Someone to Save

* one *

Wesley

"Teeth brushed?" I ask. She nods.

"Hair brushed?" I ask. She nods.

"Backpack ready?" I ask. She nods.

"Breakfast?" I ask. She shakes her head.

"Donuts on the way to school?" I ask. She nods.

"Let's go then," I say as I grab my backpack off the kitchen table and snatch my car keys from the hook by the door. I don't bother telling my mom goodbye, she's sleeping anyway.

My sister Lennon, who is now eight years old, still insists on sitting in the backseat of my car. At first, I thought it was based on the fact that sometimes I tended to drive over the speed limit, but not by much. But last month, she had gone into this long tantrum about how even if she's buckled in to the front seat, she's at a much greater risk of being harmed in the front than in the back. She told me that it's not safe for anyone under the height of 5ft to sit up front, and that she wouldn't be that tall until she was a few years older.

Lennon's going to be a genius one day. Hell, she's a genius right now.

I allow her to sit in the backseat, for her safety of course, and turn around to double check that she's bucked in.

"Can I get two donuts?" Lennon asks me, her eyes full of hope, as I'm turned around to face the back window as I back out of our driveway.

"As long as we can get through one car ride without you singing that song from Frozen," I say mockingly to her. I hear her laugh as I'm turning back around to face the road, making the familiar drive to Dunkin Donuts. We do this most mornings. Mom is most likely wasted, hungover or doped up on something to even get out of bed in the morning. Since I seriously lack in the culinary department, I save a part of each of my paychecks for donuts some mornings. It's simple, but it makes Lennon happy.

"Are you as scared as I am?" Her small voice breaks the silence that had settled itself in the car for the last couple minutes. I turn to face her for a split second, and see her wringing her fingers together as she looks out her window. I turn back to face the road as I answer her.

"About my driving? You'll make it in one piece, I promise." I laugh at myself, knowing very well that wasn't her question.

"No, dummy. About school today." She kicks the back of my seat gently as she says the word 'dummy,' which had become her new favorite insult since she had been spending time with our new neighbors across the street. They had a nine year old son with a temper.

"No, I'm not scared," I lie for her sake. "Why are you?"

"What if I can't make any friends?" She asks, and I pull into the Dunkin Donuts drive through, pulling some money out of my bag next to me.

"Are you kidding me? You'll make plenty of friends. You have nothing to worry about, Lenny." I smile back at her and her tension seems to ease a bit. I can't tell if it's because my words reassured her the slightest bit, or because she was about to have donuts.

***

Part of me wished that I had studied my addition a whole lot more in the third grade.

If I had, the school would have allowed me to move up a grade, and I wouldn't be standing in this parking lot right now.

If someone would have told me a year ago that I'd be spending my first day of twelfth grade in an unfamiliar place, I wouldn't have believed them. Mostly because there's no way I ever would've left my home back in North Carolina. I never would've left Maggie.