The Vow

by Jessica Martinez

  “Come on, man,” Bryce says. “You gotta be roasting.”

  “I’ve gotta be roasting?” Bryce’s skin is pink and glistening. Another ten minutes in the sun and he’ll be a walking blister. “I can practically hear your skin sizzling.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You smell like bacon.”

  “Where’s your girlfriend?” he asks.

  “No clue. Probably back at your house, making your dad’s dinner.”

  It takes him a second; then he grins appreciatively. “Your other girlfriend.”

  Annie is not my girlfriend, and she never will be. Bryce knows this, I know this, and Annie knows this. As for the rest of the world, they’re all idiots. It’s not one of those faux-platonic friendships where one person is secretly obsessed with the other one. And it’s not one of those things where hanging out is peppered with random make-out sessions and periods of hating each other. We just are what we are.

  Annie isn’t ugly. And over the years there’ve been a string of guys, mostly jerks, intrigued enough to pursue, date, and get dumped by her. But that waify, translucent-skinned thing doesn’t do it for me. I need a girl with something to hold on to. A girl with sway in her hips. Like maybe a certain cheerleader who’s temporarily distracted by a passing douchebag, but who will come to her senses any day now. For example.

  The only sway Annie’s got is accidental. I love her and all, but she walks like a double-jointed robot, and she’s so skinny a gust of wind could level her.

  Besides, if Annie and I ever got together like that, the inevitable breakup would kill us.

  “Fine,” Bryce says. “Where is that chick you’re always with who isn’t your girlfriend?”

  “Interviewing.”

  “In there?”

  “No, at your proctologist’s.”

  “I don’t know what a proctologist is.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I say. “Yeah, she’s in there.”

  “Seriously? Mr. Twister? Why would anyone do that to their summer?”

  I shrug. Bryce is from tobacco. Every year he watches the Derby from the shaded seats at Churchill Downs. I’ve seen him on TV, positioned between his mother (wearing an acid-trip-inspired hat) and his father (red-faced and drinking mint juleps until they become jint muleps). If Bryce doesn’t understand the economics behind employment—as in, people have to work to eat—it’s because his parents can pay for the horse, the stable, the riding lessons, and the summer polo camp in Argentina, which is what he’s doing for the entire month of July.

  “Hey, didn’t Annie work in your dad’s lab last summer?”

  I clear my throat. “Yeah, he’s working on a different project this summer.” In reality, my dad’s prosthetics research company has taken an economic kidney shot and is barely solvent. Not worth explaining to Bryce. “Are you finished with finals?”

  “Yeah. I just took precalc.”

  “How’d it go?”

  He chews his lip. “I’m still not exactly sure what precalc is, so . . .”

  “Hmm.”

  “Hey, where’s your sister?” he asks.

  “My sister? Poach elsewhere, idiot.”

  “Chill out. Yesterday she told Natalie she’d bring some old ballet shoes for her to see, and now Natalie won’t stop bugging me about them. And if you haven’t noticed, Sarina’s not exactly my type. A little too ethnic. No offense.”

  No offense. I hide the wince. It’s just Bryce. 180-pound Bryce, who’s afraid of spiders. Bryce, who brings his sister Natalie, who has Down syndrome, along on 7-Eleven runs and to the movies. Yes, he’s undeniably stupid, but he isn’t a bigot, even if he does open his fat mouth and insert his size-thirteen foot all the time, without even knowing it.

  “None taken,” I say.

  Bryce has his qualities. He’s loyal. He punched that Taylorsville dropout who called me a towelhead. And he’s the best alibi in the world when I’m hanging out with Annie, who my parents are convinced is plotting to trick me into getting her pregnant. It’s typical Muslim-American paranoia, and even though they’re barely practicing (as in the last religious thing they did was name me Mohammed), the thought of a baby out of wedlock with a white girl makes them physically ill.

  Bryce, however, they love because he’s rich and there’s very little chance I’m going to get him pregnant. He doesn’t mind lying to them, and he does a pretty convincing job of it too, except when he forgets that he’s supposed to be covering. But even then he just comes across as stupid. It’s very believable.

  “Maybe you’re right,” he says. “Maybe I am getting a sunburn. Let’s go in.”

  I slide the textbook into my backpack. A little AC would be nice. “I don’t know if Annie wants me in there. It might make her nervous.”

  “We’ll sit in a corner. She won’t even see us.”

  I get out of the truck. Sunlight hits my eyes, and I force myself to squint through the glare, following Bryce through the lawn crowd. He says over his shoulder, “I just realized how much this summer is gonna rule with Annie working here. Unlimited free custard.”

  “What, like you can’t afford to buy it?”

  He shrugs. “Free is free. You don’t think she’ll hook us up?”

  “No offense, but Annie’s not going to give you anything. Ever. Just in case you get the wrong idea. Again.”

  He shrugs.

  Bryce has made horrifically genuine passes at Annie at least once a year since seventh grade, but the rejection hasn’t seemed to damage his self-esteem. One attempt included plagiarized poetry on cologne-drenched paper.

  He takes the steps two at a time. “But she’ll give you free custard, right? You can just ask for two spoons.”

  “Wrong.”

  He goes in. I follow and let the smell of waffle cone swallow me whole. It’s Mr. Twister’s sole redeeming quality.

  A couple of months after we moved to the States, my parents took Sarina and me to Disney World. We ended up spending half the day doing It’s a Small World over and over—Sarina’s choice. She was mesmerized, but the eerie mechanical smiles and robotic swiveling heads screwed with my ten-year-old brain. I had nightmares for longer than I care to admit. I only have to walk into Mr. Twister, and it’s like I’m sitting in that mint-green boat staring into the eyes of creepy motorized marionettes all over again.

  I don’t see Annie, which is good. I don’t want her to think I’m checking up on her—she hates that her parents are always doing that. She must be in the back, so we stand in line and make it to the front before I realize I’m screwed in the usual way. “I don’t have money,” I mumble but check my pockets anyway. Nothing. Clearly, I’m the one who should be getting a job, not Annie. If only my dad didn’t have other plans for my summer. Plans involving scientific slavery at his lab. Unpaid plans.

  “No worries,” Bryce says.

  My parents aren’t poor; in fact, my grandparents in Jordan are stinking rich, but there is no trickle-down effect in the Hussein financial plan, so I have no discretionary funds. Ironically, my parents fear what terrible shame I might bring on them if I had an extra twenty bucks every once in a while. But what they should fear is the terrible shame I might bring on them for shoplifting or selling drugs or plasma or semen or whatever else I have that can be traded for enough cash to buy a measly cup of frozen custard once in a while.

  Bryce hands me five bucks.

  “Thanks,” I say. “I’m not putting out at the end of this.”

  “Don’t worry, you’re not my type either.”

  I get a cone, and Bryce gets a Peanut Butter Hurricane. It’s bigger than his head. “Coach said more protein,” he says.

  “Yeah, I’m sure that’s what he had in mind.”

  We find a booth in the corner and watch the staff try to appease the never-ending line.

  “How long has she been in there?” he asks, tunneling into the Hurricane with his plastic spoon.

  “A while. I’m sure it’s a very thorough process. They’ve
probably finished the obstacle course and are administering the polygraph right now.”

  “Or one of those inkblot tests to weed out the crazies,” he says.

  “Rorschach.”

  “Ro-what? I don’t even know what language you’re speaking.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Oh, there she is,” he says, pointing his spoon over my shoulder.

  I turn, and at first I don’t see her, but then I do. She’s coming out of the back room behind some schmuck wearing the peach apron. Poor guy. No ruffles like the ones the girls have to wear, but still.

  She’s smiling.

  Then she looks at me, and I have to smile too. Because even though it’s still catastrophically stupid for her to walk in here and apply for her dead sister’s old job, I can’t not smile back at Annie.

  Chapter 3

  Annie

  Smile for me,” I say.

  “What makes you think I’m not smiling?”

  He’s not. I can hear it through the phone. “Come on, Mo.”

  “And why should I smile?” he asks. “It’s not funny.”

  “It’s kind of funny. I mean, can you picture Bryce in some Grecian steam bath with a bunch of naked old men? Come on. That’s funny.”

  “Not when he’s supposed to be at basketball camp with me. We’ve been planning this since last summer. Now I’m going to have to room with some loser who couldn’t manage to get a roommate.”

  “Like yourself ?”

  “I had a roommate. And if Bryce’s grandpa wasn’t such a manipulative old fart, I’d still have a roommate.”

  “Spending a month in Greece is sort of a once-in-a-lifetime thing,” I say, not sure why I’m defending Bryce. He’s such an oaf. Harmless, but embarrassing, the way he keeps making me reject him and then coming back for more. It makes me feel like a jerk.

  “Yeah, but he’s already spending July in Argentina at polo camp. How many once-in-a-lifetime things can a rich kid really enjoy in one summer? Never mind. I don’t care.”

  He sounds very much like he cares. It’s been a full week since school let out, and Mo is still caring way too much about everything. The keyboard clicks in the background. “Are you on Facebook right now?” I ask.

  “No.”

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  “I’m not. I’m cycling the Danube.”

  I pause. “I don’t even know what that means.”

  “Nationalgeographic.com. They strap a camera onto a bike and ride it down the Danube.”

  “Oh, so you feel like you’re really there.”

  “I am really there.”

  “Of course.” National Geographic is Mo’s internet addiction of choice. It feeds his inner know-it-all.

  “Pop quiz,” he says. “Name one of the four European capitals that the Danube passes through.”

  “Lima.”

  “Not funny.”

  “Paris?”

  “Annie, you’ve got to know this stuff if we’re going to win.”

  Mo thinks we’re in training for The Amazing Race. His optimism would be sweet if it didn’t come along with pop quizzes on Asian currencies and African flags and other stuff I have no idea about. I’ve been informed we’re making our audition tape in February, as soon as he’s eighteen.

  “You memorize the European capitals,” I say. “I’ll mentally prepare to eat the camel testicles.”

  “Deal. You should check this Danube thing out, though. It’s kind of amazing.”

  “I’m sure it is. Too bad I’m not in front of a computer, or I’d be all over that.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Driving. My mom sent me to the plant nursery, and now I’ve got a truckful of baby trees and cow crap.”

  “Tasty.”

  “Yeah. Oh, and I also stopped at Myrna’s to pick up paint. I’m starting the coral this afternoon.”

  “Cool,” Mo says, sounding bored.

  I pretend not to hear it and launch into an explanation of how Myrna’s Country Craft had the exact shades I need for my ocean mural—seaweed lime, midnight magenta, burnt tangerine. Deep down he cares.

  And it doesn’t matter if it doesn’t thrill Mo, because it thrills me. It took a year of begging before my parents finally agreed to let me paint my bedroom walls, and now the ocean is seeping its way in, one drop at a time. I work slowly. Two whole months ago I pried the lid off the first can of paint, and I’ve only just finished the background. But rushing through—what would be the point in that?

  The water was tricky, but I think it’s nearly perfect now. I’ve got ribbons of nine different blues, each about six inches thick, weaving in and out of each other but never ending, so they’re flowing continuously around the entire room. I wanted the shades to be separate but twisted, distinct, like strips of fabric swirled into one fluid whole. And they are. Standing in the center of the room and turning a slow circle feels like being caught in a whirlpool.

  “So after the coral I’ll do anemones and then start the fish,” I say. “The library book I found has over two hundred different species, and at first I was just going to pick a dozen or so, but don’t you think it’d be cool if I had one of every single kind? Mo?”

  I fiddle with the Bluetooth in my ear. First Mom insists no cell while I’m driving, then Dad goes and buys me the earpiece—it’s schizophrenic parenting at its worst. Or best.

  “I don’t know. When do I get to see it?”

  “Nobody sees it until it’s done.”

  “Nobody? Not even your parents?”

  “They respect my need for artistic privacy.”

  He snorts.

  “And maybe they don’t care,” I add. “So I’m torn, because if I draw fish in schools like they are in the ocean, I’m limited to fewer species, but if I make every fish different, it isn’t accurate.”

  “Since when does art have to be accurate?”

  “Exactly,” I say. “Occasionally you say the right thing, and then everything makes sense.”

  “Occasionally? I always say the right thing.” His keyboard clicks in the background again. “And I say screw accuracy and go for a million different species.”

  “Two hundred, and I think I will. Hey, how was the lab?”

  “I’m filing. It’s so boring, I spent most of the day wondering if I could slit my wrists with paper.”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “That might be classified as a call for help, as opposed to a genuine suicide attempt.”

  “Maybe. So are you ready to kill yourself over at Herr Twister’s yet?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe I should get a job there too.”

  “Ha.”

  “We could wear frilly aprons together,” he says, “and have minimarshmallow fights and drink free bubble-gum-flavored milk shakes.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t think they’d hire me?” he asks.

  “I don’t think you can be nice to people all day long.”

  “I can be nice.”

  “All day, Mo. Think about it. Even when a customer asks to sample every single flavor and then gets the first one. Or just uses the bathroom and leaves without getting anything.”

  “You’re right. I can’t do that.”

  “I know,” I say.

  “I’m kind of stressing out here as it is.”

  “About Bryce bailing on you?”

  “No. My dad is acting weird.”

  “What does acting weird mean?”

  “I don’t know. Tense. Distracted.”

  I swallow. The Husseins make me nervous.

  Mrs. Hussein wears heels to the grocery store and carries a slim alligator-skin clutch. Her moisturizer is French and comes in an exotic gold tube the size of my thumb (so maybe I’ve done a little bathroom snooping), and I can’t even pronounce the name, but it smells expensive. Like spicy flowers.

  She doesn’t try to fit in. She must see that the other women here wear heels to church and church only. And t
hey carry purses big enough to hold an umbrella, a can of Mace, and a Bible. It’s economy-size Lubriderm for all their moisturizing needs, and when they go to Applebee’s for girls’ night out, they don’t invite women who smell like France.

  As for Mr. Hussein, the man is granite. I’d be surprised if he’s had a feeling in the last decade. I don’t even think he knows my name, but I’m pretty sure he hates me.

  “What do you think he’s worried about?” I ask.

  “No clue. It’s weird. We talk all the time, but it’s only about school and next year and college, and he’s the only one who gets to ask questions. Forget it. So, is your boss nice?”

  I readjust my bracelets, and they jangle against the steering wheel. “Yeah. His name’s Phil, but everyone calls him Soup.”

  “As in chicken noodle?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s weird.”

  “I know. But he’s nice. I dripped butterscotch all over the floor today, and he didn’t get mad at me.”

  “Did he recognize your last name?”

  The question startles me, and it takes me a second to realize I’m supposed to answer it. I have to release my breath to speak. “No. He hasn’t been managing the place for very long, though. He’s only lived in E-town a couple of years, I think. Whatever. Hey, question for you: Is it weird to friend someone on Facebook that you barely know? Like someone you just met and see all the time, but don’t actually know?”

  Mo is silent, and I hear more clicking computer keys. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “A guy at work. I don’t want him to think I like him or anything. And it’s not like we’re friends or like he even actually talks to me, but—”

  “So then why do you want to friend him?”

  I hesitate. “I don’t know. I guess I just . . .”

  “Got it. Summer. Custard. Love is in the air.”

  “It’s not like that.”

  He laughs. “Sure it isn’t.”

  “Never mind,” I mutter.

  “Now I want to see this guy. What did you say his name was? Chicken Noodle?”