Chapter Six Lacey
Chapter Six
Lacey
By the time I leave school, I’m buzzing with an idea.
Me: I figured out what to do with my mom’s bucket list.
Claire: Ooooh. Tell me! Actually, come over. I have something I want to show you.
Me: Omw
When I get to Claire’s house, she has art supplies laid out on her bedroom floor.
Paint, brushes, paper, magazines, construction paper, markers, stickers, glue, and scissors—and that’s just what I can see.
Like my mom, Claire loves art. I love glitter and school spirit, but beyond that I’m a little bit of a lost cause. I can barely draw a stick figure.
“What is happening in here?” I ask as I set my bag down and walk closer.
“I thought we could make high school memory boxes.” She smiles.
“Number one: Make a high school memory box.” I have it memorized at this point, I’ve looked at it so many times.
“It’s a good idea.” She picks up an empty shoebox and holds it out to me. “Come on. It’ll be fun.”
I sit down on the floor across from her. She’s already covered her shoebox in purple construction paper. “I came over here to tell you I was thinking about finishing my mom’s list.”
Claire grins.
“You already knew?”
“I wasn’t positive, but you had that glint in your eye like something was brewing in your big brain. Plus, it’s a really fun idea, and I’ve been dying to use these new paint markers.” She holds up a pack of bright-colored markers still in the package.
“Sometimes I think you know me better than I know myself.”
Her smile widens. “So, tell me what you’re thinking about the list. Are you going to do all fourteen things or just the ones she didn’t cross off?”
“I’m not sure. All, I think. With a few exceptions.”
A crease forms between her brows as she furrows them. “Which ones?”
“The ones that require a date.”
Claire’s laughter is light and airy. I didn’t even realize I was carrying stress from discovering the list and then analyzing my mother’s life, but sitting with my best friend now, I feel better than I have all day.
“I think you should do all of them. Especially the ones that require a date.”
I shake my head adamantly. “No way. I’m not jeopardizing something like this. And who would I even kiss under the stars or go to the homecoming dance with? It’s only a few weeks away. And I have the SAT—”
“Okay. Okay.” Claire holds up a hand. “I got it. No dates.”
We fall quiet, and I watch her as she writes her name across the top of the box in white and then adds gold accents.
I decide to make my memory box blue, so it coordinates with the school colors.
Using light blue construction paper, I cover the outside and inside, then use markers to decorate it with little megaphones and pom-poms. I even get Claire to write my name on the top like she did hers. It looks way better in her handwriting.
After an hour, the floor is a mess with scraps of paper and glitter, but our boxes are done, and I feel better than I have all day.
“Thanks for this.”
“You’re welcome. It was actually really fun. Your mom had great ideas. Just like you.”
The comparison to my mom makes me smile as much as the compliment.
“Have you ever made a bucket list?” I ask her.
“Me?” She shakes her head as if the idea is ludicrous. “I think the idea is fun, don’t get me wrong. But you know me. Before this year, it would have all revolved around skating.”
I chuckle softly. “Fourteen championships to win?”
“Yeah, basically.”
“You could make one now.”
“Or I could just help you with yours.” She holds up her finished memory box.
“Fair enough.”
* * *
The weekend flies by. By Monday I’ve reached full bucket list obsession mode.
During classes, I stare at my mom’s list, barely hearing the teacher; after cheer practice I make my own, and then immediately crumple it into a ball.
I like the idea of my list being unique, but I also want to feel like I’m doing the things she didn’t check off.
I want to finish it for her. Not only because it feels like a way to honor her, but also, I think it will help me see more of the world through her eyes.
She died when I was just a baby, so I don’t remember her.
Everything I know about her is filtered through someone else’s memory.
This feels like something from her to me. A piece I can have for myself.
When Tuesday’s study hall period rolls around, I finally have an idea. I spend the entire hour writing down everything I’d put on a bucket list and cross-referencing it with my mom’s list. It feels like a puzzle or a game.
I can barely sit still, and I’m smiling so hard my face hurts. I haven’t been this excited since I found out I was going to be cheer captain this year.
By the time class is over, I’ve come up with seventeen things. Seventeen felt appropriate, since it’s my lucky number. I included my mom’s fourteen list items, even the ones that included dates, although I’m still not excited about them, and three for myself.
I stare down at the list, feeling inspired and just a little closer to my mom already. I want to show Claire so we can talk it out.
High School Bucket List
Make a high school memory box ?
Go apple picking
Get a piercing
Watch the sunrise from the fifty-yard line on the football field
Learn the “Thriller” dance!
Go on a double date
Stay up all night
Volunteer
Travel internationally
Kiss someone under the stars
Do something scary
Go to the homecoming dance with a date
Go ice-skating
Have a photo shoot with friends
Go skinny-dipping
Take a road trip with Dad
Leave my mark on Frost Lake High
As soon as the bell rings, I bolt out of my chair. In the hallway, I press my notebook to my chest and hurry toward my locker. Austin, Rowan, and a few other soccer guys are in a huddle blocking my locker.
“Excuse me,” I chirp merrily. They don’t hear me or move, but I manage to squeeze past them to my locker.
As I open it, I hear Rowan’s quiet mutters.
“He’s out for Friday’s game. Maybe longer.”
“If we make it past Brayson without him,” Eddie adds.
Their words jumble in my brain as I try to process who or what they’re talking about, but when they go quiet, it finally hits me. I swivel around in time to see Vaughn approach. The guys open up their circle.
An embarrassed flush tints Vaughn’s cheeks. It’s pretty obvious his teammates were talking about him by the way they all stay quiet and stare at him.
Rowan steps up to him first. “I’m sorry.”
A muscle in Vaughn’s cheek flexes. “Not your fault.”
Then his gaze lands on me. I can’t bear the weight of his disappointment. Guilt trickles in. He asked me for help. Twice. Now he can’t play in the district finals that determine whether they make it to the state meet brackets.