Eleven Things I Promised

  “No,” I said calmly, “it’s not.” I stood up carefully and faced Oscar. He was on his way into the gym, with a girl I didn’t recognize hanging on to his arm. I wondered if there was a way I could take her aside and warn her about Oscar, without ruining her night. Probably not.

  Oscar laughed. “You biked to prom? Who bikes to prom?” He gestured to Cameron with his chin. “Nice helmet hair.”

  “Shut up,” Cameron replied. He held out his arm and I took it, walking into the building. I felt like a different person. I didn’t care what anyone else said or thought. We handed over our tickets to a friend of Margo’s on the prom committee, and I briefly wondered where Margo was. Then I ducked into the bathroom to fix my hair and check my makeup. I was wearing more than usual, and I needed to put on a fresh coat of lipstick.

  When I came out, Cameron was waiting for me. “Dude, I can’t walk in there alone,” he said.

  We paused as we walked below an archway of balloons. “This feels familiar,” I said.

  “Should we get our picture taken?” he asked as we passed the portrait setup, with its fake-looking outdoor backdrop and giant school logo.

  “Nah,” I said. “We can get better pictures on our own.” If Stella did show up, I might get my picture taken with her, I thought.

  Once inside the gym, we nearly sprinted to the refreshments table for punch. On our way, I spotted Elsa dancing with friends. Beside her, Oxendale was jumping up and down, or what he called “dancing.”

  Cameron pointed to a banner on the wall, with the junior class prom theme printed on it: Embrace the Future, Today. “This is so awful.” He looked miserable. I almost wanted to tell him to go ahead and go home, but not yet.

  “It’s pretty bad,” I agreed.

  “Embrace the future. I’m not embracing anything,” Cameron said. “Or anyone, actually. How about ‘No Group Hugs, Starting Now!’ Could that be our theme?” he asked.

  We both started laughing, just as Margo walked briskly past us. I grabbed her wrist, and she spun around with an irritated look. “Oh. It’s you guys!” she said, her expression softening a little.

  “How’s it going?” I asked.

  “Good. You look really nice,” she said, stepping back to take a look at my dress.

  “Thanks. You too,” I said. I didn’t do hugs, but I reached over and gave her a quick one anyway.

  “I have to straighten out something with the DJ. I’ll be back,” she promised, before she strode off toward the stage.

  “Don’t look now, but I think Max is here,” I said, gesturing over Cameron’s shoulder.

  “Impossible. He hasn’t been at a school event since sixth grade,” Cameron said.

  We both started laughing, and that was when our vice principal, Ms. Bonaventure, called everyone’s attention to the stage for the prom voting announcements.

  Naturally, Autumn and Alex were in the running. As they stood onstage, they made eye contact with me, Cameron, and the rest of the group, who had all gathered around us. Oxendale was throwing them the tallest thumbs-up ever when he suddenly moved over and stood beside me. “Stella’s here,” he whispered.

  I made my way through the crowd, not being able to see at Oxendale sky level. Then, once on the edge, I glanced over at the balloon arch and saw Stella on the far side of it. She was on crutches, wearing the elegant black dress she’d bought way back when. She’d gone to a salon and had her hair styled into an updo. As I got closer, I saw that she was wearing one black sandal, and her crutches were decorated with black and red ribbons. Her makeup was perfect. You couldn’t even tell her face had been scraped up or that she’d been in the hospital for several days. She looked amazing, actually.

  Behind me, the nominees for prom king and queen were being announced. “Ready to go in?” I asked.

  “No. Is everyone looking?” she asked. “Is this the part where you make your big entrance and they announce you, like in old movies?”

  “Like . . . Miss Stella Grant, the Duchess of Sparrowsdale? No, they don’t. It’s just an obnoxious balloon thing,” I said. “Everyone’s on tiptoes trying to see who’s going to win prom king and queen.”

  “Pfft,” she puffed. “Like we don’t already know. Come on, let’s get in there while everyone’s distracted.”

  “Sure,” I said, but I paused just after we started in. “Hey, hold on a second. We’re here. We should celebrate. You’re the one who decided we were coming, back in February. The fact that we’re here—whether we have a good time or not—it’s thanks to you,” I said.

  “It’s no big deal,” she said.

  I knew she didn’t like to make a big deal out of victories. The point was to have them, not to talk about them. “Right. I know,” I said. “But thanks. Now, let’s find a table.”

  As we wove through the crowd to a table near the front, more than a few people glanced at Stella, and whether they noticed she was missing a leg or not, I couldn’t tell. I didn’t care, and I hoped Stella wouldn’t, either. People smiled or waved or looked surprised to see her. The accident had been in the newspaper, of course, and she hadn’t been back to school since. No doubt there had been lots of rumors.

  We sat down and one by one Elsa, Cameron, Oxendale, Max, and Margo joined us at the table, each giving Stella a hug and eagerly talking to her about everything.

  “Drum roll, please,” Ms. Bonvanture said. “And now, announcing your prom king and queen . . . Autumn Daye and Alex Nelson!” she cried. She tended to get overly excited about school royalty and things like that.

  “Big surprise,” Stella commented.

  “I’m shocked. Utterly shocked,” said Cameron.

  “They really should get a tandem bike,” Margo commented as we watched Autumn and Alex step off the stage and prepare to dance.

  But before they danced, they ran over to hug Stella. Autumn even started to take her sash off and hand it to Stella.

  “Giving up your throne? Already?” Cameron teased.

  “Please—I know you mean well, but please don’t do any of that honorary royalty crap,” Stella said. “I just want to sit here.”

  “Got it. No problem.” Autumn nodded, looking relieved, almost. She slipped her sash back on, and she and Alex twirled away in the middle of the gym while we all looked on.

  Well, all except for Oxendale. He headed out to join them. Apparently prom royalty was not a thing where he came from.

  “He has a bike jersey on under his suit,” I commented to Stella.

  “No, that’s a soccer jersey. Please. He knows his formal wear,” Stella said. “You wish Mason was here so you could dance, don’t you?”

  “What?” I laughed. “No, not at all. Why would we want him to suffer?”

  “Come on. I know what’s going on.” She gave me one of her classic I’m onto you looks.

  “No, he’s—he’s too old for me.”

  “Don’t be stupid. He’s only two years older than you,” she said. “You’ll be eighteen this summer, anyway, before he’s even twenty.”

  “I will?”

  “Do I always have to do the math? Yes, you will,” Stella said. “And even though it’s pretty weird considering your history of endlessly giving each other grief, you guys seem to have something sort of . . . cute. I’m not sure how.”

  “I could say we spent a lot of time together lately. And that’s true. But I think it started before then,” I said. “I’m sorry. Is it too strange? Because we don’t have to—”

  “Do you seriously think I’d want to get in the way of your relationship?” Stella asked. “I know I haven’t been peachy lately, but I want you to be happy.”

  “Okay. But don’t call it a relationship. It’s more like a relation . . .”

  “Bike?” she suggested.

  “I was going to say dinghy, but that sounds horrible. Relationdinghy.” We both cracked up laughing.

  “We have to stop meeting like this,” Mason said when I climbed into the cab of his pickup truck an hour later. He’
d put my bicycle into the back. “But nobody should have to ride their bike home from prom.”

  “Cameron is. Oxendale is,” I said. “Of course, Oxendale’s already dressed for it, and Cameron can’t wait to get out of the gym.”

  “Would you rather go with them, then?” he asked. “I thought you texted me.”

  “I didn’t,” I said, sliding out of my high-heeled shoes. My feet were killing me. “Stella did.”

  “Oh?” Mason’s left eyebrow shot up.

  “Yeah, she used my phone while I was getting us punch. When I came back, she informed me you were picking me up in half an hour and that I couldn’t even try to get out of it.”

  “You’re disappointed?”

  “No! Not at all.” I scooted over to be closer to him on the bench seat as we drove out of the high school parking lot. “I mean, I didn’t want to leave her there, but she said she was fine. She’s having a great time.”

  “So . . . she knows about us,” Mason said slowly.

  “Oh, yeah.” I nodded. “She says she’s okay with it. And since she’s plotting and scheming to get us together on my stupid prom night, I guess I’m going to believe her.”

  “Why is it your stupid prom night?” He braked at a stop sign and looked over at me. “By the way, you look incredible.”

  I glanced down at my dress, embarrassed. I didn’t usually bare my shoulders, or wear anything this kind of . . . sexy. “Thanks.”

  “Huge improvement over that thing you wore to the hospital,” he went on.

  “It’d be impossible not to be,” I said.

  “It suits you,” he said.

  We were both looking at each other intensely, and I had that same kiss-me-now-or-I’m-going-to-explode feeling.

  “Do you think we should move on from this stop sign sometime?” I asked.

  “Maybe,” he said. “Maybe not.” He reached over and pulled me toward him, knocking my little purse off my lap and onto the floor. “Where do you want to go?” he said softly, twirling my hair around his finger while he kissed my neck.

  “This is . . . here . . . this is good,” I whispered.

  CHAPTER 22

  “Hey, I didn’t think you were coming.”

  “Sorry. I got out of work fifteen minutes late,” I said as I climbed off my bike. I quickly locked it to the rack outside Rocco’s Ink Den. Since coming back from the trip, I’d been riding whenever I could. Sure, it wasn’t fun riding my bike to work at six in the morning on the weekends, but I’d been through worse.

  “You coming in?” I asked Mason, who was leaning against the front of his pickup, reading a book and looking extremely hot for a second there.

  “What do you think?” he replied, squinting at me.

  “You’ll wait outside,” I said, nodding. “That’s probably a good idea.”

  “While you’re out here, could you get me a hot mocha? With whipped cream?” Stella asked. “I might need to be revived after this whole thing.”

  “Frances? I’m apparently taking orders,” Mason said. “What can I get you?”

  “Iced tea,” I said.

  “Sure thing.” Mason opened the truck door and tossed his book inside, then started walking down the sidewalk toward the small coffee shop next door to Flanberger’s.

  “He’ll probably run into Phyllis,” I said. Fortunately, my mom and I had gone in the Monday after prom and paid for the peach dress/curtain. Phyllis had given us her employee discount when I explained the whole thing.

  “She’ll try to sell Mason a dress,” Stella said. “Poor Phyllis.”

  “Poor Mason,” I added with a laugh. “So, you ready?”

  “Let’s go in.”

  I held the door and Stella walked in, using her crutches. She had her favorite boot-cut jeans on, with the one pant leg folded where her leg ended and pinned up to the back belt loop.

  Max was working behind the counter.

  Surprisingly, there was no tattooed girl or any girl at all hovering around him.

  “Blon—Frances! Stella! I saw your name on the appointment list. Okay, first of all, you guys are not eighteen.”

  “Sure I am. In fact, today’s my birthday, which is why I’m here.” Stella reached into her pocket and pulled out the ID that had been delivered to her house the day before. What can I say? I owed Liam Herzog-Williams, and he was happy to do the job.

  “Oh, yeah? Well, uh, happy birthday.” Max walked around from the back of the counter, leaned down, put his hands gently on Stella to steady her, and kissed her. Hard. “Let me check with Rocco, make sure he’s ready.”

  As he walked away, Stella brushed her lips, disbelieving. “I don’t even want to know how many other girls he’s kissed.”

  “No, you don’t.” I thought of the endless parade of girls I’d seen him with on the bike trip. “But was it good anyway?”

  “It kind of was,” Stella admitted.

  “Let’s call it epic. One item down on your list, nine to go,” I said.

  She looked over at me and smiled. “Great, now I have to live up to you? Oh, crap. This is going to hurt, isn’t it?”

  “I’ll be here the whole time,” I said as we followed Max to the piercing room, where Rocco was waiting for us.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  11 People I Need to Thank:

  1.Catherine Wallace, inspired editor of multiple drafts

  2.Jill Grinberg, fabulous agent with history of riding “rolling hills”

  3.Erin Downing, deadline enforcer

  4.Janey Klebe, piercing expert

  5.Kristin Pederson, keeping the crazy at a minimum

  6.Maureen Sackmaster Carpenter, literary cyclist

  7.Dawn Toboja, supporter extraordinaire

  8.Amy Baum, pen-and-paper supplier

  9.Wendy Scherer, riding ahead of me since Ocooch ’95

  10.Ted Davis, tire-changing expert

  11.Cady Davis, because cuteness and “let’s write!”

  EXCERPT FROM HOW TO MEET BOYS

  Turn the page to read the first chapter of Catherine Clark’s

  CHAPTER 1

  Lucy

  “Is this it?”

  “This can’t be it.”

  Mikayla and I climbed out of my car and stood in the gravel driveway.

  It was June 10, our summer vacation had started two and a half days ago, and we’d just driven three hours from Minneapolis to stand outside what was supposed to be our dream house for the summer.

  “The pictures your grandmother sent made it look a lot better,” Mikayla commented.

  I had to agree. The small cabin was painted dark red and had white shutters on a few of the windows—while a few other shutters were hanging off, and one had already fallen to the ground. Pine trees surrounded the house, not letting much sunlight through, and I noticed as I got closer that the paint was peeling in a few places.

  The screen door practically came off its hinges when I opened it. I removed the envelope taped to the door, and inside was a short note from my grandparents, along with the house key.

  WELCOME TO BRIDGEPORT! my grandmother had written in all caps.

  We don’t have a name for this place yet—hoping you girls will think of one as the summer goes on. We know the place needs a little work—we’ve given it a fresh paint job inside, and we’ll help you find more furniture. We’re excited to have you here!

  XXOO Nana & G

  “Should we go in?” asked Mikayla.

  “I guess so. Here goes nothing,” I said as I slid the key into the lock. It didn’t work at first, so I rattled the doorknob a few times until the door swung open—fell open is more like it.

  We walked into a narrow entryway beside a tiny coat closet. I flipped on the lights and saw the living room, dining room, and kitchen all in one glance. We wandered down a hallway that led to the bathroom and two bedrooms, one with two single beds and one with a double bed.

  “Well, it’s small,” said Mikayla as we walked back out to the kitchen, “but it’s cute s
mall.”

  “My mother would call it ‘cozy charm,’” I said, making air quotes. “Rustic cabin with authentic fireplace and huge heart. Massive potential!” I laughed, half at the house and half at the fact I was quoting my mother’s real estate language.

  Mikayla ran her fingers along the kitchen counter, which was made of some prehistoric tile material—in brown. “We can make it look better,” she said. “We just need to invest in some cute accessories.”

  The small town where my grandparents live and have an apple orchard is in northern Minnesota. I love everything about Bridgeport, from its old-fashioned street signs to the lakeside cafés. I even love the slow-moving traffic, as long as I’m not the one driving in it.

  But this house? I wasn’t so sure.

  I poked around the kitchen. My grandparents had furnished the place sparingly, with some dishes, a coffeemaker, a well-used toaster oven, and dish towels. In the living room there was a flowered upholstered chair that I remembered from my grandparents’ porch—the faded material was a giveaway—and two folding beach chairs, with an upside-down cardboard box for a coffee table and a couple of floor lamps that also looked like castoffs.

  The rest was going to be up to us, or we could spend the summer living in what looked like the set from a depressing one-act play. That no one would ever go see.

  There was no TV, but Mikayla and I both had our computers, so if we could ever get Wi-Fi here, we’d be set . . . but right now I wasn’t counting on that. Instead, I figured I’d be doing a lot of reading over the summer, which was fine with me. I wanted to get ahead in a couple of my fall AP classes and be ready for the college-level courses I’d take in the winter and spring. Plus, there were college applications to think about, essays to write . . . Why did I suddenly get the feeling this was going to be an Abraham Lincoln summer? Me, a candle, a pen, some paper . . . and a brilliant speech that I could trot out when I became valedictorian.