The Lucky List Page 8

  “Ah,” he says, studying the cover. “Camus. This is an older one. Nineteen fifty-four, I believe.” He stands, teetering off through the store, Blake and I following eagerly after him. “I might just have a copy.…”

  We weave down an aisle and around the corner, the sloped wooden floor giving way to science fiction books, and World War II history, and, finally, the foreign language section. He taps two enormous bookcases as the bell rings noisily from the front desk, an eager customer waiting to check out.

  “If it’s anywhere, it’ll be here,” he says, giving my mom’s copy back to me with a wink before rushing to the front of the store to make his sale.

  Blake takes a step closer, putting her hands on her hips as she cranes her neck to look at all the books.

  I push a small stepladder over to her, nudging her lightly in the side. “You start on the top shelf, I start on the bottom?”

  She nods, her eyes narrowing at the challenge. “Deal.”

  We work in silence, sifting slowly through the mishmash of books, titles and covers blurring together, whites and yellows and blacks and blues. This would be way faster if Mr. O’Reilly organized by language, but they’re all just piled together, Mandarin next to Italian next to Portuguese.

  I have a couple of close calls, and I know Blake does too, tiny intakes of air followed by a mumbled, “Never mind.”

  We’re about halfway done with the second bookcase when Blake triumphantly holds up a faded white book, nearly teetering off the ladder. She steadies herself, then holds it out to me. “Found it!”

  I look down to see an identical book to the one in the Ziploc bag, completely intact except for a small tear in the cover. I flick quickly through the book to see that the missing pages are still there. I could kiss her.

  I grab it, flying through the aisles to the front of the store, butterflies swarming my stomach. Mr. O’Reilly looks up in surprise when I plunk it down on the counter next to his ancient cash register. Then a twinkle of excitement sparks in his eyes.

  “You wouldn’t happen to speak French, would you?” I ask as he begins to ring it up.

  He shakes his head. “I could do Latin and some Spanish, but I don’t speak a word of French.”

  My stomach sinks ever so slightly as I hand over the money in exchange for the book. I think I was hoping to keep this pure, like how my mom did it, but I could still figure it out with an app.

  Google Translate, maybe? It would take a while, but I guess it’s better than nothing.

  “Thanks, Mr. O’Reilly,” I call as we head out the door. I’m relieved to see the rain has stopped.

  Blake opens her mouth to say something, but I grab her hand, excited to get to work. The postrain humidity instantly clings to my arms and legs as I pull her down the steps and across the street.

  “Strategy meeting at Hank’s. Blake, we’ve got some French to translate.”

  9

  Even though I’m semidry by the time we slide into a bright red booth, Judy gives us our milkshakes for free, chattering away about how I look like a limp rag.

  “We missed ya last Sunday,” she says as she slides two towering chocolate shakes onto the table, her arm reaching up to lean casually against the booth.

  “My dad had work,” I say, pulling the new book and my mom’s list out of my bag. “But we should be in this weekend.”

  She pops her pink bubble gum and gives me a warm smile, glancing back at the kitchen to make sure her husband, Hal, isn’t listening. He’s got a thing about not telling people specials before the day or else they aren’t “special” anymore. “We’ve got your dad’s favorite on the menu. Hal’s making his meat loaf,” she whispers with a wink. She nods to Blake. “Bring your friend! I’ll make sure you get an extra-big slice.”

  “All right, Judy,” I say, even though I bet the last place Blake wants to be this Sunday is eating meat loaf at Hank’s Diner with me. I’m honestly surprised she’s still here now.

  But I glance across the table, shocked to see she’s nodding enthusiastically, totally game for the heartburn-inducing meat loaf Hal puts out once or twice a month. I smile to myself as Judy trots away to take another customer’s order.

  I send a quick text to my dad to let him know Blake will be driving me over to the Carters’ before I begin to scroll through the translator apps available on my phone. I tap on Quick Translate, an app with 4.3 out of 5 stars, supposed to be able to take photos of words in real time and translate them. I let out a groan as the page takes a century to load. “I forgot how bad the service is here. The second you pull open those heavy glass doors, you lose about three bars.”

  “What was your mom’s tattoo?” Blake asks, reaching out to take the book off the table. She flips through the pages with her thumbs, leaning forward to take a quick sip of her milkshake.

  “It was on her arm,” I say, swiping out of the app store to bring up the photo of my mom from the Fourth of July. I turn it around to face her, zooming in on the words. “It says, ‘An invincible summer.’ ”

  Blake studies the picture, nodding, before turning her attention back to the book, while I turn my attention back to the small blue and white app taking a million years to download onto my phone. I let out a long sigh. “This is going to take—”

  “Au milieu de l’hiver, j’apprenais enfin qu’il y avait en moi un été invincible.”

  My head snaps up to see Blake reading from the book in perfect French. Her eyes move from page number 158 up to meet mine, my heart hammering noisily in my chest.

  “You speak French? Why didn’t you say something!”

  “I wanted to, but someone was a little too eager to get over here to let me get a word in edgewise.” There’s a teasing glint in her eyes, and I feel my cheeks begin to burn. “Took it since middle school. I was thinking about maybe minoring in it in college.”

  My phone pings, the pointless, no-longer-necessary app finally starting to download. “So do you know what it means?” I ask, sliding around the table and sitting down in the booth next to her.

  I peer over her tan shoulder at the book, and she taps the sentence she just read aloud. “It means something like, ‘In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer.’ ”

  I nod slowly, taking it in, trying to find a connection. Trying to find something hidden in there. Something about her and her experience.

  I squint at the words, thinking of Matt and junior prom, and the past three years without my mom, filled with ups and downs. Thinking of the taped-together SAT results I found in my mom’s box of things.

  But nothing about those words makes any of that come together for me.

  “Well, that’s just great,” I say, throwing my hands up. “I mean, what does that even mean? Leave it to me to tear through a bookstore, expecting this quote from some old French dude to tell me some long-lost secret about my mom.”

  Blake laughs and pulls out her phone. I watch as she types the translation into it, sending the words to me in a text. She leans on her elbow, looking directly at me, her sun-streaked hair hanging over her arm. “Well, maybe that will change. It may not mean anything now, but maybe it will one day. Maybe you just need to finish the list or something first.”

  “I am deep in winter, Blake! Nothing about this summer is invincible,” I mutter, reaching out to grab my milkshake and taking a long, slow sip.

  “Not yet,” Blake clarifies, giving me one of her big, ear-to-ear smiles, which makes me remember how she convinced me to light a sparkler in my living room ten years ago. I have a feeling I’d probably still go along with that. “I mean, maybe it didn’t make sense to your mom at first either. Maybe her summer didn’t exactly start out as an invincible one. But it became one.”

  I bite my straw thoughtfully.

  “Besides, you’ve already taken the first step,” she says, reaching past me to grab the pen Judy left on our table. She holds it out to me, spinning my mom’s list around to face me, my eyes landing on number nin
e.

  Buy a book in another language.

  My first list item.

  I feel a swell of happiness as I take the pen from her hand, carefully putting a small blue check mark next to the line.

  The first step. One item checked off my mom’s bucket list.

  10

  The drive to Blake’s house sends us into the winding back roads of Huckabee, the fading sunlight carefully cutting through the trees as we drive. Remnants of the earlier rainstorm cling to the branches and the road, making them sparkle.

  I shift in my seat, my jeans finally dry after our milkshakes at Hank’s. We pass the development Matt lives in, and I crane my neck, my eyes searching for and finding his black Honda Civic in the driveway.

  Fridays were always our day. Just for us. No Kiera, or Jake, or Ryan, or Olivia. We used to go out to the historic movie theater in the center of town, or just stay in, watching Netflix on his basement couch and making peanut butter cookies using the recipe we perfected together. Matt was always really into filmmaking, and my favorite part of the night was listening to him talk about every little behind-the-scenes detail, from how they did certain special effects to the accolades of the director. It always made the movies we watched more fun.

  I wonder how he’s spending his Fridays without me. If he misses hanging out with me, like I miss hanging out with him.

  Or if this radio silence means he doesn’t anymore.

  An unsteady feeling swims through me, and I look down at the road underneath us, watching as the unbroken yellow line turns into a dotted one.

  How can I possibly fix this when I don’t even know why I can’t get it right?

  I feel like things were so easy for my parents. That all the romantic stuff just… happened naturally. They didn’t break up once. Why can’t things be as easy for us?

  We keep driving, heading onward toward the big houses on the edge of Huckabee, just on the border of Cherryfield, the next town over. Each of the houses in this neck of the woods is surrounded by acres of trees, its nearest neighbor nowhere to be seen.

  I know some people think that would be peaceful, all that space, but there are times late at night when there is nothing but darkness. A scary, overwhelming darkness, everything past the headlights disappearing into nothingness. I always hated it when Matt would drive us through here.

  I see lights peeking out from between the trees as Blake slows at a mailbox and then carefully turns onto a long driveway, turn signal flashing.

  “I’d hate to have to take the trash all the way down there on trash day,” I say to her.

  She nods in agreement, then gives me a mischievous grin. “I conveniently forgot yesterday and my dad had to do it. To be honest, I’m not sure how my grandma did it at all before we got here.”

  I open my mouth to say something, but stop short when I see the house we’re pulling up to.

  I stare at the modern design in awe, the entire structure sleek and carefully constructed. Floor-to-ceiling windows take up the entire first and second floors of the house, giving way to sharp metallic angles. On the second floor, a deck extends out, carefully enclosed by trees on either side of it. All browns and silvers and grays, everything uniform in a beautiful way.

  “This house is insane,” I say, my eyes wide. I knew the Carters’ refused to sell their farm until Johnny Carter Sr. couldn’t work anymore, making their plot of land the final puzzle piece in a massive development plan the real estate developers had been trying to build for years, but I had no idea their payout was enough for this.

  “It’s my grandpa’s dream house,” Blake says as we pull slowly up the driveway. “He designed it entirely by himself.”

  “He designed this?” I ask, completely in awe.

  “Yep,” Blake says, peeling her eyes away from the driveway to admire the house. “Architecture was his passion, even though he didn’t get an education in it.” Her gaze is almost reverent. “He didn’t live to see the Architectural Digest article about it, but he’d have loved it.”

  I wonder what that must have been like. Having enough money to build something like this. Or, just enough money to stay in the house you grew up in, where your parents built a life together, and where your mom’s garden sits out front, and where your favorite memories of cake decorating and closet conversations with her feel etched into the very foundation.

  I try to shake off the move vibes. “Those are some windows,” I say with a whistle.

  “Yeah, the views are beautiful. Zero privacy, though!” she says with a laugh. “It’s a good thing we live in the middle of nowhere. The whole neighborhood would have seen my butt by now.”

  We reach the top of the long driveway and see my dad’s truck already parked in front of the spaceship-size two-car garage. Blake pulls up alongside it and reaches up to press a button. The right door of the garage slowly opens, but unlike our garage at home, there’s no clutter to be seen. Just Johnny’s car, and four surfboards hung in ascending size order on the wall.

  I’m surprised when she puts her car in park instead of pulling inside.

  “You’re not pulling into the garage?” I ask.

  She shakes her head as she turns the key in the ignition, the truck noisily cutting out. “My dad won’t let me park it in there. He got upset with my grandma because it leaked oil onto the ‘superior concrete floors.’ ” She says the last bit with air quotes and an eye roll. “Which is really rich coming from the man who would track sand around our old house like it was his job.”

  We laugh as we unbuckle our seat belts, then head inside.

  No sooner have I crossed over the threshold than a blur of fur and slobber comes slamming into me, almost knocking my feet out from under me. A single paw finds my shoulder, and suddenly the droopy brown eyes of a golden retriever are staring lovingly into mine as my face is coated in sloppy dog kisses.

  I laugh, patting the dog’s sides, and realize with a start that he only has three legs. The smooth skin of his chest extends all the way around on his left side, a tiny nub the only sign anything had ever been there.

  “Winston,” Blake commands, and Winston immediately stops car washing my face, dropping down onto all threes and sitting with a loud, obedient thump.

  He stares up at Blake, his tail keeping time on the chilly concrete floor. She stares back at him, her face serious for a few seconds before cracking into a big smile. Winston immediately launches himself at her in a similar greeting.

  We follow the smell of pizza up a set of metal stairs. Framed house blueprints Blake’s grandfather must’ve drawn are hung carefully along the wall. Winston hops noisily up the steps behind us, the last few giving way to an open living room and kitchen. I peer up at the high ceiling, the decor right out of Pinterest, everything simple in a neat and trendy way, from the potted plants, to the pillows on the couch, to the pictures hung on the wall.

  The only thing out of place is the pile of moving boxes sitting in the corner, Sharpie-covered labels indicating their contents.

  Our dads are right in the middle of the room in full lounge mode, mine on the leather couch, Johnny in an armchair that clearly prioritizes style over comfort, beers in front of the both of them.

  “Hey, girls,” my dad says, looking over at us. “How was—”

  “Took you two long enough!” a voice says, cutting him off. A glass door across the room swings open as Blake’s grandma trots in from the huge balcony, a cane clutched in her hand. She looks frailer than I remember, her cheeks gaunt.

  She nods to the two pizza boxes on the glass coffee table, her white beehive of hair refusing to budge even an inch. “The pizza almost went cold!”

  “I got stuck at work,” Blake says, covering for our stop at Hank’s as she gives her a hug hello, the tiny woman’s body disappearing from view. Winston peers up at Blake, sniffing the air like he senses the lie. She shoots a glare at him.

  “Besides, Grandma, the pizza probably went cold on the delivery driver’s way out here!” Blake’s gra
ndmother smiles warmly at her before nodding in agreement. I stifle a laugh at Winston’s lie detector of a nose, giving Mrs. Carter a quick hug before plopping down beside my dad on the couch.

  I gaze around the brightly lit room, taking in the fireplace and the view of the sunset. This place is even cooler inside than it is outside, the concrete floors accenting the sleek kitchen design. “This is a really great house, Mrs. Carter.”

  Blake’s grandma laughs, the tan skin around her eyes wrinkling at the corners. “Oh, not you too! It’s all Blake ever talks about,” she says. “Good thing my husband isn’t here to hear this. His head would be too big to fit in this house of his.”

  We grab some plates and eat our pizza, and as usual the simplest thing has Johnny diving straight into storytelling mode. Today it’s tomato sauce.

  “What year was it, Joe? Tenth grade? The Cafeteria Incident?”

  My dad smirks, taking a swig of his beer. “Yep. Tenth grade. It was lasagna day in the cafeteria, and I sent a sauce-covered brick of it across the room at Luke Price. It exploded all over his white shirt.”

  “All hell broke loose,” Johnny says, setting the scene. “In an instant, food was everywhere. Kids diving under tables for cover. The lunch ladies barricading themselves in the kitchen.” He grins at me, touching his cheek. “Your mom hit me square in the face with a tuna sandwich before running off to a calculus class she was probably the only one to show up to. I think Joe fell in love with her right then and there.”

  “It got so bad in the cafeteria, the police had to be called,” my dad says, all of us laughing. “A kid got carted off for a flying-milk-carton-induced concussion.”

  It’s weird to hear my dad talking so openly about the past, especially a story that has my mom in it. Maybe even the moment he first started falling for her. How can he talk so freely with Johnny but always clams up with me?

  We’ve never been big on talking, especially about feelings, but I can’t help but be… I don’t know. Jealous? Hurt?