Free The Survival Kit by Donna Freitas Page A

shoulder while Jim continued to rant. “Jim,” finally I cut in. “That photo cracks me up.”
    He sighed. “Yeah, but at my expense.”
    “Nobody sees your monster metal smile but me. And maybe Krupa.”
    Jim was silent for a moment. “What happened with you and Chris? Were you ever going to tell me?”
    No one in my family knew about the breakup yet. I’d been keeping it a secret, or trying to. I didn’t feel like dealing with their questions, though I should’ve known Jim would find out on his own since we knew a lot of the same people. “Who told you?”
    “So it’s true. Interesting.”
    “You didn’t even know for sure?”
    “I ran into Susan Hepler on campus and she mentioned she’d gone home for a weekend and run into Chris Williams. She noticed he was wearing his jacket.”
    God, that stupid jacket again.

    “Are you going to tell me what happened or what?” Jim pressed.
    “No,” I said. “There’s nothing to tell. We broke up, couples break up, and it’s not a big deal. It just is what it is.”
    “Do you want me to talk to him?”
    “No! Please don’t. You don’t need to do that.”
    Jim sighed into the phone. “Rosey, I’m worried. I don’t like you to be alone.”
    “I’ve got Krupa.”
    “Krupa’s not enough.”
    “Jim.” My voice became hoarse. “It’s my fault. I lost Chris because I can’t handle being in a relationship. I’ve been so wrapped up in being sad about Mom and with Dad’s dramas that I shut Chris out, along with everyone and everything else in my life. I used to have the cheerleaders and the football games and I used to go out dancing and partying and have a normal social life, but now I’m this person who is so afraid to hear music because it makes me cry that I can’t even go into stores at the mall.” This last bit of my rambling confession reminded me about the iPod in my Survival Kit.
    The Survival Kit was another thing my family didn’t know about yet. A part of me wanted to tell Jim, but what if Mom hadn’t left him one? The mere thought made me feel horribly guilty.
    I could hear my brother breathing on the other end of the phone. “Listen, I’m sorry, Jim. Forget everything I just said. I need to go.”

    “Rosey—”
    “I’ve got to check on dinner. Make sure it doesn’t burn,” I lied, watching as the timer ticked down past forty minutes and counting.
    “Rosey—”
    “I’ll change your picture, I promise. I love you. Really, I do. Bye.” I ended the call and rested my phone on the counter. The house was quiet except for the muffled sound of the rain beating against the window.
    I couldn’t stop thinking about the iPod.
    Once upon a time I loved music. All kinds—old, new, alternative, cheesy, danceable, moody. From the moment I hit sixth grade I began to give my life a sound track. I made a playlist for every occasion, every emotion, every kind of day, for hanging out with Krupa, for doing my homework, for hooking up with Chris, and for gorgeous summer afternoons. There was no reason too small.
    But not anymore.
    A few bars of anything, even dance music, and the tears started to fall. This wasn’t the first time I’d cut music from my life either. In eighth grade, the year Mom was diagnosed with cancer and first went through chemo, I hated music then, too. If someone turned on a stereo or docked an iPod I’d race over and unplug it or press the power button to shut it down.
    Without music, though, a huge piece of me felt missing.
    Mom knew it, too, and that’s why she added the iPod to the
Survival Kit. Maybe I was ready for my life to be one long, beautiful playlist once again.
    Rushing through the house to my room, I threw open the closet and slid the bag from its ribbon. I unfolded the top, my hand fumbling inside until my fingers closed around the thin, smooth metal rectangle. Music would be task number two because I was done with silence. The bedside lamp cast a warm circle of light onto the iPod’s silvery blue