Promise Me Something (2 page)

“Hi, kiddo.” Dad looked more tired than usual, but his face was less puffy than it had been in weeks. His bruises from the accident had been fading all month from navy blue to purple to raspberry, and today they looked almost yellow. I pulled open the door and slipped into the seat as he turned the ignition. Once I buckled my seat belt, we pulled wordlessly out of the parking lot.

I wouldn’t have minded a silent car ride—the stitches made it hard for Dad to speak—but as we turned left onto the main road, he opened his mouth and, with a lot of effort, asked who I’d been sitting with on the wall. “A new friend?” His voice was slurred from the disfiguration around his upper lip.

“Probably not,” I answered.

“Come on.” Dad was trying hard to enunciate. “Is she nice?”

I surprised myself by laughing. “Not really,” I said. “She’s weird and bossy.”

Dad frowned with just one side of his mouth. “You’ve got to make new friends sooner or later, Reyna. Give her a chance.”

We were driving north on Oakwood Avenue, Springdale’s main artery. To our left was Durham Drive, where Abby, Leah, and Madison—my three best friends—lived in identical blue houses side by side; to our right was Hickory Ridge Road, where I’d lived since I was little in a house the color of a strawberry. Two roads, not a mile apart, rezoned for separate high schools that might as well have been on opposite sides of the universe.

“Guess what?” Dad said. “We’re having pizza for dinner.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell him I’d eaten pizza for lunch. Ordering takeout was all he had the energy for these days.

“Is Lucy coming over to eat with us?” I asked. Lucy was the woman Dad was dating.

Dad adjusted the rearview mirror. “She’s out of town.”

“What?” I stared at him.

“She’s out of town for a few days.”

“No way,” I said. “Again?”

“All of this has been hard on her.” Dad gestured at the bruises on his face.

“It’s been hard on
you
.” I felt a lump gathering in my throat, felt the familiar swell. Dad glanced sideways at me and I turned my head quickly toward the window.

After dinner I felt sick. Greasy. Bloated. I’d eaten nothing but pizza for days. While Dad got settled on the couch in front of the TV, I headed to my room to “do homework,” otherwise known as lying on the floor like a zombie.

Along the back wall of my room, Mom’s old stuff lined my bookshelves. There was her tennis trophy, a hairbrush, a teddy bear she’d given me, her sewing machine, and, of course, her photograph. Taken on the day she graduated high school, it was browning in its turquoise frame. Turquoise was her favorite color, and one of my favorite things about the picture was how the frame matched the turquoise necklace she was wearing. I stared at the resemblance between us. I’d inherited her dark, bone-straight hair and deep-set brown eyes.

Next to the photograph was all her Catholic stuff. She had a string of rosary beads, three copies of the Bible, two crosses, and a tall silver chalice that belonged to my great-grandfather Francesco, who had been a priest in Spain. All of it had ended up in my room because Dad didn’t like looking at it. After Mom died, he hated anything to do with God.

Everything on Mom’s bookshelves had accumulated exactly seven years of dust. I cleaned the rest of my room every two weeks, vacuuming in the closet and wiping down the surface of my desk. But I never touched her shelves, and the room was dusty as a result. Perpetually cloudy, like living in a place where it always rained.

Thinking of Mom, my eyes grew watery. I didn’t really miss her anymore—seven years had blunted the ache—but I missed remembering her. I used to be able to recall the exact color of her lipstick and the sound of her laugh and the names of all the saints she prayed to. Not anymore.

I needed to call Abby to take my mind off things. Still sprawled across my carpet, I pulled out my phone and called Abby’s cell, but she didn’t answer. I called again and got her voicemail. I went back to staring at the ceiling before hoisting myself up to get on my laptop to see if Madison or Leah were online.

Madison was.

Hey Maddy
, I typed.

Hey!!!!!
she wrote back almost instantly.
What’s up?

A new instant message popped up.
Reyna!
It was from Abby. She had her status set to invisible, probably trying to hide from another boy with a crush on her.

Where are you? I tried calling you
, I replied to Abby.

I’m with Madison. Hold on a sec. My phone was on silent. I’ll start a group chat.

I wanted to vent about making a fool of myself in the cafeteria, but not with Madison there. She had a habit of making herself the center of every conversation. Plus, there was something weird about the three of us having a group chat when the two of them were together without me.

Madison wrote,
So, are you sleeping over tomorrow?

I wish. Lucy’s out of town
,
I replied.

That sucks
, Abby typed and added a picture of a sad-looking puppy.
You shouldn’t have to baby-sit your dad.

My fingers hovered over my keyboard trying to think of a reply, but two more IM blips interrupted me.
OH MY GOD!!!!
Madison typed.
One sec
.

What’s going on?
I wrote back, but there was no answer. Whatever was happening—whatever they were talking about in her room—it was obviously too interesting to waste time typing about. Once again, I was out of the loop.

Finally there was a message from Abby.
Sorry!
she wrote.
Guy drama.

Who?
I wrote.

A sophomore at RHS
, Madison answered.

RHS
?

Ridgeway High School.

Right. The oasis my unfortunate street address had shut me out of.

Anyway, he’s in Geometry with us and he says he’s going to write a mathematical proof that Abby’s the hottest girl in the class.
Madison sent me a screenshot of a guy with short black hair and pale blue eyes. He reminded me of a wolf.

I stared at Mom’s old textbooks, trying to think of something to say. Then I wrote,
Isn’t he a little stupid if he’s a year behind in math?

Whatever
, Madison typed.
He’s like twenty on a scale of one to ten.

Apparently that’s all the math you need in life
, Abby wrote.

I have to go.
I stared hard at the screen, fighting back tears, wishing I went to school with my best friends and wishing I could talk to Abby by herself.

Why?
Abby asked.
Does your dad need your help?

Yeah
, I lied,
I have to go help him up the stairs.

She and Madison sent more pictures of sad puppies and we agreed to have a sleepover the next weekend with all four of us, even though high school was turning Leah into a slut, or so Madison said. I signed off and closed my eyes. Relaxed my jaw. Thought about the color turquoise.

Who is this?

I saved your life. Remember?

Not you again.

Aren’t you going to thank me?

The answer is still no.

How old are you?

Why do you want to know?

Just curious.

16, but I could be lying.

It’s OK if you are.

Do you still want to talk?

I
could have—should have—done more to shake Olive off. She was like one of those prickly thistles you pick up on your clothes while hiking, and by the end of September she had attached herself to me with a degree of persistence I found both annoying and admirable. No one had ever tried so hard to be my friend.

The point of no return came during History one morning when Mr. Murphy assigned us a project on ancient Mongolia to be completed in groups of two. Instantly, before he’d even finished his sentence, I felt a tap on my shoulder and knew it was Olive.

Ignoring it, I scanned the room, hoping to make eye contact with someone else. It’s not that I wasn’t grateful for Olive’s friendship—she seemed interested in my stories about middle school, and eating lunch with her was less lonely than sitting at the homework table. I even snorted on my milk one day listening to her impersonation of Ms. Mahoney reciting Shakespeare. But none of it changed the fact that she was rude and pushy and wore pleated skirts from the ’90s.

This was my chance to meet someone new. But no one was looking at me. The room began to buzz as the popular girls claimed each other. With no other choice, I turned around, expecting Olive to ask me if I wanted to be her partner. But she didn’t. She just cocked her head to the side and waited, as though I were the one who tapped her.

“Want to work together?” I asked finally. It was either that or raise my hand to tell the whole class I needed a partner. Olive wasn’t
that
bad.

She smiled. “Sure.”

“Groups of two,” called Mr. Murphy as the buzz in the room evolved into chitchat. Lennie King, a popular Asian girl, was showing somebody her double-jointed thumb, while Timothy Ferguson, a skinny boy wearing ear buds, sang to himself, “Keep your ey-eyes open, keep your ey-eyes open.”

“Gaga!” barked Mr. Murphy. “Put away the iPod before I throw it out the window.”

Tim turned pink and shoved the ear buds into his pocket.

“Listen up.” Mr. Murphy surveyed the room with beady eyes. He had the short, stocky build of a drill sergeant and perpetually tan forearms. “I don’t want any flashy business. You’re putting together a PowerPoint presentation, not a song and dance. I don’t want to see any fairy wings, especially if your name is Timothy Ferguson.”

A few people laughed as Tim gave a nervous grin and flapped his arms like wings. Behind me, Olive tapped her feet on the metal bar below my seat, where my books sat.

“Here’s the list of acceptable topics,” Mr. Murphy finished, passing a short stack of paper down each aisle. “You have until Friday to pick one. Questions?”

While a few people raised their hands, Olive began scribbling notes. I could hear the faint scratch of her mechanical pencil as she applied pressure to the page. So far she hadn’t spoken a single word in class all year, and I wondered if anybody else in school even knew her name. Then I realized a handful of people must have known her in elementary and middle school.

When he’d answered all the questions, Mr. Murphy turned on the overhead projector and began his lesson on ancient Chinese warfare. I settled into my chair, felt the brush of a knee across my lower back, and straightened up.

At lunch, Olive was waiting for me with her arms crossed over her chest and her chin jutting out. She scrunched her eyes and made her voice gruff. “Okay, listen up. I don’t want any flashy business. This is lunch. We have spinach to eat. I don’t want to see any fairy wings—”

I laughed and sat down across from her. Olive was definitely weird, but she could be sort of funny. Maybe our project wasn’t totally doomed.

“This is not a song and dance,” she continued. “Spinach is serious stuff.”

“Mr. Murphy is kind of intense,” I said, reaching down to slide my backpack under the seat where no one would trip over it.

“I know.” Olive frowned, dropping the act. “Poor Tim Ferguson.”

“Yeah.”

Her face brightened. “I’m glad you and I are working together though.”

I gave a halfhearted smile—my best effort.

Her face fell. “Is something wrong?”

“Of course not,” I lied.

She sighed. “Look, I know it seems like forever ago, but I think we might have gotten off on the wrong foot on the day we met. I don’t think you’re aloof. I’m sorry I said that.”

I didn’t answer. I had a lot of reasons for finding Olive strange, and her insulting me within five seconds of introducing herself was only one of them.

“I think I probably scared you off,” she went on, looking down at her tray. “With my honesty and everything. I do that to people—”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said, wishing she’d change the subject. Anyone else would have, but Olive had no awkward radar whatsoever.