The-Lucky-List-Rachael-Lippincott

18
The wind tugs at my hair, whipping wildly around my face as we drive. Blake glances over at me and my
Cousin Itt impression, then pulls a hair tie o her wrist and holds it out to me with her free hand. I
reach out, noticing just how tan her arm is compared to mine, a thin white line wrapping around her
wrist where the hair tie sat. I wonder just how many days she’s spent outside in her life, the sun
absorbing into her skin, filling her hair with its rays. We don’t get that kind of sun in Huckabee.
I smile gratefully before pulling my brown hair into a messy bun, my fingertips struling to find
and tame all the strays.
I look past her at Pennsylvania whizzing by, a sea of trees and farmland, Huckabee getting farther
and farther away. It feels… good. Better than I could have expected, and with each mile that passes, the
weight of the move and the town and everything that happened feels lighter and lighter.
I take a deep breath in, the warm air filling my lungs.
Soon the sun-filled summer will give way to a blistering winter, the trees surrounding us stripped of
all their leaves, naked branches sitting against snow-filled skies. I try to picture Blake in the middle of it
all, but I can’t see it. Her tan shoulders covered up in a forest-green jacket, a knit hat pulled down over
her sun-streaked hair. I try changing the jacket color in my mind, exchanging the knit hat for a thick
wool scarf, but the image is still hazy.
She seems like she only exists in the summer. Only made to swim in the waters of the ocean, the
smell of sunshine and salt clinging to her clothes.
She catches me staring at her, but it doesn’t feel awkward. “What?”
I shake my head, turning my attention to the road in front of us. “Nothing.” I think asking her what
she smells like in winter would definitely cross into awkward territory.
I reach out to turn the music up, St. Vincent pouring out of the speakers. We’ve been taking turns
picking songs, one aer the other. I’ve liked all of Blake’s suestions. “Radio” by Sylvan Esso, “Bury a
Friend” by Billie Eilish, “Ribs” by Lorde.
I throw in a couple of tracks by St. Vincent: “Fear the Future” and “Cruel.”
“We should go to one of her concerts if she tours nearby,” I say, and Blake nods eagerly.
“I hear she’s incredible live.”
Most of the trip has been like this. So far, aside from the concert, we’ve made plans to visit Jay and