{"product_id":"the-next-thing-on-my-list-isbn-9780307351296","title":"The Next Thing on My List","description":"“You’ll be hooked by this charming story. . . . Smolinski gives us a quick-witted heroine . . . with just the right amount of romance and a tad of suspense.”  \u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eRichmond Times-Dispatch\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter a car accident in which her passenger, Marissa, dies, June Parker finds herself in possession of a list Marissa has written: “20 Things to Do by My 25th Birthday.” The tasks range from inspiring (run a 5K) to daring (go braless) to near-impossible (change someone’s life). \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo assuage her guilt, June races to achieve each goal herself before the deadline, learning more about her own life than she ever bargained for.“Fresh and fun to read . . . The details of [June’s] life are set out with a deft, light touch.”\u003cbr\u003e–\u003ci\u003eBoston Globe\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Clever and winning, Smolinski’s novel will have readers rooting for June as they eagerly turn the pages to keep up with her progress on the list.\"\u003cbr\u003e–Booklist \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Smolinski crafts a believable heroine, and her chipper carpe-diem message may have readers devising their own Top 20s. . . . Sweet.\"\u003cbr\u003e–Kirkus Reviews\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Cheers for Jill Smolinski, who has transcended the chick lit category by giving us a heroine who really tries to make a difference in this world.  What a concept!  I loved this book- its humor and its humanity.  You will, too.\"\u003cbr\u003e–Jane Heller, author of \u003ci\u003eSome Nerve\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eLucky Stars\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\"Instantly engaging, original, and funny, Jill Smolinski's new novel charmed me from the first page.  Put this on your list: you won't be sorry!\"\u003cbr\u003e– Isabel Rose, author of\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe J.A.P. Chronicles\u003c\/i\u003eJILL SMOLINSKI is a transplanted Midwesterner who currently lives in Southern California with her son. She is the author of \u003ci\u003eFlip-Flopped\u003c\/i\u003e.Chapter 1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNext on the list: Kiss a stranger.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"How about him?\" Susan pointed to a guy so rakishly handsome, it was odd to see him in a downtown Los Angeles bar wearing a shirt and tie instead of modeling underwear in front of a camera, where he clearly belonged.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Let's be realistic.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Why? It's just a kiss.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEasy for her to say--she wasn't the one doing the kissing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was Thursday after work, and the Brass Monkey was hopping. Susan and I had already been at the bar for an hour, casing the joint and sipping two-dollar margaritas that were, sadly, much too weak to help me muster my courage.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"What do you think--on the lips?\" I asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Definitely, but tongue is up to you.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter much debate, I settled on three guys at a cocktail table across the bar. Mid- to late thirties and dressed in casual business attire, they seemed harmless, which was their primary appeal. Here goes. I hoisted myself bravely from my chair as if I were about to march forth into battle. My plan was to go up to their table, explain my predicament, and hope one of them would take pity on me and volunteer for the job.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the event that that didn't work--well, I didn't want to think about what would happen if it didn't work. I suppose it would involve skulking away in humiliation.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI swigged down the last of my drink, took a breath, and strode to the table. The three guys looked at me with open curiosity. A woman approaching who wasn't a waitress was an interesting sight indeed. Plus I'd sort of slutted up for the occasion. I wore a snug suit over a camisole, and I'd gone to town with the eyeliner. My hair was doing its usual insane tumble of waves and curls to my shoulders.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Hi! I'm June!\" I said perkily.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter a moment, perhaps debating if I was going to try to sell them something, one of them said, \"I'm Frank, and this is Ted, and Alfonso.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Nice to meet you!\" And then I plunged in. \"I came over here because I was wondering if you could help me? I have this list of things I need to do.\" I held up the list, Exhibit A, which was handwritten on a sheet of ordinary notebook paper. \"One of the things on it is that I need to kiss a stranger. So I was wondering--\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You want to kiss one of us?\" Alfonso asked eagerly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFrank chimed in, \"What--you on a scavenger hunt?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Not exactly,\" I answered.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"So would this kiss be on the mouth?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Yes.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Tongue?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Optional.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThree sets of eyes gave me a once-over, but--bonus points for them--they tried to make it appear as if they weren't.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Aw, Christ,\" Alfonso said with what appeared to be genuine regret, \"we're all married.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I'm not that married,\" Ted added. \"I mean, if it'll help the girl out . . .\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"That's okay,\" I said, starting to back away. Why hadn't I thought to check for rings?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"No, we want to help you. None of us can do it, but we got a buddy here from work who might be able to. Hey, Marco!\" Frank shouted across the bar, and who should turn around but the underwear model. Terrific. \"There's a girl here needs a hand!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMarco trotted over. Well, he seemed eager enough. Trying not to blush--and knowing Susan was probably bursting a spleen laughing--I repeated my story. Before I could finish, he snatched the paper from my hand and started reading it aloud.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Let's see what this list is about,\" he boomed. \"'Twenty Things to Do by My Twenty-fifth Birthday.'\" Then he paused to look at me and smirk. \"Twenty-fifth birthday?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOh, real nice!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI'll have him know that I may be thirty-four, but in certain lighting I still get carded.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Give me that.\" I made a grab for the list.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe blocked me with his shoulder and kept reading. \"Let's see what it says, shall we? Ah, yes, here it is: Kiss a stranger. . . .\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfraid the list might get ripped if I grabbed for it again, I stood still, arms crossed, fuming.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTed attempted to defend me. \"Dude, don't be an a-hole.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Run a 5K. . . . Get on TV. . . . Oh, wait, here's the best one: Lose one hundred pounds. Used to be a fatty, huh? Well, you're looking mighty fine now, sweetheart, so I can see why that one's got a line through it.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Look,\" I snapped, \"it's not even my list.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Yeah, right.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"It's not. But it so happens I need to do the things on it.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAlfonso asked innocently enough, \"Why's that?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI sighed. \"Long story. Please . . .\" I held my hand out. \"Give it back.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eit was true. The list wasn't mine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt belonged to Marissa Jones.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEven though there was no signature on it, I'm certain it's hers. I know because I discovered it myself in the days after I killed her. I'd been washing the blood off her purse so I could return it to her parents, and there it was. Folded and tucked inside her wallet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOf course, I gave everything of hers back--even a pair of sunglasses found near the scene that I thought might possibly be mine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut I kept the list. Didn't say a word about it to them. After all, how heartbreaking would it be to see your twenty-four-year-old daughter's list of dreams that would never be fulfilled?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOut of twenty items, she'd completed only two: Lose 100 pounds and Wear sexy shoes. The first one was already crossed off. The second I had to mark off for her myself--and seeing it written there sure explained those silver stilettos she was wearing when she died.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNaturally, everyone insisted that it wasn't my fault.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey nearly fell over one another at the funeral offering assurances and hugs--which I accepted as part of my penance. My body was one big bruise. Even the gentlest touch was agony.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd here's the worst part: She'd been thin less than a month. One lousy month. After a lifetime of knowing nothing but being fat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs if to rub it in, staring at me from the front of the church had been a blown-up photo of Marissa standing in a pair of size twenty-eight pants--her body fitting in one leg while she held the waist out to its side. The smile on her face clearly said, Okay, world, here I come!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWell.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe whole time the minister was at the podium, I barely heard a thing he said. Instead, I devoted my thoughts to concocting the lie I would tell Marissa's family about her final words. They were going to want to know, after all. And there was no way I was going to tell them the truth: that she'd been giving me a recipe for taco soup.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTurned out I didn't need to worry. My entire interaction with them was limited to a handshake and an \"I'm so sorry for your loss.\" I skipped the wake, feeling that my presence there--with my bruised collarbone and big shiner--would be nothing short of vulgar. Besides, it's not as if Marisssa and I were friends. I'd only met her the night she died.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe and I had been at the same Weight Watchers meeting. I'd just joined, hoping to lose the ten pounds that had managed to creep up from the last time I lost ten pounds. She'd received her lifetime pin for being at her weight goal (the irony of that word lifetime not lost on me now). Offering a ride to a stranger is something I wouldn't normally do, but I saw her teetering toward the bus stop on those \"sexy shoes.\" I thought about how amazing it was she'd dropped so much weight and said to myself, What the heck. Maybe her success will rub off on me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo there we were, zipping along Centinela Boulevard and chatting about dieting. I said to her something along the lines of \"I'm worried I'll fail because I get so hungry when I go on a diet.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen she said, \"I have a recipe for a soup that's super filling.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd I said, \"I'm not much of a cook.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd she said, \"This is totally easy.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd I said, \"Really?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd she said, \"I have the recipe right here with me. I swear, it's so simple--nothing but opening a bunch of cans.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd I said, \"Well, great, let's see it!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd she reached into the backseat of my car to grab her purse, which was the reason her seat belt was unbuckled at the moment of impact.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMarissa Jones's Taco Soup\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e4 cans navy or northern beans\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e1 can Mexican-spiced tomatoes\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e1 can diced tomatoes\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e1 can corn\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e1 package taco seasoning\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e1 package fat-free ranch dressing mix\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMix ingredients in large saucepan. Heat and serve.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003emakes 8 servings.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs best I can recall (my head took quite a whack, so my memory is dodgy), a dresser toppled off a truck in front of us, and I'd jerked the steering wheel to avoid it. The rest is unclear. Witnesses reported that we skimmed the curb at an angle, which sent us rolling.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Landed ass over teakettle,\" I heard one paramedic say to another as they slid my stretcher into the ambulance.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnother thing I overheard: \"No hurry on that one, she's dead.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDead? My hands felt around on my body. I wasn't sure which one of us he referring to.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt wasn't me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhich meant . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOh shit.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShit, shit, shit.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter the accident, I tried to go back to life as usual, without success. Seemed I'd failed to account for one simple yet irrefutable fact, which is as follows: Knowing that you killed somebody is really depressing. Honestly, I can't fathom how people like Scott Peterson can pick themselves up afterward and go fishing. I barely had the energy to report to the office and perform a job I've been doing so long that I suspect I could do it in a coma.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe weeks ticked by. The bruises faded, and yet, unable to shake the despair that clung to me like a fog, I was left to conclude that there are two types of horrible events: the type that shake you up and cause you to grab life by the throat and never again take it for granted, and the type that make you lie in bed and watch a lot of reality TV.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMine fell into the latter category.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith no one close enough to witness my downward spiral, I was free to fall. No husband or kids. No roommate. My boyfriend Robert made his break in late August, a month after the accident. We'd been on the brink of splitting anyway, lingering at that stage where we both knew things were over and yet, like a car we weren't quite ready to sell, we kept patching and paying for small repairs, waiting for something huge like the transmission to blow. As it turned out, the relationship was totaled. Robert could barely stand to look at the wreckage I'd become, and frankly, it was a relief when he left. I barely noticed him packing his toothbrush and the extra set of shoes he kept under my bed, what with the new fall TV season starting up.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIf only Marissa hadn't written that list . . . or if hers had been more like my to-do lists: a bunch of nothing that nevertheless had occupied my time for the past three-plus decades. Pick up the dry cleaning. Run to the gym. Meet a friend for lunch. Some of the tasks got crossed off . . . others were transferred from paper to paper until I'd either finally get around to doing them or decide they weren't as important as I thought they were.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIf I died, what could my obituary possibly even say? June Parker, on- and off-again girlfriend, midlevel employee, and lifelong underachiever, died waiting for something to happen. She is survived by a new pack of socks, the purchase of which was the greatest achievement crossed off her\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eto-do list.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI'd read Marissa's list only once before hiding it away in my dresser drawer. I wasn't even sure why I'd kept it. Sure, I told myself it would be sad for the family--but still, why did it bother me so much?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was only when bathed in the forgiving light of the TV that I could bear to admit the truth to myself: Horrible as it was that I'd killed someone, I was relieved I hadn't died. For whatever reason, I'd been given a second chance.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhich is why I felt so guilty about squandering it. The gods who spared me were probably sitting around in the clouds, scratching their heads, and saying things like \"You'd assume rescuing her from a pile of destroyed metal was enough! What do we need to get through to this woman? Plague? Locusts?!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eProblem was, I had no idea how to change. I wasn't and had never been that person who could sit down and write a list of things I wanted to do and then actually do them. Marissa Jones needed to rub off on me all right. Not so much the part of her that could lose weight, but the part that seemed to at least have a clue about what she wanted once she did.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt seemed it would require a miracle to pry me from my malaise and set me on a new course. As it turned out, all it took was a guy at the intersection of Pico Boulevard and Eleventh Street selling ten-dollar bouquets of roses.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eit was january 20, exactly six months from the day Marissa died. My stomach had twisted when I noticed the date on my calendar and realized half a year had passed. It felt like both yesterday and a lifetime ago. My original plans to honor the occasion involved going home after work and . . . well, I had no plans. But then I stopped at a traffic light next to the man selling roses, and an idea instantly formulated in my head. I'd visit her grave. I'd apologize, and in doing so, maybe I'd be set free.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFlowers resting on my passenger seat, I stopped by a booth at the cemetery's entrance for directions. A woman gave me a photocopied map, using a Sharpie to mark the route to Marissa's grave site. I parked and then walked the rest of the way to where she was buried. Her tombstone, a tastefully simple marker, read, Marissa Jones, loving daughter, sister, and friend, and gave her birth and death dates.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Sorry,\" I whispered, and set down the flowers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI stood there for a while, waiting for a sense of peace that didn't come, when someone behind me said, \"June?\"","brand":"Crown","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303425626341,"sku":"NP9780307351296","price":19.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780307351296.jpg?v=1767740702","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-next-thing-on-my-list-isbn-9780307351296","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}