I read, then reread, the list I’d made the day before. I hoped that the best traits of the people in my life cobbled together into this list would turn me into a Frankenstein’s-monster version of the lot of them. The nonfreakish version. There were eleven things on the list. Well, technically ten if I didn’t count the one I’d already checked off. How to become deep in ten steps . . . or less? I hoped it would be less.
Maybe this was why the art institute winter program asked for sales history, because they knew how hard it was to make it past the gatekeepers of galleries. That could narrow down their list of applicants dramatically.
I fished a pushpin out of the container on my desk and found a spare bit of wall space between a quote about love and a picture of a dandelion, all its seeds but one floating away on the wind. I’d pinned all sorts of inspiration on my wall—art, quotes, poems, scenery—over the years. Muses for my painting. It was all things I’d seen while flipping through magazines or scrolling through my phone—some I added to my scrapbook, some to my walls. I laughed a little as I turned a circle, taking in everything now. They were all things that had made me feel something, I realized. It’s why I’d pinned them there. Oh, the irony that my paintings weren’t doing the same thing for someone else.
I snapped a picture of the list with my phone and out of habit was about to send a group text to Rachel, Justin, and Cooper, when I remembered Rachel wouldn’t get it and Justin was in the middle of being philanthropic. He didn’t need to see my attempt at depth right now. Instead, I emailed the picture to myself, then sat down at my laptop to compose a letter to my dad.
Hey pops,
Attached you will find a list of activities that will make me so full of heart you might not recognize me when you get home. And since you’re always gone so long that I forget who you are, we’ll be in the same boat this time. You’re welcome. Also, I figured out what I want you to bring me home this time. I want a small rock shaped like a heart. You should scour the desert to find it. It’s the only way I will know you truly love me and think about me every day. Plus it will represent my heart growing three sizes. Is that how many sizes the Grinch’s grew? I forget. Remember when we used to watch that every Christmas and you said that you almost named me Cindy Lou Who? I’m still eternally grateful you didn’t (even though I now know that’s not a true story). Love, your appropriately named daughter.
I picked up the little vial of sand I kept on my desk that Dad had brought me home after I requested it during his last tour. He always brought me home something. Sometimes it was something I asked for, sometimes it was something he said reminded him of me, like painted beads or glass art.
I turned the bottle sideways, letting the sand move along the vial as I tipped it back and forth.
There was a knock on my door, followed by Cooper’s voice: “Are you presentable?”
I set the small bottle down, hit Send on my email, and shut the laptop. “Presentable? Do you mean decent?”
“Same thing.”
“Well, one of those things I am and one I’m not, so I don’t think they are the same thing.”
He let out his overly dramatic sigh, which I could hear even through the closed door. “Do you have clothes on, Abby?”
“Yes.”
He opened the door and flung himself into my room, landing on his stomach on my bed, then rolling onto his side. “Hi.”
His eyes narrowed in on the list I’d pinned to my wall. “What’s that?”
“My ten-step guide to a deeper life.”
“It only takes ten steps? Maybe I should do it then.”
“You totally should. These can be our summer activities.”
He scooted off the bed and came to stand next to me, looking over the list. He smelled good. Like vanilla and oranges. That was his usual scent. But sometimes he smelled like sweat and fabric softener and sometimes he smelled like toothpaste and face wash or cherry ChapStick and sunblock. Or chocolate. Or . . . stop, I told myself. Not helpful at all.
“I’m not going to watch a baby being born,” he said.
Right, the list. I turned my attention back to it. “That’s what I said. But my mom said there were other ways to interpret life coming into the world or something like that.”
“I can only think of one way to watch life come into the world.”
“Same. But whatever. We don’t have to do all of them. I sense depth will occur after five.”
He laughed. “Good, because I also don’t want to have to kill anyone.”
I smiled. “I don’t think that’s what Grandpa was suggesting with that one.”
“I have your number six.”
“You do?” I glanced at the list to remember what number six was. Face a fear. Of course he’d pick that one.
“Why is my name next it?” he asked.
“Because certain ones were inspired by certain people.” I pointed at his. “You, my fearless friend, inspired that one. And you don’t get to pick my fear. I’m picking my own for that.”
“Come on. You’ll give yourself an easy one.”
“And you’ll give me an impossible one.”
“Everything is possible.”
I stared at him expectantly.
“What?” he asked.
“Are you going to finish that thought? Everything is possible . . .”
“That’s all I was going to say. Is there supposed to be more?”
“There’s always more with that start. Everything is possible through hard work or through perseverance or through never giving up or through God.”
“Huh. Okay . . . everything is possible when you’re with me.”
I rolled my eyes. “I liked my options better.”
“Well, right now, my option fits, because you’re going to face your fear—with me.”
“What have I gotten myself into?”
He laughed evilly as we left the room.
He held out a red helmet for me.
“No. Absolutely not. I told you I was just going to watch. This is your thing.” Over his shoulder I could see the other quads and dune buggies zooming through the dunes. The sun beat down on the sand and made everything in the distance appear wavy, adding to the nausea I already felt at the thought of being out there with them.
“A fear is not going to be something that’s your thing. Then it wouldn’t be your fear.”
“I’m not scared of this. I just think it’s stupid. And dangerous.”
“You are terrified of this. I can see it in your eyes. Don’t try to pretend this isn’t one of your fears. And if it’s not your fear, you can put one check mark in the trying something new box.”
I huffed and took the helmet from him. “Fine. It is my fear.” I’d seen too many crashes while he was racing, and I did not want that to be me.
He smiled big and started walking to where his quad was waiting by the trailer.
One of his buddies passed, obviously just finishing his run, and said, “Be careful out there. It was really windy last night.”
“Thanks,” Cooper said and when we were out of hearing distance added, “for nothing.”
“We can’t go now,” I said, walking faster to try to catch up with him. “I know what wind means on the dunes. I’ve been out here with you enough. It means there’s hundred-foot drops carved into the sand. It means we hit them at the top of a hill out of nowhere and we go plummeting.”
“Don’t listen to him. We’ll be fine. I was born on the dunes, remember?” he threw over his shoulder.
“And now you’re going to die on them, and I’ll be able to check off the last item on the list.”
He stopped suddenly, me nearly running into him, and turned around. He put his helmet on the sand between his feet, then stood and placed his forearms on my shoulders, looking me in the eyes. “I know you can do this. I know we’ll be safe. But if you don’t want to, you don’t have to.”
And that was it. I was toast. Was it possible he knew what this proximity and those eyes and that voice did to me? Even if he didn’t, I knew my weakness, that tiny voice inside my head that was saying, look at him, he wants you to do this, maybe this will make him fall for you.
But being aware of my weakness and resisting it were two totally different things. Ugh. I’d thought I was more over him than this.
I nodded. “I’ll try.”
“Yeah?” he said, his sparkling smile back.
I took a fistful of the front of his T-shirt. “Yes. But after this you will buy me a milk shake.”
“Only if you don’t barf,” he said, taking a step out of my hold, swiping up his helmet, and finishing the walk to his quad.
“Wait, what?”
He took the helmet I still held and popped it onto my head.
“Ow.” My voice was muffled inside the only thing now protecting me from a cracked skull.
He lifted up the visor. “What?”
“Nothing. Let’s get this over with.” My stomach was already in knots, and I realized that maybe he was right. Maybe I wouldn’t want a milk shake after this, because I was certainly going to barf.
He hopped on the quad and powered it to life. Then he turned and patted the seat behind him. I lowered my visor and climbed on. He took my arms and wrapped them around his waist. “Hold on tight, okay?”
I nodded. He hadn’t needed to tell me that. Then he put his own helmet on and we were off.
I should’ve gone on my own. If he taught me how to use the quad, it would’ve been better. I would’ve gone slow and taken it easy and life would’ve been better. But I wasn’t on my own. I was behind Cooper, the guy who was in frequent dune races. The guy who was born on the dunes. And he wasn’t taking it easy. Acid crept up my throat. The landscape ahead was terrifying. The sand was pocked with bowls carved into its otherwise smooth surface. Some of those bowls were shallow and harmless. But the ones Cooper liked to take on were thirty-foot drops that we had to race down the side of, into the hole. Those were the kind that needed momentum to come out of, so he took them at speeds that had me gripping him even tighter. I might’ve enjoyed this setup if I wasn’t so terrified.
“I hate you. I hate you. I hate you,” I said as he revved the engine to make us go even faster. He couldn’t hear me, but those words echoing through my helmet made me feel better.
On the bright side, this wasn’t a feeling I purposefully had very often. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt this amount of sheer panic. Or this amount of hatred toward Cooper. So maybe this would help me paint emotion.
Cooper skidded to a stop at the top of a hill. Our two right tires were on the edge of a sandy cliff. One more pump of the gas and we would’ve been flying down the eighty-foot drop. Had I not been here, he probably would’ve taken that drop, happy and hoping not to somersault down it.
He turned on the quad to talk to me. “Are you having fun yet?” he yelled.
I shook my head back and forth, unable to open my mouth for fear I’d be sick.
“Really? I thought for sure you’d like it once you tried it.”
I shook my head again.
“Okay, I guess we head in then.”
I nodded.
And he was back at it just as fast as before. When we arrived at his trailer, I stumbled off the quad and tripped to the ground on wobbly legs.
He took off his helmet and sat down in the sand next to me. “So . . . you are actually a wimp. I had been kidding when I called you that in front of Amelia. But now I know.”
I threw a handful of sand at him, then shakily took off my helmet. “I might’ve liked it better had I driven.”
“You want to drive?” He swung his keys in front of my face.
I held up my hands. “No.”
“So, what do you think?” He pointed out at the stretch of sand we’d just made our mark on. “Is this list of yours going to accomplish anything?”
I thought about the fear that gripped my chest out there, that clawed at my insides in a way I’d never felt before. And now it was gone. I’d faced that feeling and overcome it. A surge of pride expanded my insides. “Yeah . . . maybe.”
I looked back up at him. A teasing smile lit his eyes. He needed to feel the same thing I’d just felt—that mocking smile would be wiped off his face real fast. I had told my grandpa and mom that Cooper was fearless. And that seemed to be the case. But I was probably wrong. Everyone was afraid of something. “You’re next. What are you afraid of?”
He held his helmet in the air. “I fear nothing, Abby.”
“No, really. You said you wanted to do the list with me. What fear are you going to face?”
He tossed the keys to his quad once, then caught them. “Huh. I really can’t come up with anything. I’ll think about it.”
I handed him back the helmet. “So will I.”