The Summer I Learned to Dive - By Shannon McCrimmon Page 0,1

I wrote, not saying anything. He looked at my empty hands.

“I didn’t buy a yearbook,” I admitted.

“Oh,” he said. He looked around the gym and smiled at a group of his friends. He held up a finger to them, motioning he’d be there in a minute. “So, a lot of us are going out to Lido’s Pizzeria. I was wondering if you would like to come, too?” he asked.

I shook my head no and smiled. “Thanks, but I can’t. My mom and I are going out.”

“Oh, that’s too bad. Maybe I’ll see you around some time.” He shrugged. I was speechless and didn’t know how to keep the conversation going, I was too nervous.

“Yeah, maybe,” I said quietly.

“I’ll see you.” He touched my shoulder and gently squeezed it and then walked away. I touched my shoulder, feeling the goosebumps that had just formed and then kicked myself internally for being a shy buffoon. It would have been nice to get to know him, to hang out at the Pizzeria.

I walked over to my mother, her grin wide. “Finn, you were terrific. I’m so proud of you.” She beamed. “The quote at the end was perfect,” she added.

“Thanks,” I responded quietly.

Still grinning, she said, “The speech was impeccable. I couldn’t be more proud than I am now.”

I smiled at her, unable to imagine a time where I could feel happier. Winning her approval, seeing that everything she and I had planned had come to fruition, it made me feel proud. She turned away from me and stared at Carter and his friends and then back at me.

She nudged me lightly. “You should go talk to your friends. I’m sure you want to say goodbye to them,” she said.

“No, that’s okay,” I said shaking my head instantly. “I already said goodbye,” I lied. There was no one for me to say anything to, no one who I had even gotten to know well enough to care about not seeing again. All of them, every single one of them, they weren’t people I could really call my friends. I had never given myself the opportunity to get to know anyone well enough, or allow them to get to know me. In their eyes, I was the smart girl, the girl who studied all the time, the girl who was “most likely to succeed.” That was what I was awarded in senior superlatives anyway. I envied them for their carefree ways, their ability to effortlessly go with the flow, and to take things as they came. That wasn’t me. Studying and academics took priority, not friendships. I had a plan.

From the time I was a little girl, I knew exactly what I wanted to do when I grew up. I wanted to be a heart surgeon, married by the time I was in my mid-twenties and the mother of three children before my mid-thirties. I planned to live in a nice house and go on vacations to the Caribbean and Europe. This was my plan.

I glanced at them laughing, hugging each other, saying how much they were going to miss each other. A small part of me pained at the sight of it but realized it was too late to develop a relationship with them. The past cannot be changed.

“Are you sure?” she asked me trying to read my expression.

“Yeah,” I nodded. “Let’s go.” I wrapped my arms in hers and began walking, not bothering to say goodbye to anyone. Walking out of the school, I realized that it would be the last time I would ever step foot in it and see people that I had gone to school with for years. But I didn’t feel anything, not sadness, nothing. I was too focused on beginning my life.

We drove home blaring music, singing at the top of our lungs. We were basking in my triumph, for what I had managed to accomplish—a full scholarship to one of the best women’s college’s in the nation. It was what we had planned all along; my acceptance to a prestigious college. My mother smiled at me, singing out of tune. I laughed at her inept ability, fully aware I sounded just as bad.

“I have a surprise for you,” she teased.

“What is it?” I asked eagerly.

“Well…,” she paused relishing the moment of suspense.

“Mom,” I pleaded.

“We have dinner reservations at Chateau Martin,” she said.

Chateau Martin, one of the most expensive restaurants in town, was way too fine for us to frequent. I had been once when I won