Eleven Things I Promised

by Catherine Clark

  I didn’t know how to ask him how patient I had to be in terms of her coming back to me, to school, to . . . everything.

  Now, in front of me, Max opened his window, and the vanilla fragrance tree hanging above my seat blew in the breeze, spinning like a whirling dervish. I tried not to look at it, but it was impossible. The more I watched it, the dizzier I felt. I don’t do well in multiple-passenger vehicles. I don’t.

  “Stop the van,” I said to Max’s uncle Rocco. “Stop!”

  He pulled over onto the shoulder of the highway, to safety, and I flung open the door. I stumbled out of the van and down into a slight ravine, where the protein cube and half a cup of coffee quickly left me.

  Glamorous.

  This wasn’t the beginning I’d planned. We were only thirty miles in—not even on bikes—and I was already not making it.

  I pulled a stick of gum from the pack in my shorts pocket and took a minute to make sure I was really all right. Then I headed up the embankment to the van.

  “Don’t tell me the whole trip is going to be like this,” Margo said.

  She really had a great bedside—or vanside—manner. So caring.

  “You okay?” Will asked, leaning out of the van. “Do you need a Pepto? I’ve got some tablets in my bag.”

  I figured he was talking about the notoriously pink Pepto-Bismol. “I’ll be okay,” I said. “I think.”

  “Sorry,” Cameron said. “Next time, skip the protein cube, maybe?” He leaned over and pulled the flying fragrance tree off the string where it was hanging with one snap. He stuffed it into a side pocket beside him.

  “Agreed,” I told him as I stood outside, taking one last breath before getting back into the van.

  “Hangover?” asked Max, leaning out the front window.

  “What?” I said. “No. Motion sickness.”

  “Here, sit in the front,” said Max, climbing out onto the shoulder of the highway. “You won’t feel half as sick up there.”

  I peered in at the empty seat. Rocco, the driver, patted the seat with his hand, which was completely covered in colorful tattoos—just like his nephew Max’s arms. “Come on, I won’t bite.”

  “Oh.” I laughed. “I know.”

  Someone tapped my shoulder, and I turned around. “Here.” Margo was leaning forward, a plastic grocery bag in her hand. “Use this if it happens again so we don’t have to pull over and lose time.”

  I balled up the plastic bag and stuffed it into the console between the front seats. Oh, yeah. This was going to be a great trip.

  After a minute, I pulled a small green piece of paper out of my pocket and unfolded it.

  I’d found this list that day when I went to Stella’s room to get some things for her. It was sitting on her desk, beside her laptop, as if she’d been working on it earlier that day. Before the car crashed into her.

  After, I’d gone back to get it.

  I wouldn’t tell her I had the list or that I was planning to complete it for her—unless and until it turned out well.

  From the Desk of . . . Stella Artois Grant (SAG)

  The Junior Year Bike Trip F(ix)-It List

  aka What I Promise I Will Do While Raising Money to Find a Cure for Childhood Cancer, Because My Life Needs Fixing Too.

  Not Necessarily in This Order

  * * *

  1.Bleach my hair blond.

  2.Dance with one of the Sparrowsdale guys on the trip.

  3.Leave an anonymous $100 gift for an unexpected kindness.

  4.Start a food fight.

  5.Ride in my bikini one day; swim in my bike clothes the next.

  6.Drink a beer or a vodka drink or something stronger than water.

  7.Dance in the rain and sleep under the stars. Or vice versa, but sleeping in the rain would not be fun.

  8.Get my belly button pierced. Seriously.

  9.Ride the Devil’s Drop of Doom at Phantom Park.

  10.Have an epic kiss.

  For weeks, Stella had been talking about some of the things she wanted to do on the trip, all the things she’d do differently this year. She’d said how she wanted to take more risks. “I usually just ride and read and hang out in the tent. I eat right, I get enough sleep, and all that boring stuff that makes my parents happy but doesn’t really make me happy. So this year, I wanted to pull out all the stops and push myself. I promised myself. Now that you’re doing the trip, too, I’m counting on you to help me pull them off.”

  “Sure, sure,” I’d told her at the time. “Anything you want.”

  “Seriously?” Stella had stared openmouthed at me in shock.

  “No, of course not!” I cried. “I can’t do this stuff.”

  “Where there’s a list, there’s a way,” Stella said. “I’ll make a list. You follow it with me.”

  “This sounds like those New Year’s resolutions you made for us freshman year. Remember how that turned out?”

  Somehow our list of resolutions had fallen out of her backpack and into the wrong hands. Henry Wooster’s. He was on the list of “People We’ll Get to Know Better. Way Better.”

  Stella had paused at the memory, but only for a second. “It’s because of the Henry Wooster incident that I learned never to put anything super specific on a list. So don’t worry. There are no names on it,” she said.

  Still, every time I read the list, I got this awful, uneasy feeling. I wasn’t the person to carry out this list. I was (a) a chicken, (b) afraid of heights and rides that involved heights, and (c) not keen on public displays of my nearly naked body. In fact, I’d pretty much rather die than do a few of these things.

  I had pierced ears, sure, but I wasn’t that interested in poking more holes in my skin.

  And drinking alcohol wasn’t something I’d planned on attempting until age 21, at least. My family didn’t have a good history with that, according to my mother, who had lectured me many times on the dangers of drinking, always bringing up the example of a long-lost uncle of mine. Perhaps it would count if I just took a sip of something; a sip couldn’t kill me, right?

  The Devil’s Drop of Doom, on the other hand, totally could.

  I was crazy to take on this ride and the F(ix)-It List. In fact, I was already calling it the F-It List because of my attitude toward some of the items on it. But if checking things off this list for Stella would help her in any way, at all, I would do it. I just wasn’t sure how. Maybe I could drink before the ride. In large quantities. I hadn’t been on a roller coaster since I was ten, when I was petrified and screamed so loudly that I lost my voice for a week afterward.

  I casually looked over my shoulder at everyone. Which one of these guys could I possibly dance with? And did Stella put that on the list because she wanted to dance with either Will, Alex, Cameron, or Max? I didn’t think any of them were exactly her type—at least, she hadn’t mentioned having any interest in anyone in particular.

  Maybe she had a crush on Max; that I could see. But he wasn’t her type; she was way more on the straight and narrow. He was notorious for two things: flirting and partying.

  Alex was taken, which was okay. He had one of those block-style heads, or maybe it was that his neck was too thick and so it was all one unit. He could be on steroids. I don’t know.

  Then there was Cameron, my neighbor and seeming slouchster. (There was a shoe shop in town called Shoester, and Stella and I pretty much applied the phrasing to anyone and anything we could.) I thought he was cute and witty, but he wasn’t Stella’s type.

  That left Will Oxendale, the tallest, string-beaniest person in our school—I didn’t know him well at all, since he had only arrived in town in January, but the fact that he only wore soccer and bike jerseys day after day made him a bit boring. Day one: cool. Day twenty-one: not cool.

  As for the epic kiss . . . I glanced in the mirror on the sunshade above me, adjusting it slightly so I could see myself. Gazing up at my now-blond hair, I hardly recognized myself. I turned slightly and pursed my lips as I applied sunscreen l
ip balm. Did I look more kissable as a platinum blond, or was it just me?

  Suddenly I noticed another face in the mirror. It was Max, sitting directly behind me. Our eyes met.

  I immediately flipped up the shade and went back to staring out the window.

  Awkward.

  Forget boys. I’d kiss my bike when I finished. That would be epic.

  CHAPTER 2

  We arrived at the starting point just north of Bangor, Maine, about three and a half hours later and parked on a large open field, the trailer and van bouncing and jostling as we drove over bumpy ground. I couldn’t believe how many vans, people, and bikes there were. The other thirty-nine high school teams who were registered could have filled up a football field and then some.

  Stella ought to be here. I couldn’t help thinking it. I didn’t feel right being here without her.

  She’d pulled me through all the rough times. Freshman year, around the same time I quit dance team, we both had this notoriously difficult Current Events and Politics teacher, who gave us a homework assignment that involved so much research I felt buried by all the library books and websites we had to consult.

  I ran into Stella at the library one afternoon. She looked very organized. “I don’t know how to do this project,” I confessed. “I don’t have a clue.”

  “Well, what country did you get?” she asked.

  “I’ve got Costa Rico,” I said.

  She laughed. “Rica, you mean?”

  “Costco Rico?” I asked. “Whatever.” We both started laughing harder and couldn’t stop; we got so loud we were yelled at by the librarian. More than once.

  We weren’t supposed to get or give help on this assignment. But we did, anyway.

  It was the first time I felt completely stonewalled by a homework assignment, and I ended up with a B. Stella got an A, as per usual.

  Since this class was one of our “core competency” deals, I had to score a B or better in order to get credit. I’d never have made it to the next level without Stella’s help on the report. In fact, she’d helped me navigate almost all of high school so far. Basically, I owed her my life. Or at least my diploma, when I got it.

  Margo and Oxendale headed to the registration tent to check us in while we unloaded the trailer and found where we should put our bags. We’d ride that afternoon and camp that night, so our bags were going right into another truck and trailer.

  We each had to bring one sleeping bag, one duffel bag, one bike, and associated gear, like of course helmets, water bottles, a patch kit, an extra tire tube. But if anything bad happened, I was relying on the so-called sag wagon (a fancy cycling term for a support van) to save me. The ride had mechanics. I didn’t need to become one, too. Stella was usually my mechanic, to be honest. She’d fill up the tires and oil the chain on my bike and then shout, “Follow me!” as she took off down the street. An experienced racer, she’d won a few first-place finishes in her age group at bigger time-trial events. She’d even had a bike shop who wanted to sponsor her, put their name on her jersey.

  Stella had switched to cycling when she had one too many concussions from playing soccer. She was crushed when she had to give up soccer, because she was so good. Cycling was supposed to be her “safe” sport. It could make me ill if I thought about it for too long.

  As soon as we’d got our bikes and gear unloaded, Rocco announced he was hitting the road, back to Sparrowsdale.

  Wait a second, I wanted to say. Don’t rush off. Do you think you could pierce my belly button first?

  But I had no privacy here. So instead, I thanked him for the ride, just like everyone else did. “No problem. Needed to pick up some supplies over here anyway. Ride like the wind, my friends,” he said, giving us a little salute.

  Max shook his head. “Uncle Rock, don’t go quoting bad songs.”

  “I’m serious,” Rocco said, laughing. “Ride with the wind at your back.”

  Margo rolled her eyes, as if that were the stupidest thing she’d ever heard. “We don’t exactly get to choose the direction of the wind.”

  “Still. It’s a well-known Irish blessing, that’s what you’re thinking of,” said Will. “May the road rise up to meet you. May the wind always be at your back.”

  “If the road rises up to meet me, I think I’ll crash,” I joked.

  “Or, you know, throw up,” said Margo.

  I glared at her, wondering when she was going to let it go. A person gets sick now and then.

  Max put his hand on my shoulder and I tried not to flinch. With his tattooed arms, chains, and height, he was a bit intimidating. “You’ll be fine. It’s like—well, I was going to say it’s like riding a bike. You have to get back on. But you’ll already be on it.”

  “Deep,” Cameron teased him. “Dude, that’s so deep I just fell in.”

  Rocco climbed into the van and leaned out the window. “Call me with details the night before you guys finish. I’ll be there to pick you up in Boston, unless you make other plans.”

  We thanked him again for the ride and then watched him drive away, the bike trailer bouncing and clattering across the field. I didn’t think anyone would say it, but we were kind of like the country bumpkins here. Other teams came from Boston; Portland, Maine; and Portsmouth, New Hampshire, to name a few. We were the Sparrowsdale Mighty Sparrows, from a small town north of North Conway, which sounds like “double north,” not that it’s something you can double. Extra-north, maybe?

  Mighty Sparrows. Since when has a sparrow ever intimidated anyone? They might as well have called us the baby birds, or the downy chicks.

  We headed from the parking area to the gazebo and picnic tables. There was a lunch buffet spread out, and although I was feeling a lot better, I didn’t necessarily want to grab a sandwich anytime soon. I stood off to the side, debating.

  “You should eat,” Margo said as she walked past me. “You’ll bonk early if you don’t eat.”

  “I know.” I nodded. “I should.”

  “You always liked bananas. Eat one of those and pack one for later,” she said.

  Why are you giving me good advice? And why do you even remember that? I wanted to ask. “I liked bananas when I was four. I haven’t actually liked them since,” I told her.

  “Suit yourself,” she said. “They’ll really help with not cramping up.”

  I took a banana and went to sit in the grass beside Cameron. Because I felt I knew him better than anyone else in the group, I was glomming on to him like peanut butter onto bread. Like me, he didn’t exactly look like a high-powered athlete, but it was hard to tell when he was sitting next to Will Oxendale—whom everyone called by his last name, for some reason. Oxendale was about a foot taller than him, and his legs reminded me of a flamingo. A very muscular flamingo.

  Meanwhile, the trip director, Heather, was giving a welcome speech to the crowd from a microphone on the little gazebo. She greeted everyone, then started to go over the rules and regulations. While every rider had raised a certain amount already, there would be new and different speed challenges every morning; the first three riders to finish would get a thousand dollars donated to their team total, thanks to various sponsors.

  While I listened, I mentally reviewed Stella’s F-It List. I was pretty sure that almost half of her list was against the rules. Not only would I need luck to finish each day’s ride, I’d need luck not to get caught.

  Half an hour later, it was time to line up behind the wide ribbon. The area around the start was beginning to get completely congested as people got ready. It had quickly filled with swarms of bicycles, riders, course officials, and volunteers rushing around to get everything set.

  I hurried over to the pavilion to fill up my two water bottles. I found our assigned table where my duffel still sat and slipped off my flip-flops and put on Stella’s cycling shoes, fastening the Velcro straps over the tops. GO FRANCES GO was written in capital letters on masking tape on the straps.

  Inside the shoe was a note, sort of like a fo
rtune cookie, only one that smelled like shoe instead of sugar. I unfolded the note. The handwriting wasn’t Stella’s.

  You know how to do this. And you’re ready. Just keep pedaling.

  —Mason

  I felt this nervous flutter when I saw his name. Mason had run a couple of time trials for me a few days ago, and although I was pretty sure he’d rigged them, or forgotten to start the time right away, it had helped me mentally get ready to be around this many riders.

  I took a photo of the shoes and posted it, tagging both Mason and Stella. Ready to start the Cure Childhood Cancer Ride! I took a selfie with my ride number and name attached to my shirt and quickly posted that as well. I was glad I had a number. That way, if anything happened, some random person driving by and finding me sitting on the side of the road could identify me to the ride organizers—you know, because I’d probably be incoherent at that point.

  I delivered my duffel to the bag drop and headed to the starting line with my bike—Stella’s bike, technically. Her family had insisted I use it, because my own bike wasn’t exactly on the same level. It was more of a discount-store purchase, while this bike was one Stella had used before she got a custom one. It had a lot of miles on it, but still looked new and sleek. It was probably way too good for me, a novice rider, but I loved how lightweight it was and how it caught the sunlight on its silver-blue frame.

  I found an open spot in the middle-to-back part of the crowd. I adjusted my helmet and straddled the bike. Thirty miles. This was going to be the easiest of all seven days. So why was my stomach tied in knots? Stupid protein cubes. If anyone ever offers you something you’ve never eaten before, as you (a) ride in a multipassenger vehicle or (b) start a major athletic undertaking? Just. Say. No.

  “Welcome, once again, to the ninth annual Cure Childhood Cancer Ride!” Heather was sitting atop a tall ladder under the Start Here banner. “We’re so glad to have all of you riding today. I want to thank you for your contributions. Together we can beat this thing!”