The Someday Jar

by Allison Morgan

  “And if you don’t?”

  “I’ll likely regret it forever.”

  “Don’t be afraid, Howie. Fear reminds us we’re still alive. Regret will dig us an early grave. Finish that jar.” She pats my thigh.

  “Thanks, Blue.”

  “Ready, Lanie?” Rudy calls me toward the bag.

  She points at him. “Go kick his ass.”

  Inspired by Blue’s calm, matter-of-fact confidence in me, I convince myself that not only can I open the jar, but I can knock Rudy’s bag over with one punch.

  “Today’s your day.” He smacks the bag.

  “Today’s my day.” One punch, Lanie. You can do this. I step into my horse stance, inhale a deep breath, and, with a loud kiai, thrust my fist into the padded bag. It topples over.

  “Holy shit! I did it!” I give Rudy a hug.

  The women cheer and the girl with the yellow wrist straps offers me a high five.

  “You did it.” Rudy rights the bag. “I told you. All you had to do was believe in yourself.”

  I’m still flying higher than a kite as I reach for my Someday Jar later the next morning at the office. I did it. I knocked over the bag with one punch. I even got to write my name on a chart beside Rudy’s entrance door. Only four other women have done so.

  I still haven’t told Evan about Bane, but I decide to wait, until I think of another solution to salvage my broker deal. For now, I pull out the slip I’m looking for, dial the number, and focus on the new task at hand.

  “Big Sisters of Central Arizona, may I help you?”

  “Yes, hello. My name is Lanie Howard. I’d like to volunteer.”

  twenty-two

  “Elizabeth Baxter, fifteen years old, attends Chapparal High School,” I say to Kit, staring at the wallet-sized school photo of the green-eyed girl with a cute blond bob haircut, tiny gold star studs, and innocent smile. “She’s an only child and has lived in six different foster homes since the second grade.”

  “Poor girl.” Kit reaches over our coffee cups and shared slice of blueberry loaf and grabs one of the pages from Elizabeth’s profile, given to me by the Big Sisters program after I passed the background check and forty hours of instructional classes. “There’s no mention of her father, but it says her mom’s serving a seventeen-year prison sentence for drug-related charges.” She blinks away tears, likely thinking of Dylan. “God, can you imagine? Your mom in prison?”

  “Elizabeth’s been robbed of her childhood. So unfair.”

  “This is a good thing you’re doing here, Lanie. A really good thing.”

  “Thanks, I hope you’re right.”

  She pats my hand, then grabs the photo. “Pretty girl, she looks sweet. Think she has a nickname, like Lizzy or Beth?”

  “It doesn’t say. Lizzy’s a cute name.”

  “Okay, so what are you two going to do?”

  “I don’t know. Her profile is rather vague. It doesn’t list her interests, just says she’s an above-average student, which is impressive given her situation. She scores exceptionally high in creativity and comprehension but has limited trust issues.”

  “Can you blame her? I would, too, bouncing from family to family, house to house. Why’d she move so much?”

  “Her profile reads that one family divorced, the other relocated, and the remaining families were designed only as temporary provisions.” I look at Kit. “This is going to be tough. Where do I start? How do I connect with her? Should I take her to lunch? A movie?”

  “No, not a movie. You guys won’t say more than two words to one another.”

  “Shopping?”

  “You could, but it says here you shouldn’t spend a lot of money, and shopping is no fun if you can’t buy anything.”

  “Yeah.” As I scan the page in front of me, my stomach swells into a knot. “Kit, what if she hates me?”

  “Of course she’ll hate you. She’s fifteen years old. Girls hate everything at that age.”

  “Awesome.” I stab a blueberry with my fork. “I’ve got to think of something cool to do. Something not too flashy, but not totally lame.”

  “How about miniature golf? Or bowling?”

  “Yeah, I guess we could. What about the zoo?”

  “Zoo could be cool.”

  I imagine Elizabeth and me pointing at the baby elephant hiding behind its mama or us standing one-legged, mimicking the flamingos. “The animals would give us something to talk about, kinda break the ice. I don’t care who you are, monkeys are always good for a laugh.”

  “I like it. And if she doesn’t, you can feed her to the lions.”

  I stuff Elizabeth’s profile into the folder with confidence. “She’ll love it. I mean, she may be fifteen, but who hates the zoo?”

  “I hate the zoo,” says Elizabeth the moment we step through the turnstile. Except her name isn’t Elizabeth, it’s E. Just, E. And she’s changed dramatically from the girl in the photo. The girl in the photo didn’t wear patterned leggings, a white T-shirt with a skull’s face cut out of the back to reveal her black mesh bra, and laced-to-the-knee combat boots. The girl from the photo didn’t have one side of her cherry-Coke-colored hair shaved above her ear.

  “Hate the zoo?” I look up from my map, slightly irritated that she didn’t reveal her repulsion to zoos before I bought her thirty-seven-dollar ticket.

  “Zoos are oppressive, an extension of man’s pomposity. They take animals out of their native habitats, transport them great distances, and imprison them in alien environments all for human amusement.” She wags her finger at me. “How can you not see that every single animal’s liberty is severely restricted?”

  Um, what? “Okay . . . well, I . . . I never thought of it that way.” I say, trying to keep things light. After all, opinions are good, healthy even. But now what the hell do I do? “Listen, how about I get us some cotton candy?” And look up the definition of pomposity.

  “Spun white refined sugar? No, thanks. I’d rather be shot by a firing squad.” She adjusts the gray beanie threatening to slide off her head and stares at her boots.

  “Hot dog?”

  She shoots me a look. “I’m a vegan.”

  Of course you are. “Water?”

  I treat her lack of a response as a yes.

  “Great. Have a seat.” I point at a nearby bench. “I’ll be right back.” As I head toward the drink kiosk, I give Kit a quick call. “Help!” I scream the moment she answers.

  “Not going well?”

  “God, no. Elizabeth, I mean E, E is her name by the way, hates zoos and possibly all of humanity. Kit, I bet if a little kid walked by with a lollipop, she’d rip it out of his mouth and throw it on the ground.”

  “She can’t be that bad.”

  “What am I going to do?” I glance at my watch. “I can’t take her back home this early.”

  “Calm down. Go back and ask E . . . seriously, E?”

  “Yep.”

  “Okay, ask E what she’d rather do. Maybe she’ll surprise you with an idea.”

  “Okay, I will. But if I don’t make it home, check the landfill for my body.”

  “You’ll be fine. Love ya.”

  “Thanks. Love ya, too.”

  I pay for the drinks and head toward E. Kit’s right, I’m worrying too much about this, assuming that all is lost, that today is a failure. But it’s not. We’re just starting out. E and I will find our groove. We’ll find a common ground. We’ll . . . Holy shit. Where is she? She’s not on the bench. She’s not among the crowd. She’s not standing near the balloon peddler, peeking into the starfish tank, or wandering through the gift shop. She’s nowhere to be found.

  E is gone.

  Oh, no. Oh, no. Oh, no.

  My first day—my first hour—as a Big Sister and I’ve lost my girl.

  “E,” I call. “E,
where are you?” I hurry toward the exit turnstiles, praying she didn’t make a quick getaway. “Excuse me,” I ask the zoo attendant. “Did you see a young girl with dark red hair and combat boots come through here?”

  “No, ma’am. No one’s come through here.”

  “Okay, thanks.” A flicker of relief trickles through me. At least she’s still on site. But where? Where the hell has she gone?

  Then I see her.

  One hundred yards away, leaning against the giraffe exhibit wall, she stands with her back to me, laughing and talking with two teenage boys.

  Thank you, sweet Jesus.

  As I approach, I tell myself not to freak out, not to act like an overbearing adult because as my orientation instructor said, “You aren’t here as their parent, you’re here as their friend.” Yes, but friends don’t ditch the other the moment their back is turned.

  I’m ten feet away when one of the boys says, “We got smokes. Wanna hang with us?”

  “No, she doesn’t,” I say before E answers. “She’s hanging with me.” I hand her the water.

  E’s cheeks flush red and I can’t help but feel pleased that she’s embarrassed after the panic I experienced.

  We turn to leave when of the boys asks me, “Hey, aren’t you that lady from the Cardinals game? The one that ran on the field and grabbed Fitzgerald’s—”

  “Yes, that’s me.” I smile at E and ask, “Ready?”

  “That was you?” the other boy chimes in. “I saw it on YouTube. The video went viral. It was totally awesome. You ran on the field like the honey badger, all crazy fast and shit.”

  The other boy laughs. “Yeah, and that security guard pummeled you, but dang, girl, you got right back up. That was so rad.” He lifts his hand to high-five mine.

  “Um, well . . . thanks.” I giggle and smack each boy’s hand. “We better go.”

  Several minutes later E and I reach my car.

  “So, I guess I’ll take you home then?”

  “Whatever.”

  Right.

  We say nothing to each other for twenty painfully awkward minutes as I drive toward her house. This was a complete disaster. What am I going to tell my counselor at the program? Worse yet, what will E say to her?

  I pull my car curbside in front of E’s house. “Well, it was nice to meet you.”

  She sits with one hand on the door handle. She doesn’t get out.

  “Everything okay?”

  “That was really you, like on TV and stuff?”

  “Yeah. That was me.”

  “Why’d you do that? Why’d you run back on the field? Not to touch his . . .”

  “God, no.” I laugh. “That part was an accident.”

  And for the first time, she laughs, too.

  I turn off the ignition. “You see, I have this jar. It’s my Someday Jar. And inside, written on the back side of fortune cookie slips, are my ambitions, things I’ve always wanted to do. So, I ran on the field because I wanted to touch an official Cardinals game ball.” I shrug. “Silly or not, it was a dream of mine. And you know what? I did it.”

  “That’s cool.” She kicks her foot onto the seat and plays with her shoelaces. “What else is in your jar?”

  I list off the tasks I’ve completed, telling her about kickboxing, scuba diving, right down to the speed dating, in which she agrees with Seth: Xboxes are bitchin’.

  “If you had a jar, what would you put in it?” I ask.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Nope. That’s not fair. I’m sure something comes to mind. Tell me.”

  “You’ll probably laugh.”

  “Me? After I made a fool of myself on national television, you think any idea you have is more embarrassing?”

  “Okay. Um . . . well, when I was little, before my mom . . .” She stops and stares out the window. “I’ve always wanted to draw. Like spread out a blanket and get a sketchpad and some charcoals and just draw, you know?”

  “That’s beautiful.”

  She shakes her head. “No, it’s silly.”

  I peek at her house, then the clock on my car radio. “E, do you want to go home now?”

  She shrugs. “Not really.”

  “Great.” I peel away from the curb.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Not to a zoo, I promise you that.”

  An hour later, E and I carry our armful of supplies to the park. We spread out our red-checkered blanket and carefully arrange the charcoal pencils, erasers, pastel chalks, and bag of Reese’s peanut butter cups between us.

  I hand her a sketchbook. “Let’s do this.”

  She smiles for the first time.

  Truth is, I have no artistic ability. I can’t draw to save my life. Even a decent stick figure is difficult for me. But I’m sure as hell not going to make E feel uncomfortable, so I grab a pencil and sketch a few wispy lines across my page, deciding to render Camelback Mountain, my view beyond the grassy park.

  A couple of hours and an empty bag of Reese’s later, I’m lost in my design when I sneak a peek at E’s sketch.

  “Holy shit!” I cover my mouth. “Sorry. I mean, wow. I can’t believe . . . you drew that? Now? I mean, of course you did . . . but you drew that?”

  “Yeah. Do you like it?”

  I stare at her drawing: shaded for depth and perspective, defined with charcoal, an oversized remarkably detailed hand scooping up a handful of sand, tiny granules falling between the fingers. In the center of the palm, on top of a mound of sand, rests a tiny butterfly. It’s simple. It’s profound. It’s beautiful.

  “That’s amazing. Absolutely amazing.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. You have a gift.”

  She looks into the distance. “I draw all the time, but never in peace. Thanks for doing this.”

  “You’re welcome.” I wrap my arm around her shoulder and squeeze. “Can I have it?”

  “You want it?”

  “Yes, I really do.”

  “Okay.” She tears out the sheet.

  “Sign it first.”

  “Why?”

  “Because someday you’re going to be famous.”

  Trying to hide her smile, she signs the print at the lower right corner and hands it to me.

  Elizabeth Baxter.

  “Thanks.”

  “Now, let me see your picture,” she says.

  “You know, why don’t we—”

  She grabs it from my hand. “Oh . . . um. . . . What is it exactly?”

  I point at the mountain.

  It’s then I notice she holds my drawing sideways. I don’t tell her because honestly, right side up looks worse.

  “It’s good,” she says.

  “Liar.”

  We laugh.

  Later, after pretzels and ice cream, I take her home.

  Before she steps out of the car she asks, “So your Someday Jar, you complete each goal and then what, you’re done with it?”

  “I guess so, yes.”

  “So that means, like, you’re done with me?”

  “Not unless you want me to be.”

  She says nothing, just presses her lips together.

  “There’s an art exhibit at ASU next week. Wanna go?”

  “Yeah.”

  We wave good-bye and I scream with delight. I had the best day. The very best day.

  I call Kit.

  “You survived?”

  “More than survived. We had a fantastic time together. You were right, I just needed to scratch the surface with her.”

  Kit laughs. “I can tell by your voice, you really like this girl.”

  “She’s amazing. And an amazing artist. We went to the park and sketched. You should see what she drew.”

  “I’d love to.”


  “Thanks for your help earlier.”

  “I didn’t say anything you wouldn’t have thought yourself. So, this is another slip completed, right?”

  “Yep. And we’re going to meet again. I’ve made a new friend.”

  “That’s awesome. Hopefully I can meet her, too.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Hey, I gotta run, Rob and I are taking Dylan to Chuck E. Cheese tonight.”

  “Fun. What time do you leave tomorrow morning?”

  “I’m Maui bound at eight-oh-five.”

  “Tell Rob’s mom to call me if she needs anything.”

  “Already did, thanks.”

  “Okay, give Dylan a kiss for me.”

  “Will do.”

  We hang up and I call Evan, but he doesn’t answer.

  I pick up tacos and drive home, recalling the afternoon as all my favorite songs play on the radio (REO Speedwagon and the Lumineers), all the lights stay green, and I swear, even the sun shines brighter.

  When I step inside the condo, I find Wes on the couch studying a set of plans spread on the coffee table. Evan is nowhere around.

  “Hey, Someday Jar girl, need help with those?” He points at the bags of food.

  “Sure, thanks.” We set the food on the counter, and then I call Evan again. Still no answer. He texts me a few minutes later. Driving. I’ll call in a bit.

  I unload the tacos, salsa, beans, and rice, realizing I got enough for a small army. And, really, it’d be rude not to offer Wes dinner.

  “Hungry?”

  He looks up from his plans. “Starved.” He grabs two beers.

  Wes twists off both the caps, then says, “So, you’ve tackled how many of your slips?”

  I think for a moment, then count off with my fingers. “Learn something new, break a record, scuba dive.”

  He folds his arms across his chest, listening.

  I pretend that his interest doesn’t affect me and I continue. “Let’s see, I touched a Cardinals ball, which will crack me up every time I think about it, made a sacrifice, and last but not least, today I had the most amazing day. I volunteered as a Big Sister and met the most remarkable girl.” I explain the zoo and the park, then show him her drawing. “Isn’t it good? Like really good?”