Promise Me Something

by Sara Kocek

  “I’m a lousy nurse.”

  “Shhh.” Dad was probably hugging her, stroking her hair.

  I understood why she was overwhelmed, but it annoyed me all the same. Lucy had been driving the car when the accident happened—she was the one who blew the stop sign, and it was her fault Dad needed a nurse now. What gave her the right to complain? Retreating to my room, I headed straight for my laptop. Google loaded slowly as I stared at the screen. How to get your dad to break up with his girlfriend, I typed.

  The doorbell rang again. Like an automatic reflex, I closed the browser and stared at the turquoise wallpaper on my desktop. Dad and Lucy would get the door. It would be the Chinese food this time, and we would all sit down around the kitchen table to eat dinner together for the first time in days. There would be two portions of mu shu pork, Dad’s favorite, and I knew he’d offer all of it to Lucy. At least it wasn’t pizza.

  I startled when I heard Lucy call from the front door, “Reyna! It’s for you!” I stood and walked out of my room, confused. Did she want me to pay the delivery guy?

  But as I rounded the corner and looked down the hallway, my heart leapt. Abby, not the delivery guy, stood in the doorway with Tupperware in her hands. Her long cinnamon-brown hair was pulled into a ponytail with little wisps flying around her face. Outside, Mrs. Stewart waited in their minivan, the engine still running.

  “Abby!” I called, rushing to the door. “What are you doing here?”

  “I can’t stay,” she said. “But I brought your favorite.” She indicated the Tupperware.

  “Chocolate toffee bark?” I took the container from her and peered inside. Sure enough, it was filled with slabs of caramelized dark chocolate. Leaning in to squeeze her around the shoulders, I said, “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

  “They’re just leftovers,” said Abby. But she was grinning, and I had a feeling she’d baked them just for me. I missed her so much right then. I wanted to drag her to my room and never let her leave. We’d talk for hours just like we used to, analyzing our old teachers and naming our future children. Then we’d watch American Idol with Dad. He would stick up for all the terrible singers while Abby and I booed them. Lucy would leave, and everything would be back to normal.

  But at that moment, the delivery guy pulled into our driveway and honked. Mrs. Stewart was in his way. “I better go,” said Abby, leaning in to hug me again. There were strands of golden retriever hair stuck to her fleece jacket from her dog, Gizmo. The familiarity of it made my throat squeeze up.

  “Can’t you stay for dinner?” I asked. “We’re having Chinese food.”

  Abby turned to face the driveway. From the front seat of her car, Mrs. Stewart held up her wrist and tapped the face of her watch.

  “She can wait five minutes. Let’s go to your room,” Abby said, grabbing my wrist. “I have something to show you.”

  I followed as she tugged me down the hall. She was already taking out her phone and scrolling through the photo library by the time we got to my room. “You’re not going to believe this,” she said, holding out her phone so I could see the screen. “Look what Leah got this morning when she was supposed to be in science with me and Madison.”

  I stared at a photo of someone’s ankle with seven pink stars drawn in the shape of the Big Dipper. Then it hit me. “Is that a tattoo?”

  Abby nodded.

  “Oh my God.” I felt my mouth drop open. “How—where did she—”

  “Micah,” said Abby. That was all the explanation I needed. Micah was Leah’s older brother, and he had six tattoos of his own. He probably knew just where to take her that didn’t require parental permission.

  “Wow,” I said. “How is Madison taking it?”

  “Oh, you know Madison.” Abby cracked a smile. “She practically threw a tantrum.”

  I tried not to laugh. After all, it wasn’t funny. Madison and Leah were planning to get matching tattoos when they turned eighteen. For Leah to get one first was unheard of.

  “Anyway, I have to go,” said Abby. “I just wanted to show you the photo.”

  “Her mom and dad must be pissed too,” I said. I didn’t want Abby to leave. I wracked my brain for something else to talk about—some reason she should stay.

  “Not as much as Madison.” Abby smiled. “But anyway, don’t tell them I showed you the picture. Leah wants to show you herself.”

  Mrs. Stewart honked in the driveway.

  “Gotta go.” Abby leaned in to give me another hug. Then, before I could think of another excuse to delay the inevitable, she was gone.

  On Wednesday, Olive was in a good mood.

  “Rarrrrrr,” she said as I sat down next to her in home-room before the first period bell. “I hear you’re making a Power-Point presentation about my conquest of northeast Asia. Rarrrrrr.”

  I laughed. “What are you, a dinosaur?”

  “I am Genghis Khan, the punishment of God. I have come to pillage and plunder your village. You will surrender to my empire. Rarrrrrr.”

  I laughed again. Olive could be such a dork when she was in a good mood. It was kind of endearing, like how Abby and Madison used to pretend to talk to each other in Parseltongue whenever Abby’s mom was nearby.

  “Seriously,” she said, smiling. “When are we going to work on our project if you have to be with your dad constantly?”

  Behind her, a group of girls was whispering loudly. She turned a little farther in her chair to face me, ignoring them.

  “We can do it this afternoon,” I told her. “My dad’s girlfriend is back in town.”

  Olive started to say, “I live on Cedar Street—” when the girls behind her erupted into giggles. “What?” she gave in, turning around. “What is it?”

  More giggling.

  “I’m not stupid.” She gripped the back of her chair. “I can hear you.”

  “And we can hear you too,” said a tall girl named Gretchen. She crossed her eyes and imitated Olive’s growl. “Rarrrrrr.”

  Olive pursed her lips. “Is that all?”

  “No,” said Gretchen. “I want to know why you’re wearing that uniform. This isn’t a private school, Olive Garden.” She laughed. “I mean—Olive Barton.”

  Olive’s cheeks flushed, but she didn’t back down. “Very funny. My name sounds like an Italian restaurant. You’re so original, Gretchen.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  Olive smoothed her pleated skirt. “It’s not a uniform if no one else wears it.”

  “Whatever,” said Gretchen.

  Olive stared at them for a second then turned around. “They are so deeply irrelevant,” she told me. But the pink in her cheeks betrayed her.

  I had the urge to say that the name Gretchen reminded me of a witch—that’s what I would have said to Abby to make her feel better. But something told me Olive’s good mood had vanished. Instead I blurted, “Why do you wear pleated skirts?” What I meant was, what are you trying to prove?

  “Do me a favor, Reyna.” Olive glanced over at the second hand on the clock, which was climbing steadily toward the twelve. I could see her eyeballs following it upward. The bell would ring at any moment.

  “OK,” I said. “What?”

  She grabbed her backpack and stood up. “Follow your better nature.”

  Olive’s house was big and clean, with large abstract paintings that resembled parts of the human digestive tract. When I stepped in, I was hit with a blast of air conditioning.

  “Walk fast,” she instructed. “My room’s upstairs.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  She rolled her eyes. “Because it is.”

  I meant why are we walking fast? But I didn’t get a chance to say so. Before I could, a door opened at the end of the hallway and a woman in a faux-silk nightgown stepped out. She was wearing hair curlers and carrying a glass of wine.

  She was obviously Olive’s mom. They looked exactly alike: the thin, angular face, the dull blond hair. Only her smile was different. It w
as wide and artificially white, like something from a toothpaste commercial. I heard Olive groan, barely audible. “Hi, Mom,” she said.

  Mrs. Barton was beaming at me. “What do we have here?”

  “Hi—” I started to say, but Olive cut me off.

  “Mom, this is Reyna. Reyna, this is my mother.” She moved a step closer toward the staircase. “We’re going upstairs to work on our homework.”

  “Pleasure.” Mrs. Barton stepped forward and extended a thin, bony hand.

  “Mom, we have work to do,” Olive said, grabbing hold of the railing along the staircase. “We’ll be in my room.” She stomped up loudly.

  “Can I bring you a plate of cookies?” Mrs. Barton called after her, but Olive didn’t answer.

  “No thanks,” I said and followed Olive up the stairs.

  Olive was waiting for me at the top, standing in front of one of the bedroom doors. “Welcome to my prison,” she said as she pushed open the door.

  The room looked expensive and frilly, like it had been decorated years ago when Olive was in kindergarten. Everything was done in shades of white—the lacy bedspread, the curtains, the wicker dresser—except for the carpet and the throw pillows on the bed, which were the pale green color of sea foam. There were no posters on the walls, no books or magazines on the bookshelves, no stuffed animals on the bed—no trace of Olive whatsoever. There was only one book on her bedside table: Anna Karenina.

  Olive didn’t say anything at first. She was closing the door and pulling off her shoes and socks. Once she tossed them in the direction of the hamper, she muttered, “My mom’s such a fake. Do we want a plate of cookies? Who does she think she is? Betty Crocker?”

  “She seems nice enough,” I said, sitting down on her bed. It was softer than mine; the kind that swallows you up.

  “Of course she does,” said Olive. “To you.”

  While I took off my shoes and set them neatly on the carpet, Olive walked over to the bedside table and picked up her book. “Tolstoy says that all happy families are alike.” She thumbed through the first few pages. “And yet every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way. Doesn’t that suck?”

  “Why?” I said.

  “Life is lonely enough already!” Olive burst out. “You shouldn’t have to worry about being the only freak in the world with your particular problems.”

  The outburst reminded me of the time in fifth grade when Abby got angry at a book just for having the word crazy in the title. That was the day I found out she was adopted, and that her birth mother was mentally ill. Abby had been sitting on that secret for years just because she thought people would tease her for it. “You’re not the only freak with your particular problems,” I said to Olive. “Someone out there is going through it too. Trust me.”

  “Thanks.” As she gave me a small smile, my mind jumped forward to the idea of inviting her to a sleepover with Abby and me. We’d have a lot to talk about when it came to our mothers.

  But her face hardened quickly into a mask, the smile vanishing as quickly as it had come. “Anyway, let’s not talk about my mom,” she said, pulling our history textbook out of her backpack. “It’ll only depress you, and you’ll never want to come back here.”

  “It won’t depress me.” I wanted to tell her about Abby’s birth mother, and how I’d heard much worse, but Olive shook her head.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

  “Tell you what?” she burst out. “That my mom’s drunk at three in the afternoon? I would think it was obvious.”

  “Oh.” I felt like an idiot. So that was why Mrs. Barton was acting so friendly.

  “Take a look at this.” Pulling open the bottom drawer of a bright white filing cabinet, Olive showed me two bottles of whiskey, one bottle of vodka, and half a bottle of coconut rum. “This is what I’ve confiscated so far this week. And it’s only Wednesday.”

  I hardly knew what to say. “She’s an alcoholic?”

  “Ding, ding, ding!” Olive clapped, a glint in her eye. “Give the girl a prize!”

  “How often does she drink?” I couldn’t even remember the last time I saw Dad open a bottle of wine. Alcohol gave him headaches.

  “Reyna, it’s not really a question of how often. It’s how much.”

  “I know,” I said. “But—”

  “Look, it’s not that complicated,” Olive snapped. “She drinks. She gets angry. She says things she regrets. She drinks more. Do you want to start by taking notes on the Genghis Khan chapter? We can share my book.”

  “Relax!” I said. “I was just asking.” So much for the sleepover idea. Olive was like a clam—every time I caught a glimpse of her softer side, she snapped herself shut.

  “Sorry.” Her eyes looked clouded. “Can we just do our work?”

  We lay down side by side on our stomachs, the sea-foam carpet itchy against my elbows, as Olive flipped open her book to the section on ancient Mongolia. “You write down dates and names,” she instructed, uncapping a ballpoint pen. “I’ll look for the bigger picture stuff.”

  I almost protested, but the look on her face shut me up. So I read a paragraph summarizing the nomadic tribes of northeast Asia and had just barely gotten to the first mention of Genghis Khan when Olive finished reading the whole spread. “Tell me when I can flip,” she said, waiting with her thumb and forefinger on the corner of the page.

  “Flip,” I sighed. “Whatever.”

  The clock on her wall ticked quietly above us as we worked, and before I knew it, my dad was honking in the driveway.

  I’m glad you didn’t…you know…

  What, blow my brains out?

  Pretty much, yeah.

  I’m glad you didn’t either.

  How have you been since then?

  Fine, I guess.

  How have you really been?

  I swear to God, better.

  Then promise me something, and I’ll promise the same to you.

  I don’t even know you.

  Never. Lie. To. Me.

  October

  3.

  It was Saturday night, and Leah was sitting at the foot of her bed, braiding Madison’s hair, while Abby sat cross-legged on the floor behind me, combing my hair with her fingers. We were taking turns giving each other French braids, but as usual, it wasn’t about hair. Leah and Madison talked about boys and gossip while Abby tried to psychoanalyze all of us. As for me, I loved falling into rabbit hole conversations—those weird, quasi-philosophical discussions that anybody besides the four of us would have found stupid.

  Abby straightened my part with her fingernail. “So, Reyna,” she said. “Have you made any new friends yet at Belltown?” Her psychoanalysis had begun.

  “Sort of,” I answered, hoping to leave it at that. At our last sleepover, we talked about whether colors looked the same to different people, and how it felt lonely to live in a world where you couldn’t be sure. I would have rather gone down that rabbit hole again.

  But Leah spoke up a little too quickly, giving the conversation a rehearsed feel. “Belltown has super lame people,” she said with a furtive glance at Abby. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it takes you a while to find your crowd, Reyna. Don’t feel bad.”

  They were obviously worried about me; otherwise they wouldn’t have prepared talking points to make me feel better. My cheeks prickled. I didn’t need their pity.

  “You must have met some people,” prompted Madison, eyeing me from the bed.

  “I have,” I sighed. If they were staging an inquisition, there was no avoiding the subject of Olive. “I’ve been eating lunch with someone. It’s just—” I paused to think of the best way to explain it. “Have you ever been friends with someone you don’t really understand?”

  Leah and Madison nodded, pointing at each other. Then they laughed.

  Abby asked, “What don’t you understand about her?”

  I thought of the time Olive threw a pebble at my head, but that
seemed too weird to even describe. “Sometimes I like her,” I said. “She can be funny when she’s in a good mood. But most of the time she’s in a bad mood. And then she’s rude and bossy.”

  “Reyna, you have to stand up for yourself.” Abby tugged on my hair. “Obnoxious people will take advantage of shy people like you.”

  “So true,” said Leah. “Don’t be a doormat.”

  Madison smiled. “Remember the time in fifth grade you let a boy draw on your pants with a sharpie because you felt bad saying no?”

  “Can we talk about something else?” I asked. On Monday, Dad would be going back to work for the first time since his car accident; I would have liked to talk about that—to get the worry off my chest.

  “Sure,” Leah volunteered. “I hooked up with Drew Tubman.”

  “What?” Madison practically fell off the bed.

  Leah giggled. “I’ve been waiting for the right time to tell you guys.”

  I wasn’t sure what was worse—reliving embarrassing memories from elementary school or discussing high school gossip that had nothing to do with me. I decided it wasn’t the right time to bring up my dad going back to work. “Who’s Drew Tubman?” I asked.

  “A sophomore on the varsity soccer team,” said Leah, positively glowing. “I cornered him on the field after Thursday’s match.”

  Madison looked meaningfully at Abby as though to say, I told you this was going to happen. Then she turned back toward Leah. “What base did you guys—”

  “Third.”

  Madison gasped. “In the middle of a soccer field?”

  “On the sidelines.”

  “Wait a minute, which third base?” asked Abby. We all knew it had several possible interpretations ranging from a hand down the pants to full-on oral sex. “A blow job?”

  “The other one.”

  “Are you serious?” Madison’s mouth was hanging open.

  Leah laughed. “You guys will get there soon!” She sounded like a kindergarten teacher consoling a bunch of kids who failed to make it across the monkey bars.