Promise Me Something (14 page)

But Gretchen pulled the basket away before I had a chance to pilfer through it. “You already have one, Reyna,” she said, gesturing at the paper in my hand. “What does it say?”

“Jamie Pollock,” I told her. “But I have to find the resolution I brought. It’s not—”

“Jamie Pollock? Gross.” Gretchen ignored me. “Have you seen that cello? It’s almost as fat as she is.”

“Oh my God, look at this,” added Lennie, pulling up a picture on her phone. She held out an unflattering photo of Jamie trying to shoot a basket in Gym.

“So—date, demolish, or dump?” There was a glint in Gretchen’s eyes. “Your call, Reyna.”

I felt vaguely nauseated as Olive’s voice echoed through my head.
Follow your better nature
. “I don’t know,” I said at last, looking down at my lap. “None of those, I guess.”

“Come on!” said Gretchen. “Jamie’s not a guy, so we can’t date her. And we’ve never been friends, so we can’t dump her. There’s only one option left.”

“Demolish?” All I could think was that at one point Olive had probably played this game until someone wrote her name on a piece of paper and picked
dump
.

“Bingo,” said Lennie. “We resolve to demolish Jamie Pollock.”

“We?” I stared at them. Apparently I was in a beehive, after all.

“Of course,” said Gretchen. “There’s power in numbers. Which is why we also resolve as a group that John Quincy is off limits to the rest of us so that only Lennie can date him.”

The balls of my feet felt itchy. I knew if I wanted to, I could get up. I could walk away. I could call Dad. But if I did, they’d probably demolish me next.

“How can you demolish Jamie if she’s not even popular to begin with?” I asked. Maybe if I pointed out the obvious, they’d drop the issue.

Gretchen’s eyes narrowed. “You can demolish anyone you want. Trust me.”

“My turn,” said Emma, reaching for the basket. When she pulled out my yellow sticky note, I felt my heart drop straight through my stomach.

“Read more books,” she read out loud. “What is this, school?”

“I didn’t know—”

“It’s OK, Reyna.” Gretchen gave me a gentle, patronizing pat on the arm. “You’ll know what to do next year.”

If you haven’t dumped me by then
, I thought. Life inside the beehive was dangerous.

New York City?

Eventually.

But it’s so noisy and crowded.

That’s the way I like it.

A New Year’s resolution isn’t a place. It’s a commitment. Like “Stop drinking when you puke.” If you’re my mom, I mean.

A place can be a commitment.

What would you do once you got there?

I already told you. Be free.

You’re free now.

I might buy a ticket if I can find the money.

Seriously??? Don’t leave.

Don’t worry. Even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t have anywhere to stay.

Let’s wait for summer. We can go together.

I don’t know if I’ll be around that long.

Don’t talk like that.

I just mean I might not be staying with you all the way until the summer.

Oh. I thought you meant…

I know.

S
o, you’re Catholic?”

Levi Siegel scuttled toward me on a tiny plastic scooter, propelling himself forward against the gymnasium floor with the palms of his hands.

“Yeah,” I said. “Who told you?”

“A little bird.”

It was our first day back from winter break, and we were racing scooters in Gym. Levi had positioned himself last in line so that he could race with me to the orange cone at the end of the track. It was far more face time than we usually had in Gym. Normally he was part of the group of guys who disappeared into the weight training room while the girls played volleyball or indoor soccer. But today, scooter racing was mandatory.

“Little birds don’t speak English,” I said, crossing my legs on my scooter and inching forward toward the front of the line. There were four people ahead of us waiting to race.

“I have my sources,” said Levi, smiling mischievously. “Are you
Catholic
, Catholic?” He unfolded his legs and stretched them out in front of the scooter, almost toppling sideways as his center of gravity shifted.

“Trying to be,” I said. “But not always succeeding.” After all, instead of going to Mass on Christmas, I’d stayed at home feeling sorry for myself. “What are you?” I asked Levi.

He laughed. “The same as you, except Jewish. I’m trying to be
Jewish
Jewish.”

I looked down at my lap and smiled. “I guess it’s all the same God anyway.”

“Yeah, and I owe him one.” Levi rolled forward on his scooter. “For making you my scooter racing partner today.”

I felt my cheeks heat up. I
always
wanted
to flirt, but I never knew what to say. Fortunately, I didn’t have to. There was a loud whistle as a tall redheaded girl beat her partner to the finish line.

“You’re probably going to win,” said Levi, eying the orange cones that made up the racetrack. “You’re small. Your legs won’t fall off the scooter.”

“But your weight will give you momentum,” I said. “I’ll have to push twice as hard to go just as fast as you.”

“True.” He began folding his legs on his scooter as I readied myself in the crab-legged position. Then he asked, “What do I get if I win?”

“Hmmm.” I thought for a second. “The satisfaction of knowing you’re a really good thruster?” It was simultaneously the dumbest and most flirtatious thing I’d ever said in my life.

He laughed.

“What about me?” I hoped my face wasn’t too red. “What do I get if I win?”

He didn’t even blink. “Ice cream after school on Friday.”

A loud whistle screeched as we rolled toward the starting line, and Mr. Graham bellowed, “On your marks…get set…
Go!
”

I propelled myself forward—shot in a straight line down the track—yanking my feet up onto the scooter so my legs wouldn’t touch the ground. I was going fast enough at first to feel a breeze against my face, but it only lasted a few seconds. My momentum slowed halfway down the track as I began swooping my arms in the butterfly stroke to keep myself moving. Behind me, a few feet to my left, I heard Levi catching up, so I bent low at the waist to make myself as compact as possible. I rolled forward, tucking my arms at my side, closing in on the finish line in a diagonal path. A few people cheered as I thrust my chest forward to propel me the few extra inches toward the final orange cone. When I looked back, I saw Levi a couple of feet behind me, butt on the floor, his scooter toppled beside him. He was grinning from ear to ear.

“You win,” he said.

In History, Mr. Murphy handed back our documentary on the Peloponnesian War. It was the first time I’d been forced to make eye contact with Olive since we handed in our project before winter break. Olive had finished editing the video herself, and I never saw the final product. This time, we had to peer at a piece of paper that had a big
C+
scribbled at the top in red marker. Underneath, it said:
Creative idea, sloppy execution
.

“Oh well,” said Olive, crumpling the page in her fist. “It could’ve been an A if I’d had a little help with the editing.”

“I would have helped if you’d asked,” I said. “I could have posted it online like Mr. Murphy wanted.”

“That’s not the hard part,” she snapped. “It took me two seconds to put it on YouTube.”

I didn’t say anything; I just turned around and stared at the front of the room as Mr. Murphy drew a Venn diagram on the blackboard labeled,
Modern Democracy vs. Plato’s Republic
. Our assignment for the period was to compare and contrast the two.

John Quincy—the guy Lennie had resolved to date—spoke up from the back of the room. “Wait, what does Play-Doh have to do with anything?”

Everyone laughed except for Mr. Murphy. “You think you’re funny, Quincy?”

John grinned.

“Here.” Mr. Murphy crossed the room and fished the Dr. Seuss hat out of his desk. “You want to be the class clown, I have just the hat for you.”

He tossed it across the room and John caught it, still smiling.

“Wipe that smile off your face,” said Mr. Murphy. “And don’t even think about taking off the hat until the end of the period.”

As John pulled the bottom of the Dr. Seuss hat over his ears, the top flopped over and partially covered the word
Sissy
. He tried to straighten the top half, but it kept folding over, and the more attempts he made to adjust it, the more the class laughed. John seemed to love the attention, grinning as he moved the hat back and forth.

“Enough!” Mr. Murphy looked murderous. “Nobody look at Quincy!”

“But he’s wearing the hat,” said Levi. “Isn’t that the point?”

Mr. Murphy had no answer. He just growled and told us to break into groups to do our assignment. This time I didn’t even think of turning around to ask Olive if she wanted to work together. Instead, I turned around to make eye contact with Lennie King just as Levi flicked a tiny piece of eraser in my direction and called, “Hey, Reyna!”

People were getting up out of their seats to move around the room, so I flagged over Lennie and met her in front of Levi’s desk. “Do you guys want to work together?” I asked.

“How about a group of four?” Lennie said, looking hopefully at John Quincy.

“Cool,” said John. So we pulled our desks into a square and started working. Levi and I came up with a list of characteristics about democracy while John came up with a list of characteristics about Lennie. Then he curled a strip of paper into a circle and placed it on her head. “I crown you Miss California,” he announced while she pretended to read her textbook. “The tallest state in the country for the tallest girl in the class.”

Lennie laughed, her cheeks pink.

“How tall are you, Reyna?” John asked, turning to face me. “Four-foot-eleven? You’re the opposite of Lennie. You can be Miss Rhode Island.”

“I’m five-foot-two, thank you very much.” I pushed a pencil toward him. “
Work
.”

“I can’t work!” he said. “This stupid hat keeps falling in my eyes.”

“So take it off,” said Lennie. “You should refuse to wear it. I’d like to see the expression on Murphy’s face.”

“Yeah right.” John cracked a smile. “Like that homo last year?”

“What homo?” I asked. Only when I saw Levi’s startled expression, I regretted my word choice. “I mean, who are you talking about?”

“The freak in the padded cell at Silver Hills,” said John. “He refused to wear the hat, and look where he ended up.”

I put down my pencil, surprised. So Olive had been right about that rumor after all.

“Everybody knows that guy was crazy to begin with,” said Lennie. “Mr. Murphy just sent him over the edge.”

“Guys, is anybody but me actually doing work?” asked Levi.

Feeling bad, I grabbed my pencil and leaned over our diagram. But John pulled it away before I could read anything. “Doesn’t this look like a butt?” he asked, pointing at the two overlapping circles.

Levi and I exchanged an eye roll while Lennie laughed. Clearly, the assignment was going to take a while. It was only halfway through the period—when Mr. Murphy left the room to make photocopies of our homework—that I finally stole a glance behind me to see who had the misfortune of working with Olive. To my surprise, she hadn’t joined a group. She was sitting alone at her desk, scribbling in her ratty, red moleskin notebook. At the corner of her desk, on a loose-leaf page, sat a finished Venn diagram.

Lennie saw where I was looking and tapped me on the arm with her pencil. “She thinks she’s so smart,” she whispered. “Just because she finished first.”

John glanced up. “Who? Olive Garden?”

Hearing her name, Olive stopped writing at once.

“You know which state she is, right?” John said, not taking care to lower his voice. “Florida. Flat and skinny.”

Olive didn’t look up. She just tore out a page from her notebook and crumpled it in her fist. Then she tossed the wad of paper into her backpack, leaned over her notebook again, and started writing something else.

My group turned our attention back to the Venn diagram in Levi’s notebook. Only this time I shifted my chair so I could keep an eye on Olive. She kept scribbling away, occasionally tearing out pages, crumpling them, and throwing them into the open mouth of her backpack.

Except on the fourth time, she missed. The balled-up wad of paper bounced off the backpack and rolled a couple of feet away on the floor. In an instant, Lennie swooped down, grabbed it, and threw it at my lap. I felt my eyes snap toward Olive’s. She had dropped her pencil on her desk and was staring at me, her face white with rage.

Feeling spiteful, I dug my fingernails into the crumpled wad of paper and pulled it open. There, in her tidy, cramped cursive, were two sentences:

Your sadness came pawing at my door like a lost dog.

I thought we were the same.

Before I even finished reading, John Quincy snatched the page out of my hand and called loud enough for everyone to hear, “Hark! The poet speaks!”