I nod.

They get in the car, Macy driving away while Aaron waves from the passenger’s seat. I wave back, my eyes drifting shut when an unexpected calm washes through me.

The next evening, I go to therapy and ignore Dawn’s usual greeting. Instead, I type, I want to do something.

“Something?” she asks.

With a nod, I type, The second to last item on the list. I want to do it.

Silence pass for a beat before I look up at her. She’s smiling—the same kind of smile Aaron gave me in group. “Are you sure you’re ready?”

I’ve never been more prepared.

Her grin spreads as she opens a drawer on an end table. “I’ve been waiting for this moment.” Then she reaches across, covering the space between us, and hands me a stack of papers:

Volunteer Application for Say Something.

I almost laugh at the irony of the name, then stop while I read on about the program. My eyes lock on Dawn when she asks one more time, “Are you sure you’re ready?”

I wait for an emotion to hit me, anxiety, fear, panic. But nothing comes. Nothing but a peaceful calm.

*     *     *

Dad and I spend the entire night on the computer looking up anything and everything about Say Something. We learn that it’s an extra-curricular non-profit organization. But after going through the information sheet Dawn had supplied, we find out that it isn’t just a place for parents to drop off their kids and go on a lunch date. The Say Something project works closely with counselors in elementary schools within the district and recommends their services for “at risk” kids, which (for obvious reasons) is something not commonly known by the community. What “at risk” means, I don’t know. But I sure as hell want to find out.

It takes me a week to send the application, most of that time spent writing an essay about why I want to volunteer. You’d think it would become easier to get the words down, to relive the moments of darkness, to explain my situation, my abuse, my constant hopes for someone or something to save me, hopes for a program just like Say Something. It doesn’t, though. If anything, it gets harder the “stronger” I get. Dad thinks maybe it’s a good sign, like I’m somehow getting more immune to my past. Personally, I think it’s because I’m more aware of how my past can destroy my future.

Another two weeks passes before I get an e-mail from them asking me to come in for an interview. I reply, mention that I’m not great with interviews because I’m speech impaired, to which they respond, It’s just protocol. We have to do it with everyone. But trust me when I say, we would love to have you on the team. – Sandra.

So a few days later, I enter the doors of an old warehouse, the Say Something logo printed on paper and stuck on the window. My hands grip my bag strap, soaking it in my sweat, while my heart races, nervous for my interview. A woman in her fifties with greying hair and gentle eyes greets me. “Are you Becca?”

I nod and reach for my phone to reply, but her movements have me glancing toward her. She walks around the desk and stops in front of me. Then she signs, an understanding smile curving her lips, “I’m Sandra. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Welcome to Say Something. We’re happy to have you on board.”

We spend a good hour going through what everything is and how things run, and then we go through my class schedule to work out my future shifts. I leave the building filled with self-doubt and conflicted emotions. Fear and anticipation. There’s something going on in my gut, like the early onset of butterflies. I could be wrong, but I think it might be excitement. And if it is, that excitement doubles when I get the first ever direct message on my Instagram account. Attached to the message is a picture I’d taken of the sunset from the roof of the arts building on campus.

Dear Ms. Owens, I would be honored to purchase this photograph so that I may carry it with me always. Sincerely, Aaron

And with that, I close a significant chapter in my life and prepare myself to write a whole damn book worthy of my existence.

PART II

11

—Becca—

I finish my beer, listening to the laughter and cheers from the students around me—all celebrating the end of midterms at a bar near campus.

After the “break-up” with Aaron and starting the volunteer job at Say Something almost a year ago, I decided to throw everything I had into classes, work, and therapy. Not just to keep me busy and take my mind off things, but because I genuinely wanted to. I wanted to do better, not just mentally, but in every aspect of my life. I wanted to do well in class, not just float through unnoticed like I’d been doing. And I wanted to take the steps toward crossing off the second to last item on The List.