The-Lucky-List-Rachael-Lippincott

He was so happy to hear that I had somewhere to go and something to do. His eyes have lit up
every time I’ve asked for his permission these past couple of weeks. Probably because my absence
means he can throw out even more stuff.
I watch him give Blake a big wave.
“Will do,” I say curtly as I jog down the steps, my feet slowing and then stopping completely as I
land on the bottom one.
is is the farthest trip I’ll have gone on since my mom died, and I can’t help but have all the worstcase
scenarios circling around and around in my head.
What if he gets hurt at work, or doesn’t put his seat belt on, or forgets to turn o the stove aer
making dinner?
What if I get back and something terrible has happened?
I spin around to face him, but I fight back the nervousness. Everything I’ve done so far has turned
out fine. I have to trust this will too. “Love you.”
His eyes crinkle at the corners. “Love you too,” he mouths.
I jog the rest of the way to Blake’s truck, yanking open the passenger door to chuck my backpack
on the floor, already talking. “Suroards, Blake? Two of them?” I say as I climb inside, moving to
buckle my seat belt.
“It’ll be fun! Not much harder than riding a bike,” she says, which is like someone saying that a
middle school play is the same as a Broadway performance.
I feel a surprise wave of excitement at the thought, the eects of jumping o a cli and skinnydipping,
alongside Blake’s calm and assured confidence, muting the risks and the fear, leaving only the
thrill of the adventure.
“And to prepare, my grandma made enough breakfast burritos to feed everyone in Huckabee,” Blake
says as we pull o down the road. She tosses me a foil-wrapped log, hitting me square in the chest.
“Never too late for a breakfast burrito.”
My stomach growls as I carefully unwrap it, the smell of pico de gallo and cheese radiating o the
lumpy tortilla brick.
I take a bite, and holy shit is it good. Even aer the trek to my house, it’s still warm and cheesy and
delicious.
“This is incredible,” I say, and Blake nods in agreement.
“She makes them almost every morning, and I still haven’t gotten sick of them.”
I devour it as we drive through the winding Huckabee roads, slowing to pull into an old gas station
just before the highway entrance.
“My mom and I used to get scratch-os here,” I say. It startles me how naturally it comes out. at
I’m actually wanting to talk about her, about moments beyond just the list. I lean out the open car
window to toss the crumpled aluminum foil into the trash can while Blake tries to get the ancient
pump to accept her credit card.
“I once won big on the Bingo Boogie card. I think I was in fifth grade.”
“Oh yeah?” Blake asks, distracted as the card is declined yet again. Finally, she gives up and leans
back against the truck, frustrated.
I poke her shoulder, nodding toward the store. “You’re gonna have to go in and pay. ese gas