Promise Me Something (11 page)

I almost forgot about the girl in the tool shed. Dinnertime with Mrs. Barton was so odd and disturbing that it took up most of my mental energy. Olive had to thwack the kitchen smoke alarm with a broom after Mrs. Barton burned a frozen pizza and accidentally left a rubber oven mitt on the hot stove. She fell into a drunken stupor by eight o’clock, and it was only later, as Olive and I got ready for bed, that I remembered about the hobo girl.

We were facing opposite sides of the room, changing into our pajamas, when I brought it up. “I meant to ask you something earlier,” I said, tightening the drawstring on my sweatpants. “While you were inside looking for the toy horse, I went into your tool shed—”

Olive’s head snapped up.

“And I saw your friend Grace.”

She exhaled in one whooshing breath, her shoulders dropping by at least an inch. “Did she say anything?”

“Not much.” I turned and headed toward the bed. “But she knew my name.”

Olive nodded.

“So, what’s the deal?” I climbed into bed and burrowed my feet deep beneath the blankets. “Why is a girl living in your parents’ shed in the middle of the winter?”

“I put a space heater in there. It’s not as if she’s freezing to death.”

“But how do you know her?”

“We met online.” She was avoiding my eyes.

“When?”

“A couple of months ago. But she just came here last week.”

“Where does she go to school?” The question popped out of my mouth before I considered the fact that she was living in a tool shed. Olive just frowned and said, “
Went
to school.” Then she lay down next to me and reached over for the switch on her bedside lamp. She had to turn it three times. It got brighter first; then it grew dim; then the room simmered into darkness.

“Reyna?”

“Yeah?” I rolled over on my side to face her. The tree branches outside the window cast long, pale shadows across her half of the bed, and I could see, as my eyes adjusted, that she was watching me carefully.

“Can I tell you something that you have to promise not to repeat?”

“Sure.” I wondered if Grace was some kind of fugitive running from the law. Or maybe she was Olive’s long-lost sister—some kind of family secret.

She looked down at a crinkle in the blanket and smoothed it over with her thumb. “You know Tim Ferguson?”

His name caught me off guard. “From History?”

“Yeah,” said Olive. “The one Mr. Murphy always picks on.”

“I know who he is.”

“We met online before school started.”

I waited.

“On the same forum where I met Grace.”

“So?”

“Did you know that he’s gay?”

“I guess,” I said, though I’d never thought much about it. “What does that have to do with you?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“I guess not.”

“I am too.”

“Oh my God,” I heard myself say. “Are you serious?”

She nodded against her pillow.

I sat up a little. “Are you—? I mean why are you—?”

“What?”

“Why are you having me sleep in your bed?”

Her eyes widened “Because my dad moved the trundle to the tool shed.”

“But I’m not like that.” A stalled sort of panic was setting in as I realized where I was and what people would say if they knew. “Is this why you wanted me to sleep over?” I slid my legs out of the bed and felt my toes curl into the soft carpet. “Is this why you asked me to get permission?”

“No! God, Reyna. I’m not hitting on you.”

“I have to go.”

I bolted for the door. The hallway outside of Olive’s room was pitch dark, and I stumbled through it blindly, the floorboards sharp and cool against my feet. When I found the bathroom at the end of the hall, I fumbled for the light switch next to the door, and the florescent bulb above the sink stung my eyes as it flickered on. My face looked strange and green in the harsh light. My pupils retracted into pin-points.
Gay?

I told myself to calm down. She was still the same old Olive. But why did she have to be gay? I didn’t want people at school thinking I was too, which they would if word got out about Olive. I could just imagine the rumors.
They slept together in the same bed
.

I turned on the faucet, I splashed cool water onto my face, and stepped back, letting it drip down my neck and onto my T-shirt. Why would she confess to me in the first place? Did she think I was gay too? What had I ever done to suggest a thing like that? Nothing. I shook the rest of the water off my face and hit the light switch.

When I pushed open the door to her bedroom, she was sitting up in bed, my overnight bag resting on the covers in front of her. “Take it,” she said before I could say anything.

I lingered in the doorway, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dark room. “Olive, look—” I started to say, but she pushed the bag forward.

“Take it and go sleep on the couch downstairs.”

“I—”

“You’re not gay. I know.” She wasn’t looking at me. She was staring past my head toward the open door behind me. “Get out of here.”

“I’m sorry—”

“Shut up.” She looked like she was trying not to blink.

“I didn’t mean to react that way,” I said.

“Go vomit if you have to! I don’t care.”

“I just don’t want people thinking I’m—you know.”

“Oh, that’s rich.” She tried to laugh, but it came out sounding strangled. “You can’t even say the word.”

“What word?”

“
Gay, gay, gay!
” She leaned forward, her eyes popping. “I’m
gay
! Get over it, you sanctimonious little bitch.”

Her hair hung in wild tangles around her face, making her look haggard, and as I walked over to the bed, anger mushroomed inside me like a deafening white cloud. “Shut up,” I told her, scooping my bag off the bed. “I’m just acting how any normal person would act.”

“Get out,” she said.

And I did.

HERE’S WHAT’S GOING TO HAPPEN. I’M GOING TO KILL MYSELF. I’M GOING TO GET UP AND PUT ON MY SLIPPERS. I’M GOING TO TIPTOE DOWN THE HALLWAY. I’M GOING TO STAB MYSELF IN THE EYEBALLS WITH Q-TIPS IN THE BATHROOM EXACTLY ONE FLOOR OVER THE COUCH WHERE REYNA IS SLEEPING. AND I’M GOING TO DIE. TONIGHT. WITH ZERO FAITH IN HUMANITY.

What happened?

I CAME OUT TO REYNA.

Why are you writing in all caps?

BECAUSE I FEEL LIKE SHIT.

Whatever she said, I’m sure it’ll be fine.

UGH, SERIOUSLY?

Seriously what?

SERIOUSLY DON’T THROW CLICHÉS AT ME.

Sorry. I’m sure everything will suck.

THAT’S BETTER.

What’s going on, Olive?

I’M A GAY, GRACE. THAT’S WHAT’S GOING ON. JUST LIKE YOU. JUST LIKE TIMOTHY “FAIRY” FERGUSON. JUST LIKE EVERYBODY ON THIS FUCKING FORUM. GAY.

Well, duh.

SHUT UP AND SAY SOMETHING SUPPORTIVE.

Like what?

ANYTHING THAT COMES TO MIND.

You’re the one who always talks me off the ledge.

TELL ME NOT TO STAB MYSELF IN THE EYEBALLS. TELL ME I HAVE A REASON TO LIVE.

Stop pacing around in your window. I can see you.

I HAVE TO KEEP MOVING. IF I DON’T KEEP MOVING, I’LL ABSORB ALL THIS SHIT INTO MY SKIN AND DROP DEAD OF MELODRAMA POISONING.

Come outside, then. We can talk.

B
ig raindrops running down a windowpane eating little raindrops in their path. That’s what school was like for the rest of the week. Once Gretchen Palmer found out Olive and I weren’t speaking, she started passing me weird notes during Math. They said things like,
Stripes or polka dots?
and
Jake Gyllenhaal or Zac Efron?
I knew it was some kind of test, but I couldn’t figure out why she bothered. Meanwhile, I got word that a freshman girl had been deliberately knocked on the head with a hockey puck in Gym, and it was only on Friday, when Gretchen passed me a note sealed shut with a strawberry-scented sticker, that I found out she was the one who threw the puck and the girl was Olive.

Nobody was around on Friday afternoon when I got home from school. It was snowing—the wimpy kind that doesn’t stick—and the wooden floorboards on my front porch smelled like a wet dog. I unlocked the front door and wiped my sneakers against the ratty welcome mat in our foyer. That was when I noticed one of dad’s crutches propped against the door of the coat closet. There was a note pinned to the squishy, band-aid colored pad at the top:
Feeling great—night on the town. See you tomorrow morning
. When I saw it, I kicked the crutch so that it clattered onto the floor, note and all. Then I sat down right there on the carpet, not even two feet into the house, and called Abby. We hadn’t spoken since our awkward conversation about her new boyfriend, but I didn’t care about that now. She was my best friend. I needed her.

“Hey, it’s me,” I said as soon as she picked up. “Are you busy right now?”

“Reyna? Hold on, I can’t hear you—” There was a faint roar in the background, a sea of noise. I heard her tell someone to save her a seat.

My heart sank. “Am I interrupting something?” I should have known she’d be hanging out with James or Jackson or whatever his name was.

“No!” She sounded a little breathless. “What’s up?”

“I just wanted to see if you could come over today. I have news.”

“I—” she paused. “I’m at a basketball game.”

“
Basketball?
”

“Hey! Stop that!” There was a squeaky noise in the back-ground that sounded like a dog toy. “Sorry, Reyna, not you—”

“Fine, I’ll just tell you now,” I said. “Olive is a lesbian.”

“What?”

“Olive is a—”

“Stop!” I heard the squeaky toy again. “Whoops. There’s this dog running around in the bleachers—”

“Abby…” I raked my fingers through my hair. “This is actually kind of serious.”

“Sorry! Can I call you back another time?”

“What?” I could barely hear her. The crowd was cheering again.

“How about we catch up later?”

“Fine,” I said, knowing that
later
might as well mean
never
. It wasn’t just Abby’s boyfriend coming between us, it was everything—new schools, new friends, new lives. As I ended the call, my phone slipped from my hand and bounced onto the carpet. I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply through my nose. The silence in the house was a roar.

At breakfast the next morning, I saw the ring. Lucy’s long, spidery fingers were draped over the back of Dad’s chair. She moved her hand onto his shoulder and scratched the back of his T-shirt, the plain gold band glinting in the soft morning light. She was still wearing the diamond necklace he’d bought her only a couple of weeks earlier. That and her pajamas.

“Morning,” I said from the doorway.

Lucy and Dad both jumped at the sound of my voice; then Lucy pulled her left hand down onto her lap and clasped it with her other hand so I couldn’t see the ring.

“Morning, Rey,” said Dad. They both smiled sheepishly, as though I’d caught them in bed. Looking closer at the table, I realized there was a tub of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream sitting near Lucy with its lid open. It was empty except for two dirty spoons.

“What are you guys—five?” I turned toward the sink. “Ice cream for breakfast?”

“For dessert,” said Dad. “Early morning dessert.”

Gross. Feeling vaguely queasy, I took a glass from the drying rack and picked a speck of grime off its side. I wasn’t going to say anything about the ring. Maybe if I ignored it, it would fall into the garbage disposal while Lucy was washing dishes. Or maybe it wasn’t even an engagement ring. It didn’t have a stone.

“How was last night?” he asked from the table.

“Fine,” I said.

“What’d you do?”

“Watched TV.”

I turned away from the sink and headed for the fridge. Dad was looking at Lucy as though waiting for her permission. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her nod.

“Reyna?” Dad leaned forward in his chair. “We have something to tell you.”

That was when all the atoms in my body got up and rearranged themselves in preparation. My face became a mask of itself. My toes tightened in my socks.

Dad looked nervous. “You know how I took Lucy to New York last night?”

I knew what was coming, and I didn’t like it. I grabbed the carton of orange juice from the fridge and filled my glass.

“Well, I asked her to marry me,” he said. “Right in the middle of Times Square.”

“And I said yes!” Lucy held up her left hand and I saw the ring again, clearer this time. It wasn’t just a plain gold band. There was a filigree trim around the edge.

“Wow,” I said. Both of them were waiting—watching me. Lucy raised her hand with a nervous sort of giggle and ruffled her feathery haircut.

“Wow!” I repeated because I didn’t know what else to say. I felt like the sandman, slipping apart and sliding through the cracks on the floor.

“We’re going to have the wedding in May,” Lucy told me, filling the awkward silence. “And you’ll be my maid of honor.”

“That’s great,” I said. Some sort of ghost had hijacked my vocal chords. The real me was disassembled in a pile on the floor, slipping through the cracks in the wood, but I couldn’t let Dad see that. He looked happier than I’d seen him in years, and I wasn’t about to ruin it for him.