One Last Weekend

I shred the last of the practice answer keys into the bathroom sink and flush twice. The paper turns to gray pulp and disappears.

I watch the water swirl until the bowl runs clear, then I wash my hands three times, scrubbing under my nails like I can erase the evidence from my skin too.

My phone buzzes on the bathroom counter. I dry my hands and check the screen.

Chloe: omw. 7 mins. mom's suv. one last ride together

I stare at the emoji until the screen goes dark. One last ride. One last weekend. One last everything before we scatter to four different campuses and pretend we know how to be adults.

I walk back to my bedroom and stop at my desk. The scholarship letters are fanned out like a winning hand of cards four of them, all in-state, all full rides. My mom laminated the first one. She cried when the second arrived. By the third and fourth, she was laughing and calling me her miracle.

I am not a miracle. I am a cheater.

The thought hits my gut like a fist, but I push it down. I have to. I worked too hard for this. Not the cheating part the cheating was easy. The hard part was the cover-up. The late nights memorizing answer patterns. The hacked practice portals. The way I made sure my GPA stayed exactly high enough to qualify without looking suspicious.

I grab the invitation letter from my desk drawer and read it for the hundredth time. Thick cream cardstock. Embossed border. No return address. No signature block. Just the address of some cottage I've never heard of and a time: Saturday, 7 PM. One last weekend to remember.

The host line is blank. I noticed it the day it arrived, and my list-brain immediately flagged it as an error. Who throws a party and doesn't sign their name? But Chloe was so excited. Jess was already planning outfits. And I wanted God, I wanted to believe it was just some oversight. Some rich kid from the senior class who forgot to proofread.

I fold the letter and slide it into my back pocket.

"Amber?" My mom's voice floats up the stairs. "You almost ready, honey?"

"Yeah. Just finishing up." I zip my suitcase and run through my mental checklist. Toothbrush. Charger. Three changes of clothes. Swimsuit. Flip-flops. The emergency kit I always pack Advil, Band-Aids, antacids, tampons, water purification tablets I bought after watching one too many survival shows. My friends make fun of me for it, but they're also the first ones to ask if I have something they need.

I hear footsteps thundering up the stairs, and then my little brother, Mason, bursts through my doorway. He's ten, all elbows and knees and untied sneakers.

"Mom says if you don't come down now, she's eating your pancakes."

"I don't have pancakes."

"She made pancakes. For you. Special." He bounces on the balls of his feet. "Can I have yours if you don't come?"

I ruffle his hair. "No. But you can have my bacon."

"Yes!" He fist-pumps and runs back out, shouting down the stairs that I'm giving him my bacon.

I stand in the doorway and watch him go. Mason doesn't remember Dad. My sister Lila was eight when he died. My youngest brother, Noah, was four. I'm the only one who has clear memories of him the way he smelled like sawdust and coffee, the way he always called me his little organizer because I color-coded my crayons.

I turn back to my room and look at the walls. They're mostly bare now. I packed my posters last week. The only thing left is the corkboard above my desk, covered in lists. Grocery lists. Study schedules. College packing lists. A list of emergency contacts. A list of things I need to buy for my dorm.

I pull the packing list off the board and scan it one more time.

I cross off the last item. The small wrapped box is already in my suitcase a necklace I saved up for, something with a tiny compass charm because Chloe is always saying she doesn't know what direction she's headed.

My phone buzzes again.

Jess: Travis is being an ass. Can you talk to him?

I sigh. Jess and Travis have been dating since sophomore year, and in that time, I've mediated approximately four hundred of their fights. Usually about nothing. Who he was talking to at lunch. Why he didn't text back fast enough. Whether he actually liked her new haircut or was just saying that.

Amber: I'm packing. What did he do now?

Jess: He said I was being dramatic about the party. I'm not dramatic.

Amber: You're not dramatic.

Jess: Thank you. See? You get it. He doesn't get anything.

I set my phone down without answering. I don't have the energy for this right now. I need to stay focused. This weekend is supposed to be fun. One last hurrah before I have to become perfect again.

I hear my mom coming up the stairs before I see her. She moves slower these days. The arthritis in her knees started last year, and she won't go to the doctor because she says we can't afford it. I offered to use some of my graduation money to pay for the visit, but she refused. She always refuses.

"You're all packed for your trip, honey?" she asks, leaning against my doorframe. Her hair is pulled back in a messy bun, and she's wearing the faded blue robe I got her for Christmas two years ago.

"Yeah. Just about." I look around my bed, making sure I have everything. "I think I packed everything."

She steps into the room and sits on the edge of my mattress. Her eyes go to the scholarship letters on my desk. "I still can't believe it. Four scholarships. My baby girl."

"Mom." I feel my throat tighten. "Don't start."

"I'm not starting." But her eyes are already shining. "I just... you're leaving. You're really leaving."

"I'll be two hours away. I'll visit every weekend."

"You say that now." She wipes her cheek with the back of her hand. "But you'll get busy. You'll make new friends. You'll forget about your old mom."

"Never." I sit down next to her and wrap my arm around her shoulders. She's thinner than she used to be. I can feel her shoulder blade through the robe. "I promise. I'll call every day."

"You don't have to call every day."

"I will anyway."

She hugs me then, tight and long, and I smell the vanilla lotion she always wears. I memorize it. I don't know when I'll smell it again.

"Amber?" Lila appears in the doorway. She's fourteen, all attitude and eyeliner. "Some girl is honking outside. Like, repeatedly."

"That's Chloe." I stand up and grab my suitcase. "I gotta go."

My mom follows me down the stairs. Mason is at the kitchen table, a stack of pancakes in front of him, syrup dripping down his chin. Noah is in his high chair, smearing eggs into his hair.

"Be safe," my mom says. "Text me when you get there."

"I will."

"And don't drink too much."

"Mom."

"I mean it. I know what happens at these parties."

"Nothing is going to happen." I kiss her cheek, then Mason's forehead, then Lila's scowling face. "I'll be back Sunday night."

I wheel my suitcase out the front door and down the driveway. The August sun is already blazing, turning the pavement soft and sticky.

Chloe's mom's SUV is idling at the curb, music thumping through the closed windows.

Chloe rolls down the passenger window and leans out. Her sunglasses are too big for her face and her hair is a mess of beach waves. She looks like summer itself.

"Get in, loser, we're going to a party!" she yells, quoting some movie we've watched a hundred times.

I laugh and hoist my suitcase into the back. But when I open the passenger door, I freeze.

Travis is in the back seat. Jess is next to him, arms crossed, staring out the opposite window. The space between them could fit another person.

Blake is in the third row, earbuds in, nodding to music I can't hear.

"Hey," Travis says. His smile doesn't reach his eyes.

"Hey," I say back.

I climb in and buckle my seatbelt. Chloe pulls away from the curb, waving at my mom, who stands on the porch with Noah on her hip. I wave back until they disappear around the corner.

"So," Chloe says, turning down the music. "One last weekend. Can you believe it?"

"No," I say honestly.

"I can," Jess mutters.

Travis shifts in his seat. "You okay, babe?"

"Don't call me babe."

Chloe catches my eye in the rearview mirror. She raises one eyebrow, a silent here we go again. But there's something else there too. A flicker. A tightness around her mouth that wasn't there last week.

I look down at my hands. My phone is in my lap, and I realize I've been clutching it so hard my knuckles are white.

"You got the address?" I ask Chloe. "Blake has the letter at his house, right?"

"Yeah, we're picking it up on the way. It's about an hour away, some cottage in the woods. Supposed to be gorgeous." Chloe grins at me. "You ready to let loose, list girl?"

I think about the answer keys in the sewer pipe. The scholarships waiting for me. The way my mom looked at me on the porch, like I was already gone.

"I packed everything," I say, and it sounds like a promise. "I'm ready for anything."

But the invitation letter is still in my back pocket, unsigned and blank, and when Chloe turns up the music and starts singing along, I can't shake the feeling that I forgot to put something on my list.

Something important.

Something I can't prepare for.

I check my seatbelt again. I count the exits on the highway. I make a mental note of the mile markers.

I am always prepared.

I just don't know what I'm preparing for.