Eighteen
Sarah
Ichoked back tears in the lunch line, sliding the yellowed tray down the metal bars toward the hot vats of mashed potatoes and meatloaf.
Even though hunger gnawed at my midsection, I knew I wouldn’t be able to eat a thing.
Thankfully, I’d found a stray hat at the bottom of my locker earlier, so I tipped the bill toward my tray, hiding my failure to keep a plethora of feelings stuffed inside my heart.
Kids filed into the line behind me, trays smacking onto the bars and plates clattering.
But a familiar voice cut through the cafeteria noise, “I’m gonna squeeze in right here.”
Peter.
Even though I didn’t lift my head, a smile—my first one all day—pulled at my cheeks.
Light protests rose as Peter turned his shoulders sideways, nudging the kid behind me out of the way until there was enough room to put his tray directly next to mine.
I pressed my lips together to keep from laughing out loud.
In our three years of friendship, I’d learned he had the craziest knack for turning my bad days around. And I adored him for it.
Skipping greetings and apologies, he said, “They made your favorite lunch today, Sunshine Girl.”
With the way I beamed, you’d think the stiff, flavorless, overcooked beef was truly delicious. But I couldn’t hear that nickname without practically melting into a puddle of happiness. After I cheated that day in seventh grade, he caught up with me in the hallway and we talked until the bell rang.
When I had stopped at my locker, he admitted he remembered that day on the playground.
That one hallway talk gave birth to a friendship I craved more than air in my lungs.
He offered to help me study for the next quiz, and the rest was history.
In a matter of a few weeks, the Thompsons felt like a second family to me, and they welcomed me into their world.
“I would say nice to see you but I can’t lie. I’m a little miffed.” He tsked in mock disappointment. “You didn’t call me last night per our agreement.”
A chuckle escaped my lips. “I meant to. We had family drama though, and I didn’t feel like talking afterward.”
“Uh oh. Again?”
“Yeah.”
A touch, featherlight on my lower back, made chills erupt over my skin. He leaned closer, his voice a whisper over my ear. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I shrugged like of course.
Over the years, Peter had learned a lot about my family.
When I felt strong, I let him in a little at a time.
But I’d never talked about my family like this—on the brink of falling apart with tears welling in my eyes.
And even though I wanted to be honest with my friend, I didn’t want him to see me puffy-eyed and crying.
I hoped he wouldn’t ask too many questions, but Peter never missed a beat and the likelihood of him not prying were slim to none.
As soon as we made eye contact, it would be game over.
So I stared down at my tray, panicking over the moisture pooling in the corner of my eyes. I opened them as wide as I could, willing the tears to evaporate into the atmosphere, and ran through the lyrics of the Star Spangled Banner to keep my brain preoccupied.
Peter must’ve sensed my hesitancy to look at him because he leaned closer, his voice a rumble. “You are not okay.”
And that was Peter in a nutshell—still seeing me even when I denied him the opportunity.
“Why would you say that?” I huffed a hollow laugh. “I’m fine.”
“Then look at me.”
I pushed my tray forward, accidentally knocking into the back of the next student’s. “I promise, I’m fine. I just—”
But Peter reached around and grabbed the bill of my hat and gently tugged.
Because my ponytail was laced through the gap, I had no choice but to turn my head along with it.
Like a fish on the end of a line, reeled in, I turned to face him.
He stood so close to me, I could feel his body heat.
Conflicting feelings ripped through my torso.
Push him away. Bury your face in his chest. Run. Stay.
He smelled like spice and sunshine and laundry detergent.
His finger grazed the bottom of my chin, tenderly lifting until we gazed into each other’s eyes. His expression morphed when he saw my teary eyes; the boyish playfulness replaced with concern that made him look very much like a man and not the almost sixteen-year-old he actually was.
My lips rebelled, indulging in a brief quiver. I bit down on my bottom lip.
Emotions flicked through his brown irises in quick succession as he scanned my features—my eyes, my cheeks, my neck, and my forehead. As if he was looking for something.
Finally, he whispered, “Did he hurt you?”
I quickly shook my head.
“Did he try?”
I hesitated, biting my bottom lip harder. My instinct was to blurt yes, but my mother’s voice lingered in my head.
“He didn’t really mean it, sweetheart.”
Peter’s eyes darkened, his fingers now gripping my chin. “Sarah.”
Emotions turned my throat into a knot. I simply shook my head, telling him with one motion I couldn’t speak of it.
Suddenly, a voice carried over the noise. “Excuse me! Please stop holding up the line.”
Peter’s voice flitted over my head. “Let’s go.”
Wordlessly, we filled our trays. At the end of the line, Peter took mine and his, ushering us to our favorite spot.
As soon as we sat, Peter shoved his tray to the side and braced his forearms on the edge of the table, staring across at me.
I tucked my chin, trying to hide, but there was no place to go.
“What happened, Sarah?” His voice was so gentle, I wanted to cry.
I shrugged. “We…got in a stupid argument again.”
“About what?”
“That’s the thing. I can’t even remember.” I shook my head, leaning into the rage coursing through my veins so that I wouldn’t give into the sorrow. “I think I made a comment that there were other people in the house who’d like to use the TV on occasion.”
Peter hissed a breath through his teeth, knowing my parents didn’t handle my saucy attitude very well. “And then he freaked out, I’m guessing?”
“It blew up into this huge dramatic thing.” I rolled my eyes.
“So stupid. When he verbally comes at me, I should just shut up and walk away, but that’s so hard for me to do.
I made the insane suggestion that he should come to a basketball game and watch me cheer instead of watching sports on TV, but he said sitting on an uncomfortable bleacher to watch me wave plastic was a waste of his time.
And going would make more sense if he’d had a son. ”
“Wow.” Peter’s jaw hung in disbelief. “That’s disgusting.”
I twisted my lips to the side. “I know. It all blew up when I told him I wished he did have a son because then I would belong to someone else. Of course, all that did was piss him off.”
“Did he get…aggressive?” Peter treaded lightly.
“He…” I tilted my head side to side. “He came after me a little and raised his hand…but he’s so slow it’s not like anything would’ve happened anyway. Then, of course, Mom intervened. She coddled him like she always does.”
“And took his side, I’ll bet.”
“Of course.”
“Sarah.”
I held up a hand. “I know—I know, Peter. It’s bad. I don’t know what to do though.”
“You’ve got to tell someone.”
“I’m telling you.” I said it as if he ought to be impressed.
He shook his head. “That’s not enough. An adult—someone who can help you.”
“I’m practically an adult myself. Plus, he’s never actually hurt me.”
Peter narrowed his eyes as if trying to see beneath my surface.
“What?” I demanded.
“I’m just wondering how true that is.”
“I wouldn’t lie to you.”
“I know that. But you’ve told me your mom makes a lot of excuses for him. There’s no chance you’re doing that, too?”
I frowned at him, my face flushing. “I’m not.”
“Alright.” He gave me a sad smile. “I just care about you. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
The words softened me like a stick of butter in the microwave.
There weren’t many people in the world who cared to that extent.
“He only hurts Mom. At night usually.” My gaze dropped to the table and I fiddled with my napkin as I choked out a whisper.
“That’s why she’ll—do anything to keep him happy.
Even if that means making me miserable.”
“She’s afraid,” he said.
“She is.” I agreed. “I feel bad for her. Her entire world is him.”
“I’m sorry.”
“There’s nothing either of us can do. It’s just the way it is.” I took a sharp breath. “I’m counting down days to my freshmen year of college though. I can’t wait to get out.”
He gave a soft laugh. “Is the plan still ‘go to college’ then ‘see the world?’”
“Something like that, I guess.” I shrugged, feeling the flimsiness of that plan. Resolutely, I spelled it out. “No matter what I do, I just want to create and enjoy all the beautiful moments in life, and experience awe and wonder and joy. And not get stuck like my mom.”
He gave a soft puff of laughter and I kicked him beneath the table. “What?” I demanded.
“I don’t think there’s anyone less likely to get stuck.”
I laughed too. “Yeah, well, the first thing I’m going to do when I’m out of their clutches is spend an entire weekend at Estes Park, maybe camping or something.”
“That sounds fun. Can I come?”
My heart rolled in my chest. “Sure!”
Then he frowned, like he was considering something. “Do you have a bucket list written down somewhere?”
I’d never considered writing one. “No, actually.”
“You should write your ideas down. So you won’t forget all the beautiful moments you want to have.” He thought for a second. “You’d hate to look back and realize you let your dreams slip away.”
“That’s a good idea.” I mulled that over. I could write a list of top priorities. All the things I needed to do to truly feel like I’d lived.
And even as I sat there, staring at Peter, I realized that list would be achingly simple.
As if by mutual agreement, we looked down at our trays and picked up our forks.
The gravy dripping down the side of my mashed potatoes had congealed and the tomato sauce on the meatloaf glistened like plastic in the fluorescent lighting.
The green beans were stone cold and my chocolate ice cream on the corner of my tray puddled along the sides of the bowl.
I wrinkled my nose as I poked the potatoes.
“You know what.” Peter nodded down at his food. “This is a dessert-first kind of day.” With loads of fanfare, he grabbed his dish of vanilla ice cream and squished it down in the center of his plate, potatoes and meat oozing to the sides, making way for the main event.
I giggled as he took a big forkful of ice cream and grinned up at me.
Peter made me happier than anything in the entire world.
Once Peter hit ninth grade, he got placed in honors in almost every subject.
I didn’t have classes with him anymore and the only slivers of time we got together were lunch hour and basketball games.
It had been a long, grueling summer without him.
For ten weeks I worried that he’d come back for his sophomore year too cool for me—grown out of our friendship.
But he’d wrapped me in a hug that melted me down to my toes then set our schedules side by side, giving a victory fist pump when he realized our lunch hours overlapped.
He declared I had no choice but to sit with him every day.
I returned his grin, matching his energy and letting my dessert bowl plop into the center of my plate. I dipped my spoon in, relishing in the way tension had spun out of my limbs. Suddenly remembering something, I said, “Oh! Why did you want me to call you last night?”
Peter averted his eyes as if suddenly uncomfortable. “Uh, well…”
My heart shot into my throat, my limbs falling weak with dread. “What is it?”
Reading my expression, he raised a hand. “Oh, it’s nothing bad. I just, uh, didn’t want to tell you like this…” Red blotches spread over his cheeks. “Um, but I guess I will…”
I wanted to shake the words out of him to ease my discomfort faster.
He clasped his hands together over the top of the table, feigning relaxation, but his foot tapped on the tile beneath the table. “I needed to tell you that I, uhm, have had feelings for you for a long time, and I want to know if you have them too.”
My lungs turned to steel as my heart fell into my stomach, my insides jumbling as if I was riding a rollercoaster. “Feelings?” The word came on a breath.
“Yeah. I like you.”
“Like me?” I parroted him, completely disbelieving my ears and wondering if I was in a really good, really life-like dream.
He rubbed the back of his neck, giving a soft laugh. “I know your parents might not let you officially date me, but I want to spend as much time with you as I can.” He rushed to add. “If you want that.”
I nodded. “I want that.”
The hope that dawned on his face was so adorable I melted. “You do?”
“Yeah. I like you, too.”
“Really?” He pressed his lips together, denying himself a full smile.
“Really.”
“Okay. Good.”
A moment of silence passed, and it should’ve felt awkward, but it wasn’t.
My heart soared through the clouds, and I grinned like a fool, but this was the moment of my dreams. I tried to memorize the way I felt—fluttery, warm, and weak.
Like my stomach was dipping and jumping all at the same time.
Like my heart had stopped forever yet started for the first time.
It seemed too good to be true.
A screech of excitement toyed at the bottom of my throat and I had to rein in my joy. Peter tapped my foot under the table with his own. “What?”
“Nothing.” I giggled. “I’m just happy.”
He tapped my foot again, but didn’t move it away this time. “Me too.”
Turning off the light in my bedroom that night, I dove beneath the covers with a flashlight and flicked it on. Ignoring the way heat gathered under the comforter with my heavy and excited breaths, I maneuvered the light until it pointed down at a hot pink zebra-striped piece of stationary.
And I poured out my hopes and dreams.
Stripping away the allure of new places and shiny things, I wrote down only the basics.
The few things I wanted most of all.
And I named it Sarah’s Live List.