My eye roll cuts him off.

He chuckles. “Of all the things I’ll miss about you, Owens, your eye roll is extremely low on the list.”

I shove his shoulder just as a car pulls up to the curb. A girl walks out, blonde and beautiful, her eyes only for Aaron. “Hey, babe,” she says, and I look down at my feet.

“Hey,” he responds, but I can feel his eyes on me.

I take a breath and look up at them, just in time to see her go in for a kiss and him back away. I fake an eye roll, causing Aaron to laugh, and his girlfriend’s brow to bunch in confusion. Then she looks over at me, her eyes widening before her features straighten and a smile, although forced, curls on her lips. “You must be Becca?” she says, taking Aaron’s hand when he puts his arm around her shoulders. “Aaron’s told me so much about you. I’m Macy.” There’s sincerity in her words, and I hate myself for thinking she was anything but pleasant. I know Aaron, and I know the type of girl he’d fall for. I raise my hand in a wave and return her genuine smile.

Macy looks up at Aaron. “So Dex is in the driveway waiting for you. He’s got the basketball hoop set up and everything.”

“Dex is Macy’s little brother,” Aaron tells me.

“And Aaron’s biggest fan,” Macy adds.

They laugh together, this perfectly perfect couple.

Aaron removes his arm from around his girlfriend and spreads both of them wide, inviting me. “Can I get a hug?”

I hide my smile against his chest and hold him for longer than necessary, but he’s not the first to let go, not the first to weaken. I am.

“I’ll see you next week?” Aaron asks me.

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.

Leave a mark on that which has marked me.

Sandra offered me a position on the team that allowed me to work closely with some of the more “at risk” kids—the quiet and withdrawn ones who showed signs of physical or mental abuse. I teach an art and craft therapy class, a skill I’d learned from a three-day seminar that Say Something had paid for me to attend. It’s perfect for me, and the kids seem to love it. It’s amazing what you can learn from watching—through strokes of art, no words needed.

It was hard at first, trying to push aside my own history and not jump to conclusions every single time a kid walked in with a bruise or a broken bone, while at the same time, making sure I didn’t ignore those signs. I spent a couple therapy sessions with Dawn telling her all this, fingers aching from typing so fast, while she sat and read everything I had to say. Then she looked up at me, smiled, and said that everything I was feeling was normal. Good, even. Because emotional attachment and empathy were imperative if I wanted to make a change in the world. I wasn’t really planning on changing the world, and when I told her that, her smile widened. “But you can, Becca. The point is you can.” And with those simple words, I started looking at the world differently, started seeing things from all angles. My life no longer became about healing the pain of my past. Instead, it became about preventing the past from taking away my future. One kick at a time.