Eleven Things I Promised

by Catherine Clark

  Hiding the bill in my fist, I walked back out to the counter, where she was restocking silverware, her back to me. I quickly slid the folded bill under my cake plate, which she’d left on the counter—probably waiting to see if I wanted another piece. She was that nice.

  “I’m going to take off,” I announced. “Thank you so much for everything.”

  “You sure you don’t want me to give you a ride to Concord? I don’t have much time—have to pick up my grandson from day care at four, and unfortunately his day care’s in the opposite direction, but I think—”

  “Thanks, but no. I’d be breaking the rules. It’s something I have to do on my own,” I said.

  She followed me outside to where my bike was leaning against the front window. “Nice bike,” she commented. “I love silver.”

  “Thanks for your help. This has been one of the high points of the ride,” I said. “If not the high point.”

  “Well, we are on a hill,” she said, laughing. “I’m going to run inside and clean up a little bit more. You have a good ride, now.” She went over the directions with me one more time. “Remember, hurry up and finish this thing so you can spend time with your friend—what’s her name?”

  “Stella,” I said.

  “Nice name. Give her my best wishes. You two ever end up on a road trip, drop by. I’ll be working at this place till I’m ninety.” She gave me a small wave as I donned my helmet and took off down the road. I had to ride fast, had to clear the area before she went in and found that hundred-dollar bill.

  I had an hour and a half to get my butt to the meeting place in Concord. If I wasn’t there, Heather wouldn’t be as understanding this time around. I was already on thin ice, as Margo had pointed out oh so kindly.

  One good thing about having gone up such a huge hill in the first place was that I got to coast down the other side of it. I released my hold on the brakes and let the bike pick up speed. I was dropping fast, soaring down the mountain. Fly like you mean it, Mason had told me, and I was flying. I crouched down into aerodynamic mode, cradling the handlebars, feeling the cold air rush over my back. I glanced at the computer on my handlebar as my speed went higher and higher. Suddenly, at the bottom of the hill, the pavement changed from smooth to bumpy and my tires bounced on the uneven surface, radiating pain up my arms and nearly jolting me off the bike. I struggled to stay on like a bronco rider in a rodeo.

  Then I hit a pothole, my front tire slamming into the crater, jarring my teeth with a cringe-inducing bump.

  CHAPTER 13

  I got off the bike on the side of the road, heart pounding, out of breath.

  I hadn’t crashed. And thank goodness no cars had been near me when it happened.

  But my front tire was losing air, and as I stood there, recovering, it slowly sank down to nothing. It was completely flat.

  I didn’t know how to fix a flat tire. At all.

  I knew I should, but I didn’t. I knew it was one of the things Mason and his dad had gone over with me, one of the “Need to Know” items that I’d practiced once. But honestly, there were a lot of those items—too many. I hadn’t paid that much attention, because I knew there would be a support vehicle or two who would be on the scene when I ran into mechanical problems like this.

  Unless, of course, I got lost and was nowhere near a support vehicle.

  I started thinking about who I could call, who could walk me through it.

  I could call Mason, but that would open up a can of strange worms. Like, did I really need him to come to my rescue all the time? That was setting up a weird precedent. It wasn’t true, anyway. Or at least it wasn’t all true.

  I could call Stella, but she’d probably be so annoyed by me. Did she really need to know I had a flat tire and was in the middle of, well, nowhere? To be clear, I wasn’t lost anymore. But neither was I on the right road.

  I could call my mom, who would immediately initiate some rescue plan that involved helicopters and ambulances.

  Then I remembered I didn’t have a phone. Fantasy over. Reality setting in.

  For once, Frances, rely on yourself. It’s a flat tire. Nothing more, nothing less.

  I stared at the front wheel. “Why did you have to go hit that pothole, anyway?” I mumbled. “You should have seen it coming. And what are you made out of, glass?”

  I was losing it. I was talking to my bike now.

  I ran my hand around the wheel. First I had to take it off the bike. There was a quick-release lever for that, so I flipped it to the open position and then pulled at the wheel. It didn’t come off. I tried a few more times. Nothing.

  This wasn’t going well.

  I cursed a few times as I battled the wheel—then suddenly, I remembered another part of Mason’s instructions. Don’t forget to release the brake, too.

  Right. The stupid brake. Once I did that, I wrestled the wheel off and leaned it against a tree. I was well off the road, because the last thing I wanted was to be close to any traffic while I did this.

  I knew I had to peel the tire off the rim. That was the second step. I got the little patch kit out of my saddlebag and a green plastic lever-like thing that looked like a bike tool, and whether it went with this kit or it was the thing my mom had given me, I couldn’t even tell anymore.

  I slowly, deliberately worked the lever around the edge of the wheel, removing the tire. I pinched my finger on the metal rim, but it wasn’t serious. Still, I was so frustrated that I wanted nothing more than to start crying and lean against the tree, waiting for someone to rescue me.

  This had to be the end of the trip for me. I’d never get back in time now. And I’d put so much of myself on the line. I grabbed the travel mug of lemonade and took a gulp. I stared at the tire that was lying on the ground, trying to remember how to patch the inner tube. I wondered if Miranda was going to drive past. I wondered if she had found the hundred dollars yet. Seeing the way she’d worked in the kitchen, she’d probably picked up and washed the plate while she was also putting away clean silverware.

  A sink full of dishes. Soap bubbles! That was how Mason and Mr. Grant had taught me. I had to find the hole in the tube by making bubbles.

  I traded out my travel mug for the water bottle and twisted off the mug’s top, making a small bowl out of it. I filled it with water and separated the tube from the tire, first putting new air into it with my bike pump, and slid it into the water. I went around and around the tube, painstakingly pressing and looking for a bubble to appear.

  It wasn’t working. It didn’t work. I was doing it wrong.

  Then all of a sudden I had a bubble. I pushed the tube underwater and pressed. More bubbles.

  I kept my finger on the hole with one hand and opened the patch kit with my other hand. I pulled out the small patch and container of glue. I used the corner of Stella’s magic shirt to dry the tube section so the patch would stick. Then I used the tiny piece of sandpaper in the kit to rough up the area around the puncture. I squeezed glue onto the patch and pressed it firmly, holding it for two, then three, then five minutes, it seemed like. I wanted to get this right the first time around.

  When I was confident it was set, I got my bike pump from my bike and inflated the tube. I held my breath as I waited to see if the patch had worked. I held the tire tube to my ear. I waited some more.

  Then I slid the tube all the way inside the tire and attempted to put the tire back onto the rim with the little green tool. It took me about ten minutes, but I did it. I got the wheel back on the bike and closed the lever tightly.

  After all that, I was almost afraid to look at my back tire. Thankfully, it was fine—if there was a new leak at all, it was a slow one. I brushed leaves, dirt, and pine needles off my shorts and legs and climbed onto the bike. Vowing to keep a closer eye on things, I headed back out onto the two-lane county road. My bike wobbled slightly. It felt like it was out of alignment. I’d probably damaged the tire rim when I crashed into the pothole. Maybe the sag wagon could fix that, if I ever fo
und them again.

  Traffic was picking up—probably some people were getting out of work—and I found myself wincing as each car sped by. I couldn’t move over any farther or I’d run out of pavement.

  I could see why riding with a group had advantages, even if it could be a little annoying at times to be in the back. As each car passed me, I felt more and more vulnerable about being on the road by myself.

  I’d reached the end of the Frances Detour and had finally turned onto the road I needed to be on. According to Miranda, I’d have only a couple of miles on this road—a piece of cake. Blueberry cake.

  I rounded a curve when suddenly two cars were coming toward me on the two-lane road. One was passing the other, and they were taking up the entire width of the road. The outside car flew past me, nearly running me off the road, and I realized all at once that this was exactly what had happened to Stella—a car coming this fast toward her. This fast, this out of control. Somebody texting, or somebody glancing away from the road, checking on a kid in the backseat or changing the radio station or just distracted about something and coming too close, crossing the center line.

  The second car raced past me, and I felt its momentum threaten me, felt wind and hot exhaust on my legs, my ankles, through the small vents in my helmet even.

  But I was lucky.

  It missed me. As it whooshed by, I veered onto the shoulder as a cloud of road dust blew in my face, blinding me.

  In that split second I knew what it might have felt like. How, in that short of a time, Stella’s life was completely changed. I’d sensed it from the outside, but now I knew.

  It wasn’t fair.

  It was so random.

  Why her? Why not me?

  I wasn’t there with her. I was being stupid and trying on prom dresses for a prom we’d never go to now. I wasn’t with her like I should have been.

  I could have been riding on the outside of her. I could have blocked her, or maybe the car would have noticed us if we’d been two across instead of one.

  Thinking about it made me start to shake and wobble and I fell over, landing awkwardly in a heap. I landed squarely on my left arm. My wrist was screaming with pain and felt like a hundred tendons had gotten torqued in the wrong direction. I got up slowly and gingerly touched my wrist. I didn’t think I’d broken it, but I’d sprained it.

  That was okay. I didn’t need my wrist to ride, I said to myself as I picked up my bike. How many times did I have to get on and off it? This was getting—no, it was already beyond—ridiculous.

  My wrist looked a bit awkward, so to support it I took off the magic shirt and made a bandage for it, wrapping the stretchy fabric around it and knotting it through the thumb and pinky finger.

  That was when I heard a derailleur clicking. Out of the corner of my eye I saw someone coasting up to me. I couldn’t believe my luck—to run into someone out here, this late in the day—

  “Hey! Frances! Are you okay?”

  It was Margo.

  I didn’t want her help. I didn’t want anyone’s. I didn’t even deserve it. “I’m—well, I’m not great,” I admitted.

  “Did you take a shortcut?” Margo asked.

  “No,” I said. “I got lost, but I’m pretty sure I rode just as far—if not farther—than you.”

  “How come none of us have seen you since lunch?” she asked.

  “It’s a long story,” I said. “The details aren’t important.”

  “Your skin is really red,” she said. “And did you hurt your wrist or something?”

  My wrist was killing me, and I had no idea how I’d finish without a ride from the sag wagon. I could ask Margo to call Heather to come get me—I could probably ask her to call an ambulance, about my wrist.

  But I wasn’t doing that today. I’d made it this far. I was going to finish.

  Don’t. Just don’t. Don’t ask her for help.

  “Are you okay? Do you have enough water?”

  I got on the bike, gritting my teeth not to cry out as I lightly held the handlebars. “I’m not sure why you’re asking,” I said, as I started to ride. She clicked in right beside me. “I’m on my own from here on out. Isn’t that right?”

  “No. No, it’s not.”

  We rode beside each other for a few minutes.

  “You know, I wasn’t just passing by, or doing extra miles. I came looking for you,” Margo said.

  I kept riding, eyes focused on the pavement ahead of me and the traffic beside me. My vision was a bit blurred as I stared at the white line of the breakdown lane. I wouldn’t let her kindness get to me, not now. After everything I’d been through, there was a little crack in my resolve to be tough, to keep pushing through. The nicer she was to me, the more it widened.

  “We were all worried about you,” she said.

  “Maybe you should get going,” I said. “I know how it kills you to ride this slowly.” I didn’t want her around. I didn’t want her to be nice to me. I was holding myself together with my anger toward her; if it was gone, I might fall apart.

  She didn’t say anything. She wasn’t passing me, though.

  We must have gone ten miles like that, not talking. When I saw the college with the Welcome, Cyclists! banner, I almost started crying. I’d made it.

  Despite everything, I’d made it.

  I wobbled toward the finish line, using my last ounce of energy to push the pedals those final few yards onto the campus. I stared down at my legs as I forced myself through. Everything about my body was in pain, but it was secondary to the way I felt inside. The reality of things was getting through. My gut ached, my chest was tight. I got off the bike, holding my wrist carefully.

  Please nobody talk to me, I thought. Please let me go off by myself and deal with this on my own.

  But no, for once my entire team was waiting for me, standing around the finish line. Apparently they’d sent Margo out as a scout or something, and they were all waiting for us to come back together. Cameron and Oxendale walked over and Cameron gave me a hand climbing off my bike, while Oxendale held the handlebars.

  “You okay?” asked Elsa, coming closer.

  “We’ve been worried sick!” Autumn cried. She held out a handful of orange slices. “Take one. Oh, your sunburn. It looks painful.”

  Unfortunately, Heather spotted us and marched over to me right away. “Frances, what happened to you? I nearly had to call your parents.”

  “I know I went off course. I can explain,” I said. “Just give me a minute.”

  “Do you know how bad that is?” Heather wasn’t about to let it rest. “It’s like you think the rules aren’t meant for you, but I’m sorry, they apply to everybody.”

  “I know that,” I said. “Can you give me some time to wash up before you yell at me any more? I’ve had a pretty horrible day.”

  “You may have, and I’m sorry if you did. But not staying with the group—it has consequences,” Heather said.

  “I wasn’t trying to leave the group,” I said, feeling a rush of anger. “I’m here doing this ride, and the reason I’m doing it is because of Stella. Who was supposed to be here with me. Who would never have let me get lost. This isn’t right. None of this is right.”

  “I—I’m sorry, Frances. It’s a shame she isn’t here, I agree,” Heather said. “If only she hadn’t broken her leg—”

  “No,” I interrupted Heather.

  “No what?” she asked.

  “No, she didn’t break it,” I said.

  “What?”

  “She lost it,” I said. “Her leg got destroyed.”

  My whole body was shaking. I’d promised Stella I wouldn’t tell anyone until the ride was long over, until she was ready to tell people herself. Now here I was blurting it in front of Heather, and Margo, and Cameron, and everyone.

  “What—what are you saying?” asked Margo.

  “They had to take off her leg. She lost her leg,” I said, feeling the sickness rush up my throat when I remembered the scene, exactly as it
had happened. Not the first day I saw her, but the second, when I’d stayed strong for her but fell apart as soon as I left the room.

  I shoved my bike at Oxendale and ran away, as far and as fast as I could.

  CHAPTER 14

  When I’d gotten off the elevator to visit Stella, bringing breakfast and another bag with her stuff from home, one of the nurses I’d met the day before, when Stella was moved from the ER, had been sitting at the third-floor nurse’s desk.

  “Good morning.” She smiled at me. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but your outfits are improving,” she said.

  “Thanks. I guess,” I said, moving closer to the desk. One nice thing about a small town is that the hospital isn’t that big, either. You can get to know people if you want to. “So how’s Stella doing today?”

  “Mm,” she hummed. “She’s hanging in there. I’m sure your visit will make her feel better.”

  The way she didn’t want to discuss Stella made me nervous. I looked at her name tag. “LaDonna? That sounds bad. Is it bad?”

  “Sounds like nothing. Sounds like I have a lot of patients to keep track of and she’s one of them,” LaDonna said matter-of-factly.

  “Got it,” I said with a nod. “Thanks.”

  “Buzz us if you need anything,” she said. “I’ll be right in.”

  I walked down the hall toward her room, bracing myself but feeling mostly positive. I couldn’t wait to deliver the things I’d brought: some from Stella’s house, some from mine, and her favorite treats from Dunkin’ Donuts. Even if she was on a restricted diet, I figured she could sip an iced latte through a straw.

  “Franny, Franny! Wait.”

  I turned around and saw Stella’s mom hurrying after me.

  “Sorry, I was in the restroom.” She coughed. “I’m glad you’re here. Thanks for getting some more things for her.”

  “No problem,” I said cheerfully, almost giving her a hug but then stopping. She wouldn’t like that. She was too tough for hugs.

  “I have to warn you, though,” said Mrs. Grant. “She’s in rough shape. She’s . . . not doing very well. The damage to her pelvis and her leg—it’s substantial.”