Free The Life List by Lori Nelson Spielman

almost there.”
    Fighting every impulse to run for my life, I turn back to the audience—the abusive barbarians who think it’s intermission time.
    “The nuns … they did everything in their power to keep us girls pure of thought.” Nobody listens, not even my support team. Megan is talking to some guy at next table, and Shelley is sending a text. Nobody except Brad. I glance over at him and he nods.
    “We had this, this big crucifix in our classroom. Sister Rose—” I rub my aching throat. “Sister Rose actually put a pair of pants over Jesus’s loincloth.”
    “Twenty more seconds, B.B.,” he shouts.
    “My friend Kasey … won’t even change her baby boy’s diapers without closing her eyes.”
    “Sit down, lady,” someone shouts. “You’re killing us.”
    Brad begins a countdown. “Seven, six, five …”
    I hear “zero” and slam the mike in its cradle. Brad whoops. When I leap from the stage, he grabs me in a hug. But I’m sobbing now. I break free and I race for the exit.
    The night air is crisp and burns when I suck it in. Through tears I stagger across the parking lot until I find my car. I drop my arms on the rooftop and bury my head.
    A moment later I feel a hand on my shoulder.
    “Don’t cry, B.B. You did it. It’s over now.” Brad rubs circles on my racking back.
    “I sucked!” I say, pounding my fist on the roof. I spin around and face him. “I told you I wasn’t funny.”
    He pulls me into his arms. I don’t resist.
    “Damn my mother,” I say against his wool coat.
    Silently, he rocks me.
    “Why did she make me do this? I was a laughingstock—no, not a laughingstock … that would imply someone actually laughed.”
    He steps back and removes a pale pink envelope from his pocket. “Shall we let her defend herself?”
    I wipe my nose with the back of my hand. “You’re giving me the letter?”
    He smiles and dabs a tear from my cheek. “I’m thinking you earned it, big time.”
    We get in my car and I crank the heat. In the passenger seat beside me, Brad slides a finger beneath the seal of envelope number eighteen and begins to read.
    “ ‘My Dearest Girl,
    “ ‘You’re upset because you failed? Nonsense.’ ”
    “What?” I say. “She knew I’d—”
    Brad doesn’t let me finish. He just keeps reading. “ ‘At what point did you decide you must be perfect? For the life of me, I can’t pinpoint it. But somewhere along the road, you lost your chutzpah. That happy little girl who loved to tell stories and sing and dance became anxious and unsure.’ ”
    Pressure builds behind my eyes. It wasn’t you who silenced me, Mother .
    “ ‘But tonight you were alive, my little performer, just as you used to be, and for that I’m so very pleased. I believe such passion—even passion born of fear and anxiety—is far better than a life of banality.
    “ ‘Let tonight’s tale serve as a reminder of your spunk, your fortitude, your bravery. When you’re fearful, grab hold of this courage and shake it loose, because now you know it’s yours, just as I’ve known all along.
    “ ‘Eleanor Roosevelt once said, “Do something every day that scares you.” Continue to push yourself to do those things that scare you, darling. Take those risks and see where you land, for they are the very things that make this journey worthwhile.’ ” He pauses for a moment. “ ‘With all my love and pride, Mom.’ ”
    I take the letter and re-read it, running my fingers over my mom’s words. Just what is it that she’s urging me to do? I think of Andrew, and the teaching job, and Carrie. I shudder. But as scary as those things are, there’s one thing that terrifies me more. I push it from my thoughts. It’s true, I failed tonight and lived through it, but I’m not ready for a repeat performance.

CHAPTER SEVEN

    D ressed in my favorite Marc Jacobs suit, I’m sipping a latte at The Bourgeois Pig when Megan arrives midmorning. “Not another crossword