One Last Thing ✅

sixty-two things

After school, I find Riley, Jared, and Abbott waiting at my locker.

"We have a surprise for you," Riley says, holding a small cooler. She is grinning from ear to ear.

"What's going on?" I ask.

"Field trip," Jared says.

"But I'm supposed to go home..." I say feebly.

"We already talked to your grandmother about it. She's fine with us kidnapping you," Abbott says, and I am suddenly aware of the way the fluorescent light from the bulbs bounce off his eyes, how his hand is only inches away from mine. If Jared weren't standing right next to us, I might take it. But he is, so I don't.

We all ride in Abbott's truck, Jared and Riley stuffed into the backseat, their knees jammed up against the front seats, the cooler on Riley's lap. There's a Smashing Pumpkins song on the stereo.

We are all silent.

Suddenly I recognize where we're going. It's the girl scout camp. Abbott seems to remember the way. He guides the wheel without asking for directions. When I realize our destination, I can feel myself smiling. In the wake of my reverie in Mrs. Feldmann's office, it seems somehow perfect to end the day there.

As we drive through the woods and into the clearing surrounded by the dilapidated cabins, I think to myself, Maybe this place doesn't need to be the same. It has changed, but so have I. And here I am, with my best friends in the world, and we have the power to make new memories.

My spirits begin to lift as Abbott parks the car. He gets a blanket out of the back of his truck and spreads it out for me and Riley to sit on. Jared unpacks the cooler. And then we all unwrap our sandwiches and eat without talking, bathing in the warmth of the sunlight pouring through the gaps in the trees, the radio still playing in Abbott's truck.

I drink in every detail, the way Abbott's hair curls under his ear. Riley humming along with "Today" by the Smashing Pumpkins. Jared's stupid jokes. The breeze. The green, breathing world all around us.

How foolish I was to ever think about throwing these things away. Amy was right when she said life, no matter how difficult, is a gift. I think of Grams faithfully reading Amy's letters, all the mundane details. She cherishes those notes because they documented her daughter's life. She gobbles them up, savors every word, each description of a subpar meal or a lackluster soap opera plotline.

Everything.

I close my eyes and breathe in the moment, fully realizing I may never get another one like it. It makes it sweeter somehow, more special, more precious.

It is mine.

And it is now.

I embrace it.