Promise Me Something (6 page)

Somewhere in the corner of my mind, I saw us as though from above: the two of us sprawled across her bedroom floor, pegging candy at each other and laughing so hard our sides hurt. We collapsed onto the carpet to catch our breath, Tootsie Rolls littered across the triangular spaces between our arms and legs.

Congratulate me.

For what?

I made a friend.

On the forum?

No, in actual life.

Wow.

I know, right?

What’s she like?

Sad.

Ha. Go figure.

No, I don’t mean like us.

You mean she doesn’t have a death wish?

I mean she’s sad but she doesn’t even know she’s sad.

How is that possible?

She’s profoundly and sweetly sad.

Olive, have you gone off your meds?

I’m not on meds.

Are you OK?

I’m wonderful.

O
ctober twenty-first, the due date of Mr. Murphy’s ancient China project, arrived amid a flurry of Halloween discussions across the school. In homeroom and in the hallways, everyone was talking about their plans for Halloween—even antisocial people like Olive.

“OK, here’s the idea,” she told me in homeroom on the morning of our Genghis Khan presentation. “I’ll be the man with the pitchfork, you’ll be the woman with the brooch.” She was holding out a photocopy of the famous painting
American Gothic
. “We’ll march together in the freshman parade, OK?”

I got the sense I didn’t have much of a choice in the matter. Olive thought it would be a hilarious mockery of everyone who took the parade seriously. I thought it would be possibly awesome or possibly a disaster—I wasn’t sure which.

Amazingly, Levi liked the idea. While we waited for the second bell to ring in History, he tapped me on the shoulder and asked what I was planning to be for Halloween. Olive was in the back of the room, setting up the overhead projector for our presentation, and Mr. Murphy was busy writing out a hall pass for Timothy Ferguson—or
Nancy
Ferguson, as he’d taken to calling him. So I showed Levi the grainy photocopy of the painting and said, “Olive thought of it.”

He looked at it and grinned. “Awesome.”

I almost said,
Really?
like an idiot but stopped myself.

Levi smiled. “Maybe I could be the frame around you.”

I could’ve sworn I felt every little vein and capillary in my cheeks erupt, flooding my face with heat. I opened my mouth to say something, but he cut me off.

“Of course, then I’d have to be the frame around Olive too.” He twirled his guitar pick necklace between his thumb and forefinger. “Too bad.”

I wanted to say something flirtatious, but Olive chose that moment to summon me from the back of the room.

“Coming!” I called, trying hard not to trip over my feet as I stepped away from my desk. Then I turned and smiled at Levi, who was watching me with his head cocked to one side, as though he found me just as perplexing as the painting. “I’ll see you later,” I told him. And then, before I lost my nerve, “Maybe you can be the frame anyway.”

In the back of the room, Olive looked tight-lipped and pale, turning every knob on the projector. “I don’t know how this thing works,” she muttered. “And I can’t even think straight, I’m so pissed off.”

“Pissed off?” I stepped back. “At me?”

“Not at you!” She turned one knob with so much force, I was afraid it would snap off. “Did you hear what Mr. Murphy just said to Tim?”

I shook my head and reached over to turn on the projector. The bulb flickered on, casting a bright, blank light onto the screen across the room.

She narrowed her eyes. “He threatened to make him wear the sissy hat during his presentation, and then he called him
limp-wristed
.”

“So?”

“He’s a total homophobe. He hates gay people.”

“I’m sure he didn’t mean anything by it,” I said, glancing over to check on Levi. He was still watching me, a smile in his eyes.

Olive’s eyes flashed. “Are you serious, Reyna? Didn’t you hear about that sophomore who had a breakdown last year after Mr. Murphy accused him of being gay? He had to go to Silver Hills.” She lowered her voice. “The
mental
hospital.”

“That’s probably just a rumor,” I said.

“Girls, are you ready?”

Olive jumped. Mr. Murphy had materialized behind us. I reached over to plug in the connector as he tapped his watch with one finger. A moment later, the image of Genghis Khan lit up the room. I felt unusually bold as I stepped forward, Levi’s eyes following me the whole way.

“We’re good to go,” I said.

Strictly speaking, I didn’t
need
to invite Olive over that afternoon. Our project was finished. But Lucy had been spending almost every night at our house, prowling around and rearranging the furniture like Mom never existed. Night after night I was forced to listen to Dad rave about what a good cook she was, which wasn’t even true—all she ever made was pasta. So when Lucy pulled into the school parking lot and told me she was cooking lasagna for dinner, I decided company would be a welcome distraction. I ran back over to the edge of the parking lot to invite Olive. She said yes in a heartbeat.

The drive home was awkward. We were mostly silent, and when Olive did talk, she was so quiet she didn’t sound like herself. The few questions Lucy asked—Are you buckled? Is the air conditioning reaching you?—Olive answered with a curt, “Yes, thanks,” or “No, thanks.”

When we got to the house, I led her straight through the garage, down the hallway, and into my room. It was the fastest path through the house, conveniently bypassing the messy living room. “Why are you always so shy around everyone besides me?” I asked, trying to distract Olive from all the crooked family photos on the walls. “Lucy probably thought you were mute.”

She just shrugged. “How long has she been screwing your dad?”

“They’ve been
dating
since April,” I said. “At least, that’s when they met.” I didn’t like to think about Dad screwing anyone, least of all Lucy.

Reaching my room, I dumped my backpack on the rug next to the closet as Olive followed me inside and asked, “Why do you hate her?”

I paused in my tracks. “I don’t hate her.”

“You
so
do,” said Olive. “I’m not blind.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She rolled her eyes. “The hatred is practically dripping off you, Reyna. The whole ride home it was like you were sitting in a puddle of it.”

I had to laugh.

She grinned. “I rest my case.”

I glanced at the door to make sure it was closed. “I mean, she’s nice, but I can’t believe my dad is still dating her.”

“Why not?”

I sat on the bed and told her about the accident—how Lucy drove right through the intersection without stopping. How Dad’s car didn’t have side air bags. How she was the reason I almost became an orphan.

“Yeah, but you didn’t.”

“Barely,” I said. “There was a slab of glass an inch away from his spine.”

“But she didn’t
mean
for it to happen.”

“She almost killed him!” The hair on my arms prickled. “Isn’t that enough of a reason to want her out of my life?”

“Not if he really cares about her—”

“Can we just change the subject?” If Olive tried to defend Lucy for another second, I thought I might scream.

“Fine, jeez.” Olive looked down at her fingernails. “What did you mean before when you said I act quiet around everyone but you?’”

I leaned back against the headboard, relieved to talk about anything else. “Nothing, really,” I said. “Just that you take your personality and zipper it up around everyone else.”

She laughed. “Most people bore me to death.”

I gave her a wry smile. “I’m glad I can provide amusement.”

She moved toward the bookshelves along the back of the room and pulled out one of Mom’s old tennis trophies. Dust came off on her fingers. “This was your mom’s, wasn’t it?”

I didn’t answer. It was obvious—her name was on the trophy.

“How’d she die?” Olive set it back on the shelf. “You never told me.”

I stiffened, and she came over and sat on the edge of my bed. “Sorry. I know I shouldn’t be so cavalier about people dying. I was just wondering.”

“You don’t always have to blurt out everything on your mind,” I told her. “You might actually have more friends if you didn’t.”

Her face softened. “It just means I trust you.”

“I know.” I relaxed my shoulders and tried to trust her too. “A drunk driver hit my mom when I was seven. On her way home from the grocery store. In the middle of the afternoon.”

“Shit.” The bed creaked as Olive leaned back and rested her back against the wall. “That sucks. I’m sorry, Reyna.”

I opened my mouth to say thanks, but she didn’t give me a chance.

“I’m not romanticizing tragedy or anything,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ear. “But that’s one of the reasons you don’t bore me to death, you know? That you’ve had to deal with shit. Do you know what I mean? We have a lot in common.”

I wanted to tell her that having a dead mother was nothing like having an alcoholic mother, but I bit my tongue. It wasn’t worth arguing over.

“Can I see this?” She picked up an old hacky sack that was sitting on my nightstand. As I opened my mouth to tell her it belonged to my mom, there was a soft knock on the door.

“Reyna?” Lucy poked her head into the room. “Madison’s on the phone. She said she tried your cell, but it was turned off.”

I jumped up and took the cordless phone out of her hand. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” She smiled as she turned to leave, like she was proud of herself for doing me a favor. I rolled my eyes at the back of her head.

She closed the door behind her.

I brought the phone to my ear. “Hello?”

“Hey, Reyna!”

Just by Madison’s voice, I could tell she was with Abby and Leah. She always sounded extra hyper when they were together.

“Hey,” I said, “What’s up?”

Turning my back to Olive, I crouched and pulled my cell phone out of my backpack. Then I pressed the button to turn it off silent mode. Madison began babbling on the other end of the line about our annual Halloween party as I scrolled through my missed calls from during the school day. Two were from Leah, one from Madison. I also had a text that said,
CALL US ABOUT HALLOWEEN.
Every year since third grade, Leah threw a huge party on Halloween weekend, and it was always followed by a sleepover with just the four of us.

“So anyway, is seven to ten good for the party?” Madison was asking. “Because we have to send out the invites tonight if we want to compete with the other Ridgeway parties—”

“Um, actually, I can’t come until ten,” I said, realizing for the first time that the Halloween plans I’d made with Olive would overlap with the party. “I’m going with someone to the Springdale haunted house from eight to nine.”

“Oh!” Madison sounded shocked. “A boy?”

“Just the girl I was telling you about.”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Olive’s back straighten.

“Maybe you should bring her along,” said Madison. “That way we can see for ourselves what’s so weird about her.”

“No, that’s OK.” I glanced over at Olive. Her ears were perked like a dog’s.

“Come on! Bring her to the sleepover.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” I said.

“What does she want?” mouthed Olive.

I lowered the phone. “She wants you to come to Leah’s sleepover after the haunted house on Halloween night.”

“I’d rather have a sleepover with just the two of us.”

I didn’t say anything. I tried Olive’s trick of staring without blinking. It worked.

“Fine.” She rolled her eyes and sighed dramatically. “In the name of our friendship, I’ll endure the adolescent torture ritual known as the slumber party.”

“OK,” I told Madison. “Olive is coming, and she says thanks for inviting her.”

“I say no such thing,” muttered Olive.

“Awesome!” said Madison.

We hung up and I sat back down on the bed near Olive. “Maybe it’ll be fun,” I said, trying to reassure us both. “I’m sure they’ll like you.”

She cocked an eyebrow at me. “Are you delusional? Nobody likes me.”