix things now, maybe she’ll never have to.
I start power walking, skidding to a stop in front of the plastic chair by the front gate, where Jake is
sitting, the chair tilted back on two legs, a silver whistle swinging around his finger. His eyes widen
when he sees me, and he flails, righting himself before he completely tips over.
“Oh shit,” he says, pushing his shay blond hair out of his face to give me a once-over. “Look what