The Bucket List

O n e

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

My fingernails sink into my skin as I pinch myself, the seconds passing by agonizingly slowly. My green eyes flit from the door to the clock back and forth, back and forth. I try to stop tapping my foot against the floor, but then I suddenly feel an urge to chew on a red curl bouncing before my face, so I go back to tapping.

Mrs. Johnson is late. Seven minutes and thirty-three seconds late, to be exact. I was meant to be in there at six forty-five p.m. on the dot. It is now six fifty-two. My anxiety grows as I watch the next three minutes tick by, and Mrs. Johnson grows even later.

I wonder what they're saying in there. Are they talking about me? Did I fail?

The door flies open at seven oh three p.m. and my mom pokes her head out. "We're ready for you, sweetie," she tells me, her brown hair swishing to the side.

I clench and unclench my hands twice, take a deep breath, and stand up from the uncomfortable school bench. Then, in five short strides, I close the distance between me and the door, shutting it softly behind me.

"Take a seat, Marcy," Mrs. Johnson motions to the chair in front of her desk with a warm smile.

I tuck my miniskirt under my legs as I settle down on the even more uncomfortable chair and sit up straight. I shove my neatly brushed curls over one shoulder and focus my eyes on my teacher. "So? Did I pass?"

Mrs. Johnson laughs. "Straight to the point, as always, Marcy," she comments. "But don't worry, you passed with flying colors." She slides a pale blue paper across the table in my direction.

I scan it quickly, then go over it again, and then a third time before my mom demands to see the paper as well. I've barely processed what I've seen, so I grab it back two minutes later.

Geography – A plus. Algebra – A plus. History – A plus. Chemistry – A plus. Literature – A. I pinch myself again, and when a pain shoots through my arm, I can tell I'm not dreaming.

An A? No way. "What'd I get wrong?" I ask, turning back to Mrs. Johnson's brown eyes.

"Nothing, nothing," she assures me. "You just missed a few classes, that's all."

"I was sick."

"We know, but the school still feels a need to deduct a few points."

I sigh and slump in my chair, then remember to straighten my back again. "Can I do some extra credit work?"

"I'm afraid it's a little too late for that," Mrs. Johnson shakes her head. "But don't worry, I'm sure you'll do fine next semester."

"And she did excellent this semester as well," my mother adds. She kisses me on the head. "Straight A-pluses except for literature – amazing as always!"

"Thanks, mom," I let her squeeze my shoulder, despite how much it hurts. "And thanks, Mrs. Johnson."

"Of course, Marcy," my teacher replies with a nod. "You're a pleasure to have in our school."

The parent-teacher-student conferences began replacing normal report cards about five years ago, after an abundance of alterations students did to their report cards. I've never really minded having my mother with me when I receive my grades. She's always been supportive. Then again, I've never gotten scores very different from the ones I got today.

When we enter the house, a delicious smell of homemade pizza wafts into the room, and I breathe it in with one huge inhale. It's my favorite – mom's special raspberry-and-bell-pepper pizza. We have it every semester, as a form of celebration for my outstanding grades. The one disadvantage is that mom just assumes it'll go well and makes it in advance, so it's not exactly fresh, which is unfortunate. However, something about leaving it out for an hour makes the raspberry flavor even stronger, and I love it.

We settle down to eat and top it off with some ice cream for dessert. When mom notices me yawning, she suggests I go to bed, and I comply without hesitation.

As I shut the door behind me, the baseball cap hanging on the hook thumps on the wood. I sigh and pop it off the door, fitting it snugly onto my head. The bright red color looks hideous against my hair, so I pull it right back off, throwing it on the floor and stomping on it once before hanging it back on the hook.

I go through this ritual every night. It's the only way I can properly shame my dad for giving up on me the way he did – slowly and painfully destroying his most prized possession.

I drag myself into bed after changing and shut off my nightlight, rolling onto my side. Winter break starts tomorrow, a voice in my head reminds me. And you know what that means...

Of course I do. It means I have to see my least favorite people in the whole world – the one who abandoned me, the one he abandoned me for, and their offspring. It means my obligatory Red Sox game with my father, focusing more on the hot dog in my hand than the game itself.

On the other hand, it also means the crisp smell of cinnamon, pine trees, and snow. It means the soft sound of skates clacking on the ice. It means my friends dragging me out to do stupid things that are more than a little weird for me. But most of all, it means curling up by the fireplace with a good book and a cup of hot chocolate. Just as it always does, every year. And there's absolutely nothing in the world quite like it.