by Kasie West
“Same thing.”
“Well, one of those things I am and one I’m not, so I don’t think they are the same thing.”
He let out his overly dramatic sigh, which I could hear even through the closed door. “Do you have clothes on, Abby?”
“Yes.”
He opened the door and flung himself into my room, landing on his stomach on my bed, then rolling onto his side. “Hi.”
His eyes narrowed in on the list I’d pinned to my wall. “What’s that?”
“My ten-step guide to a deeper life.”
“It only takes ten steps? Maybe I should do it then.”
“You totally should. These can be our summer activities.”
He scooted off the bed and came to stand next to me, looking over the list. He smelled good. Like vanilla and oranges. That was his usual scent. But sometimes he smelled like sweat and fabric softener and sometimes he smelled like toothpaste and face wash or cherry ChapStick and sunblock. Or chocolate. Or . . . stop, I told myself. Not helpful at all.
“I’m not going to watch a baby being born,” he said.
Right, the list. I turned my attention back to it. “That’s what I said. But my mom said there were other ways to interpret life coming into the world or something like that.”
“I can only think of one way to watch life come into the world.”
“Same. But whatever. We don’t have to do all of them. I sense depth will occur after five.”
He laughed. “Good, because I also don’t want to have to kill anyone.”
I smiled. “I don’t think that’s what Grandpa was suggesting with that one.”
“I have your number six.”
“You do?” I glanced at the list to remember what number six was. Face a fear. Of course he’d pick that one.
“Why is my name next it?” he asked.
“Because certain ones were inspired by certain people.” I pointed at his. “You, my fearless friend, inspired that one. And you don’t get to pick my fear. I’m picking my own for that.”
“Come on. You’ll give yourself an easy one.”
“And you’ll give me an impossible one.”
“Everything is possible.”
I stared at him expectantly.
“What?” he asked.
“Are you going to finish that thought? Everything is possible . . .”
“That’s all I was going to say. Is there supposed to be more?”
“There’s always more with that start. Everything is possible through hard work or through perseverance or through never giving up or through God.”
“Huh. Okay . . . everything is possible when you’re with me.”
I rolled my eyes. “I liked my options better.”
“Well, right now, my option fits, because you’re going to face your fear—with me.”
“What have I gotten myself into?”
He laughed evilly as we left the room.
He held out a red helmet for me.
“No. Absolutely not. I told you I was just going to watch. This is your thing.” Over his shoulder I could see the other quads and dune buggies zooming through the dunes. The sun beat down on the sand and made everything in the distance appear wavy, adding to the nausea I already felt at the thought of being out there with them.
“A fear is not going to be something that’s your thing. Then it wouldn’t be your fear.”
“I’m not scared of this. I just think it’s stupid. And dangerous.”
“You are terrified of this. I can see it in your eyes. Don’t try to pretend this isn’t one of your fears. And if it’s not your fear, you can put one check mark in the trying something new box.”
I huffed and took the helmet from him. “Fine. It is my fear.” I’d seen too many crashes while he was racing, and I did not want that to be me.
He smiled big and started walking to where his quad was waiting by the trailer.
One of his buddies passed, obviously just finishing his run, and said, “Be careful out there. It was really windy last night.”
“Thanks,” Cooper said and when we were out of hearing distance added, “for nothing.”
“We can’t go now,” I said, walking faster to try to catch up with him. “I know what wind means on the dunes. I’ve been out here with you enough. It means there’s hundred-foot drops carved into the sand. It means we hit them at the top of a hill out of nowhere and we go plummeting.”
“Don’t listen to him. We’ll be fine. I was born on the dunes, remember?” he threw over his shoulder.
“And now you’re going to die on them, and I’ll be able to check off the last item on the list.”
He stopped suddenly, me nearly running into him, and turned around. He put his helmet on the sand between his feet, then stood and placed his forearms on my shoulders, looking me in the eyes. “I know you can do this. I know we’ll be safe. But if you don’t want to, you don’t have to.”
And that was it. I was toast. Was it possible he knew what this proximity and those eyes and that voice did to me? Even if he didn’t, I knew my weakness, that tiny voice inside my head that was saying, look at him, he wants you to do this, maybe this will make him fall for you.
But being aware of my weakness and resisting it were two totally different things. Ugh. I’d thought I was more over him than this.
I nodded. “I’ll try.”
“Yeah?” he said, his sparkling smile back.
I took a fistful of the front of his T-shirt. “Yes. But after this you will buy me a milk shake.”
“Only if you don’t barf,” he said, taking a step out of my hold, swiping up his helmet, and finishing the walk to his quad.
“Wait, what?”
He took the helmet I still held and popped it onto my head.
“Ow.” My voice was muffled inside the only thing now protecting me from a cracked skull.
He lifted up the visor. “What?”
“Nothing. Let’s get this over with.” My stomach was already in knots, and I realized that maybe he was right. Maybe I wouldn’t want a milk shake after this, because I was certainly going to barf.
He hopped on the quad and powered it to life. Then he turned and patted the seat behind him. I lowered my visor and climbed on. He took my arms and wrapped them around his waist. “Hold on tight, okay?”
I nodded. He hadn’t needed to tell me that. Then he put his own helmet on and we were off.
I should’ve gone on my own. If he taught me how to use the quad, it would’ve been better. I would’ve gone slow and taken it easy and life would’ve been better. But I wasn’t on my own. I was behind Cooper, the guy who was in frequent dune races. The guy who was born on the dunes. And he wasn’t taking it easy. Acid crept up my throat. The landscape ahead was terrifying. The sand was pocked with bowls carved into its otherwise smooth surface. Some of those bowls were shallow and harmless. But the ones Cooper liked to take on were thirty-foot drops that we had to race down the side of, into the hole. Those were the kind that needed momentum to come out of, so he took them at speeds that had me gripping him even tighter. I might’ve enjoyed this setup if I wasn’t so terrified.
“I hate you. I hate you. I hate you,” I said as he revved the engine to make us go even faster. He couldn’t hear me, but those words echoing through my helmet made me feel better.
On the bright side, this wasn’t a feeling I purposefully had very often. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt this amount of sheer panic. Or this amount of hatred toward Cooper. So maybe this would help me paint emotion.
Cooper skidded to a stop at the top of a hill. Our two right tires were on the edge of a sandy cliff. One more pump of the gas and we would’ve been flying down the eighty-foot drop. Had I not been here, he probably would’ve taken that drop, happy and hoping not to somersault down it.
He turned on the quad to talk to me. “Are you having fun yet?” he yelled.
I shook my head back and forth, unable to open my mouth for fear I’d be
sick.
“Really? I thought for sure you’d like it once you tried it.”
I shook my head again.
“Okay, I guess we head in then.”
I nodded.
And he was back at it just as fast as before. When we arrived at his trailer, I stumbled off the quad and tripped to the ground on wobbly legs.
He took off his helmet and sat down in the sand next to me. “So . . . you are actually a wimp. I had been kidding when I called you that in front of Amelia. But now I know.”
I threw a handful of sand at him, then shakily took off my helmet. “I might’ve liked it better had I driven.”
“You want to drive?” He swung his keys in front of my face.
I held up my hands. “No.”
“So, what do you think?” He pointed out at the stretch of sand we’d just made our mark on. “Is this list of yours going to accomplish anything?”
I thought about the fear that gripped my chest out there, that clawed at my insides in a way I’d never felt before. And now it was gone. I’d faced that feeling and overcome it. A surge of pride expanded my insides. “Yeah . . . maybe.”
I looked back up at him. A teasing smile lit his eyes. He needed to feel the same thing I’d just felt—that mocking smile would be wiped off his face real fast. I had told my grandpa and mom that Cooper was fearless. And that seemed to be the case. But I was probably wrong. Everyone was afraid of something. “You’re next. What are you afraid of?”
He held his helmet in the air. “I fear nothing, Abby.”
“No, really. You said you wanted to do the list with me. What fear are you going to face?”
He tossed the keys to his quad once, then caught them. “Huh. I really can’t come up with anything. I’ll think about it.”
I handed him back the helmet. “So will I.”
EIGHT
“My legs are sore,” I said. “Why are my legs sore? We were on that quad for thirty minutes.” I held the milk shake Cooper had bought me as a reward as we walked down Main Street toward his car.
“You were gripping the seat with your thighs like your life depended on it. Of course they’re sore.”
“My life did depend on it.” I hit my right thigh three times with a closed fist. “Ouch. That seriously hurts.”
“Then stop doing that. And stop walking like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you just spent hours on a horse.”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I can’t help it.” I hit my thigh again.
He stepped in front of me, presented his back, and squatted. “Jump on.”
“I will. Because maybe carrying me a hundred yards will make your legs sore.” I jumped onto his back and rested my chin on his shoulder. This wasn’t exactly helping my sore legs, or the feelings I was crushing down.
Main Street was mostly tourist shops—kites, beach trinkets, surf gear—but Cooper still looked in each window we passed, like he might actually buy any of those things.
I caught sight of a sign on a post and said, “Wait. Stop.”
“Why?”
“There.” I pointed to the sign. “Read that.”
He walked closer. The sign was taped up to the silver light post, and Cooper read aloud the words on it: “Come audition for the community theater summer musical, The Music Man.” Cooper hitched me up farther on his back and started to walk away. “Nope. Pass.”
I pulled on his shoulders, like I really was riding a horse now and he would back up with my command. When he didn’t, I kicked free of his grip and hopped off his back. “Cooper. The tryouts are in three days.” I pointed at the date on the sign. “That is exactly when I need to complete another experience by. This is fate. Neither of us has ever tried out for a play before. It’s perfect.”
“Fate?”
“Yes. Fate. Destiny. We happen to be walking by a sign. We happen to be working on a list. This is happening.” I took a picture of the info with my phone.
He threw his head back and groaned. “I miss Justin. He wouldn’t make me do crap like this.”
“Yes. We should let Justin know what he’s missing out on.” I texted Justin the pic I’d just taken with the words Cooper begged me to try out with him.
“You are such a punk,” Cooper said.
“Are you scared?” I asked. “Is this your fear?”
“No. I just don’t understand the point. We won’t make it. We are both horrible singers.”
“Hey. Speak for yourself.”
“You think we’ll make it?”
“No. But it’s not about making it. It’s about the experience. That’s the point, Coop.” I hooked my arm in his elbow. “This will be so much fun.”
“That’s one word for it.”
My phone buzzed with a text. Justin had written back: Um . . . I don’t want to know.
“See, he thinks it’s crazy too.”
“I will see you at my house Monday morning at ten a.m. That’s not tomorrow or the next day but the day after that.”
“I know what day Monday is.”
“Just checking. It’s summer. I know how days blend together.”
“What about tomorrow?” he asked.
“Tryouts aren’t tomorrow.”
“I know. But I’ll probably see you tomorrow.”
“I have to work in the morning. After that?”
“Sure. First day back since Mr. Wallace told you you’re an android?”
“Yep.”
“Good luck.”
I collapsed into my desk chair after work. It had been a weird day. Mr. Wallace posted me at the ticket desk. I never worked the ticket desk. Even though cleaning and directing visitors seemed like a worse job, it put me right in the middle of inspiring art. Today I got to stare at the lobby and the street for four hours. There was nothing inspiring about that. I sensed Mr. Wallace was trying to avoid me.
I signed into my computer and pulled up my email. The time difference between Dad and me usually meant that he wrote me when I was sleeping. Sure enough, I had an email waiting.
To my daughter, whose mother named her and didn’t ask for my vote,
Your heart does not need to grow three sizes. One, maybe, but definitely not three. May I suggest you take the following items off your list for the proper amount of heart growth: face a fear (that sounds dangerous and I don’t support it), fall in love (you’re not allowed to do that until you’re thirty), have your heart broken (this seems counterproductive, seeing as you’re trying to grow it), learn a stranger’s story (don’t talk to strangers), see a life go out of the world (I’ve seen enough of that for our whole family). That should do it. That leaves six on your list. You’re welcome. As for the impossible request you have tasked me with, we shall see if rocks exist in the shape of hearts. Thanks for keeping me updated. How is your mother?
Love, that guy you won’t recognize when he gets home.
My dad was the best email writer. And considering that’s how we communicated a lot of the time, it was a good quality to have. I typed him a reply.
To the most overprotective dad in the world,
Thanks for your input, but you don’t get a vote on the list. In fact, I’ve already done one you vetoed. I faced a fear yesterday. I rode on a quad for the first time. It was not something I will do again for a while, but it was definitely an experience. And I can guarantee that heart-shaped rocks exist. We’ll see if you are dedicated enough to find one. Mom is doing okay. Not as good as when you’re here, but nothing to worry about. Stay safe.
Love you, [insert the name you would’ve voted for here]
I pushed Send, then looked up at the list on my wall and grabbed a pen from the desk drawer. I put a small checkmark next to “face a fear.” Could I also count the quad ride as trying something new? No, one experience could only equal one checkmark, I decided. No combining. I really wanted this to work. New experiences would give me new images and emotions to draw from for my art. I usually painted what I
knew, what I’d seen in my life or in pictures. I didn’t rely on emotion or pushing myself to feel or see or try new things.
I surveyed the rest of the list. Aside from the tryouts in a couple of days, I wasn’t sure what I’d do for the rest.
There was one, however, that was simple. One I could start now that would take me at least a couple of days to complete—read a classic.
“Mom,” I announced when I arrived in the kitchen. “I’m going to the library.”
She looked up from a book she was reading titled True Crime. Not good reading material for my already overly worried mom.
“Any input on which classic I should pick?” I asked.
Grandpa called from the other room “I’ve read a lot of classics. Do you want my input?”
“Nobody is talking to you, old man. Keep watching your Matlock.”
I heard an exasperated grunt. “I don’t watch Matlock.”
My mom gave me her disappointed look, the one that said I had taken my joking with her dad one step too far.
“I’m sorry for calling you old man,” I yelled.
“And what about the Matlock thing?”
“There’s no shame in watching a show about an old-man lawyer who always manages to save the day. There’s something to be said about characters you can relate to.” My grandpa had been a lawyer before he retired, and he hated being compared to TV lawyers.
He said something I couldn’t understand, probably mumbling some silent curse.
“There are too many classics for me to limit your choice.” She pointed to the living room. “And you burned any bridge you had there. Looks like you’re on your own.”
“Do we have a library card? We need a library card. Do you need to fill out a form for me since I’m a minor and all? They probably don’t trust me with their books.” My attempt to get her away from that book and out of the house was beyond transparent, but I didn’t care.
Mom’s brow immediately went down, and I could tell she was trying to reason through that, hope for some other solution than her needing to go to the library with me. “I don’t think they need me there. Kids have library cards, right? I don’t need to go.”