going to be there. What Mum doesn’t know can’t hurt her.
Her eyes widen and she looks at me. ‘After what she put you through at that school? I was never away from the place because she was calling you names or making your life a misery.’
I think about apologising for being such an inconvenience, but change my mind. Things are tense enough without me making it worse.
‘That was years ago, Mum; things are different now,’ I say without the conviction I was hoping for. Hardly surprising given Amanda’s poisonous P.S. in her invitation email.
She shakes her head, mutters something under her breath and turns her attention back to her carbonara. Dad flashes me a weak smile, but doesn’t say anything. Whenever Mum’s against something, he usually follows suit.
I decide to make a final stab at a civilised conversation. ‘Hey, you’ll never guess what I found! This old bucket list I made when I was fourteen; it’s quite funny to look at it now, actually. I wanted to move to New York, be a dancer and swim with dolphins!’
‘It’s a bit late to do the whole dancer-in-New-York thing now,’ Mum remarks. ‘This is real life, love, not Flashdance.’
I want to point out that Flashdance is set in Pennsylvania, not New York, but decide not to. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about my mum, it’s that you have to pick your battles.
‘Actually, finding the list inspired me to make a whole new one,’ I reply, digging the list out of my bag. ‘Here, take a look.’
I pass it to Dad, who hands it to Mum after a cursory glance. She doesn’t mimic Emma’s wide, beaming grin. Instead, her face contorts into a grimace as she gives it back to me.
‘Cleo, don’t you think some of those things are a bit… well, ambitious? I mean, finding a way to dance again will be really difficult, especially since you’ve been away from it for so long. I just don’t want to see you get disappointed, that’s all. There are people in life who are meant to do big things and people who are meant to do small things. You are meant to do small things and there’s nothing wrong with that. Leave the big things to everyone else,’ Mum advises, passing me some more garlic bread.
I feel as though someone’s punched me in the guts. I’ve always dreamed of doing big things, but even my own mum doesn’t believe in me. While my parents aren’t looking, I take a little glance at my list. A fire lights up inside me as I see my biggest dreams written in front of me.
Prove everyone wrong, the voice in my head whispers, and whatever you do, don’t give up.
*
The first thing I do when I get home is open up the email containing Amanda’s invitation. Although I told her I’d be going when she came into the bakery today, I want to make it more official so I won’t back out. My latest confrontation with Mum has spurred me on to do my bucket list and prove her wrong. I want to show her that I am capable of doing big things, and it starts with this school reunion.
As electricity shoots through my veins, I flex my fingers and begin to type.
Hi, Amanda!
Thanks so much for my invitation. I’d absolutely love to come to the reunion. It’ll be great to catch up on what everyone’s been up to since we left school. It was great seeing you today, by the way.
I sign off by saying I’ll see her at the reunion, then hit Send and sit back to admire my handiwork. It’s official; I’m going now and I couldn’t back out even if I wanted to.
Cleo Jones’s Ultimate Bucket List part two has begun!
The next morning, I’m in the gym bright and early. It’s my day off at the bakery and I want to make the most of it, especially now I’ve got the reunion coming up in a couple of months. It’ll also help me accomplish the first item on my bucket list: Conquer my body issues, once and for all.
I don’t have any idea what I’m doing, of course. After my disaster with the rowing machine, I’ve decided to stick to the treadmill. It’s just walking (or jogging if I’m feeling brave), so nothing can go wrong, right?
Unsurprisingly for this time of day, the gym’s virtually empty. The only people here are the really hardcore gym-goers. And me, of course. I prefer it like this; if I make a massive mistake, there’s no one around to laugh at me and there’s no silent competition with the person on the next treadmill. It’s just me and my music; today’s choice is ‘Spice Up Your Life’ by the Spice Girls. My love for nineties pop groups knows no bounds.
I’m just getting into a nice little rhythm when a loud bang from somewhere in the gym bursts through my headphones. It sounds like someone dropping a kettlebell or something. I nearly jump out of my skin and my hand accidentally hits the speed lever, cranking it up a good few notches.
‘Shit!’ I yell as my eyes dart around me to find the emergency stop button. ‘How do you stop this thing?!’
I probably look like Bugs Bunny running away from Elmer Fudd at this point, but I’m too terrified to care. Just as I think I might actually take flight with the speed I’m building up, a hand reaches over and flips the emergency stop switch. I look to my right and see Scott standing on the treadmill next to me, stifling a laugh.
‘Not that I’m counting,’ he says with a grin, ‘but that’s the second time I’ve had to rescue you from our gym equipment in three days. I reckon you should take up yoga instead; it’s much safer, you know.’
I take a second to get my breath back and shoot him a glare. ‘I’ll have you know I was going at that speed for a reason.’
Scott raises his eyebrows and slowly nods. ‘And that reason would be…?’
I stick my chin in the air, desperate to maintain some dignity. Why does he always have to see me at my worst?
‘Because… I’m in training for something. A marathon, if you must know.’
Oh well, I say to myself, at least that’s half true. If you can call running away from the web of lies I’ve created “training”: I’ve never run a marathon in my life, and I’m not likely to.
‘Ah, so it wasn’t because you cranked the speed up too high and couldn’t find the emergency stop button?’ Scott’s Cheshire cat grin widens.
Damn, I’ve been found out. Not that it’d take Sherlock Holmes to work out I was lying.
‘That may have had something to do with it,’ I admit with a smile. ‘Go on, what gave me away?’
Scott rests his chin on his palm and looks at me from beneath long brown eyelashes. ‘Oh, I don’t know; I reckon it was you yelling “how do you stop this thing?!” or the terrified look on your face. No offence, but I don’t really see you as a marathon runner.’
It’s a throwaway remark I know has no harm behind it, but it hits me right where it hurts. I try for a smile and fail miserably.
‘I know,’ I say, gesturing at the
