My hands trembled in excitement as I carefully received a creased slip of paper. Bubbling with curiosity, my mind hurdled through every possible name on the modified field hockey team. Could it be Karen? Marissa? Carla? Too eager to know, I clumsily unfolded my assignment. Scrawled onto the slip of paper was the name… Olivia. Olivia? Of all of the team members I could’ve gotten for secret psych, I got her. As I sputtered her name, I felt like I was walking on thin ice. How could I ever approach an 8th grader like her? My 7th grade mind nervously thought. Though we were teammates on field hockey, our age gap placed us on separate playing fields; I played with the lame 7th grade, and she played with the trendy 8th grade. Feeling obligated to impress my senior, I went home after school, determined to gift her something memorable. What I ended up creating was, indeed, quite memorable.

My idea of the perfect sweet treat was the classic chocolate milkshake. While only taking a few ingredients to make, this creamy, cold beverage was always a crowd-pleaser. The problem was, though I’ve consumed numerous milkshakes in my twelve years, I had never before made a milkshake. As a result, I was forced into this experiment blind and inexperienced. To add, my mother despised disorderly kitchens. Consequently, I constructed my concoction in complete confidentiality. The measuring cups clanged. The blender whirred in excitement. The milkshake, after hours of meticulous blitzing and blending, was finally ready for secret psych. I then cautiously poured the thick, chocolaty beverage into a stainless-steel thermos.

That night, I slept anxiously. I knew that I nailed the recipe. I knew that no one else would make their secret psychs a milkshake. Yet, I did not know if I could prove my worth to Olivia and the 8th graders. I did not know what lied in store.

The next day, I could not stop thinking about the secret psych. I subconsciously protected the precious milkshake throughout the day, clenching the thermos in my hand to make sure that it didn’t jostle. Though the hours seemed to crawl by, before I knew it, the clock had already struck 2:07.

At dismissal, the field hockey team gathered excitedly in the cafeteria. I noticed that all of the other girls held elaborate, ornate gift bags for their secret psychs. I, however, clutched a large, stainless-steel bullet for mine. At first, I looked down at my chocolaty creation with concern. But then I smiled with hubris. What could go wrong? As the other girls approached their teammates with goody bags stuffed with candy bars, baked goods, and other sweets, I nervously approached Olivia with my outstretched thermos.

“Hi Olivia!” I initiated. “I made you a chocolate milkshake last night. Happy secret psych!”

“Thanks,” Olivia replied.

I was surprised at how warmly she accepted my gift. Under her facade of cheerfulness, however, was a heart of distaste. I could sense the truth by the way she so reluctantly took my thermos. Ignoring her gesture, I eagerly nodded, waiting for her to taste my masterful creation. Fighting sheer opposition, Olivia took a small sip of my milkshake. Time slowed down. Her eyebrows furrowed. Her face contorted. Her head violently jolted backwards. She pulled away from the thermos in disgust. I stood in front of her, appalled and heartbroken. How could I have failed? What did I do wrong? I followed every step in the recipe exactly! As I took back the thermos, I stared at its lifeless contents with deep sadness. What was once a delicious treat was now a vile nightmare. But then, in the reflection of the milkshake, realized that I overlooked one vital step. I forgot to put the milkshake in the refrigerator.