Promise Me Something (4 page)

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 was 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.