Every Last Promise

by Kristin Halbrook

  “Don’t,” she cuts me off abruptly. Selena’s eyes shift. When she sees the approval in the faces of our classmates, her voice rises. “You did a horrible thing. I can’t even talk to you.”

  She walks away and I stare at my desk as talking rises again in the classroom. Selena says the things she’s supposed to. The words that prove she’s on their side, not mine. But she’s not wrong. I did do a horrible thing. I look away. Catch Bean’s eye again, finally. Her neck is covered with red splotches. It’s not exactly strange, the way she’s sitting there quietly while Selena says these things to me. Bean never teased or mocked anyone. It isn’t like her. But that she’s not pulling Selena away, telling her to stop being mean or even that I’m not worth their effort?

  She’s acting like Selena isn’t her best friend.

  She’s acting like they don’t even know each other.

  Bean looks at the floor. Her fingernails pick at a fraying thread at the hem of her shirt. Her spine curls, like she can make herself smaller. Like she can disappear.

  The pen in my fist scribbles a tiny oval on my paper, through my paper, drilling a tiny hole in my desk. The manic doodling is the only way I can keep my hands from shaking.

  My head remains lowered until the sound in my ears dies down, my brain wills my chest to rise and fall slower . . . slower . . . slow enough that they can’t tell if I’m still breathing, how I’m feeling, if I feel anything at all. Numbness, when it settles over me, is a relief. I fold the paper into tiny squares, hoping the passing minutes cause everyone to forget what they just heard Serena tell me.

  My parents call what happened an “accident” so much that even I’ve started to believe them, believe that it was all something that I had no control over.

  Coming home means I have to tear the word “accident” apart and face the ripped-edge truth of each little piece, whatever that is. I stash the square of paper away as class starts. When I finally look up, I’m startled to find Bean watching me.

  “It must be weird,” she whispers, and the way she’s looking at me, intently, and the way her back is straight again, her body leaning toward me, make me realize that she’s not trying to avoid me. She’s looking for something. What? No, I know what, in a way. But what . . . exactly? I can’t meet her eyes. I don’t want to know the exact thing, so instead I connect the freckles on the bridge of her nose like they are constellations. “Weird . . . not remembering something that happened to you.”

  The sheriff might have been camping in the hospital hallways, the way he showed up in my room only moments after I woke up from the accident the day after it happened. He asked questions, and I answered them as best I could. My best wasn’t very good. Scenes from the night before were an aching jumble. I was honest then, telling him the events were mostly in a fog. He was understanding. Patted my hand, made some comment about oiled gravel, and wished me a quick recovery before he left.

  “Memory loss is weird,” I say, twirling my pen between my fingers.

  “Do you think you ever will? Remember?”

  “The doctor said it is possible.”

  “When?” Her fingers aren’t rubbing anything anymore. They’re clutching to the sides of her desk. “I mean, if it comes back.”

  “It’s hard to say. Brains take time to heal.”

  “But it will heal,” she says.

  “I don’t know.” I shift to the left and look exaggeratedly toward the front of the room, but the teacher is arranging piles of books and doesn’t seem to care about the pockets of chatter throughout the room.

  Bean makes a noise in the back of her throat and pulls her hair forward, over her shoulder. I expect her to twirl a piece around her finger or comb it absently, maybe, things she would have done months ago while we had a conversation, but she doesn’t. She just holds the thickness of it in her fist. As though it steadies her. She frowns. “That must be frustrating.”

  “Frustrating,” I repeat. “Yeah.”

  She releases her hair. Her voice softens. “Sometimes things happen for the best. Maybe not remembering . . . is a good thing.”

  My pulse begins to speed up. Because if she’s saying I shouldn’t remember what happened that night, it means there’s a possibility that I’m doing the right thing by coming home, by keeping my secrets. That even though I’ve stayed silent because I’ve wanted to, I’m not the only one.

  Then again, Bean is exactly the kind of person who would keep bad things secret, if just to spare anyone else the trouble of dealing with them. Is that what’s happening here? If so, that means I’m a certain kind of person. Not just a girl who kills. A girl who lets others fall on swords for her.

  That’s not who I want to be.

  But I’m scared to ask and find out for sure.

  “Maybe I will remember. Sometime.”

  Bean’s entire body perks up.

  “But maybe not. Brains are weird.” I jab the tip of the pen into the cover of my textbook. I just want to come home.

  Bean deflates again. “I’m sorry, Kayla. This is probably upsetting you.”

  “Yeah . . .” I tug on a strand of hair. She doesn’t know why it’s upsetting to me. Not all of the reasons. But then she doesn’t know what I know—remember—either, which is everything. And that makes me question who should be more upset, between the two of us.

  I have to move the conversation away from that night. To anything else. I take the book Malcolm Hart passes over his shoulder back to me, open it, and pretend to read the intro. “Precalc is supposed to be pretty hard, right? And Mr. Klein is a beast. Not looking forward to it.”

  Bean bites her lip and looks down, a sheen of disappointment covering her features. But I push it out of my mind and start taking notes.

  Yeah, I was honest when I woke up at the hospital.

  Less so now. But is telling Bean that I remember clearly what happened that night the right thing to do? Or does she want to bury it, pretend it never happened, as much as I do?

  I get through my next two classes, keeping my head down, only speaking when I absolutely have to, before I see them. The figures, siblings, standing by my locker are as familiar as anything else at home. Jay Brewster in his letterman jacket, Jen Brewster with her brown hair trailing down her back. Her shirt is new, the straps rounding over strong shoulders, but her fitted jeans are old. Perfectly faded. A year ago, it’s an outfit we would have planned together. Now, she looks me up and down, taking me in without a change in her expression. She is unreadable. I don’t know what Jen’s thinking—something that would have been impossible last spring—because, unlike everyone who had something horrible to say to me after the accident, Jen had said nothing. No texts, no emails, no calls. That was the worst thing that could happen between us.

  And Jay . . . His lips press together. His grasp on his backpack is tight. What is going through his head, facing the girl who killed one of his friends? The girl who knows the terrible things he’s capable of. He nods once in my direction, but not quite at me, then walks away.

  But Jen. She waits for me to approach her, her features hard like rock, bringing a rush of white noise to my ears. It’s the same buzzing that follows me around since that night last May, the same sounds I just heard in first period math: crinkling metal, hot rain on pavement. Gravel falling back to earth.

  She doesn’t approach me but waits for my footsteps to find her.

  I’ve told Jen Brewster that she’s my best friend a million times. I’ve drawn thousands of hearts on notes we’ve passed. Once, I told her that I didn’t know what I’d do without her.

  For months, I was without her, and I was scared she was back here despising me with the same intensity that I loved her.

  Love her.

  I try to anticipate what’s going to come out of her mouth, but I have no idea what Jen will say. There’s nowhere for me to turn, and I swear I won’t run away again.

  I fumble for a word, for the right words. But nothing comes. I stop at my locker. Tuck my fingers under the s
trap of my bag.

  “You came back,” Jen says.

  I can’t tell if she is angry or curious or condescending or happy. And that’s not me and Jen. I used to be able to know what she was thinking with barely a glance. I feel ill.

  “Yeah.” The word is husky, filled with unshed tears. “How have you been?”

  Her mouth twitches and I can hear what she doesn’t say: Who are you to ask that question? Instead, “I heard you were back in town. Weird.”

  My heart drops to my feet, crushes. She’s not even being mean about it, and there’s not a trace of bitterness. She’s controlled, matter of fact. There’s nothing.

  “I’m back.”

  I glance at the people walking past us, staring, not bothering to hide their interest in my conversation with Jen. They want a first-day-of-school scene to talk about. I know, because I would have wanted the same thing last year. Now I want our scene to disappear into the wall.

  “I heard you were in Kansas City. Nice there?”

  I swallow. “It’s different.”

  “But it must’ve been nice. After everything. To go somewhere different.”

  “I needed . . .” What did I need that wasn’t obvious, that she doesn’t already know? “To come back.”

  “I thought your leaving was a good idea.”

  I clutch my bag to my shoulder, refusing to let it slide down my arm the way I want to slide down these lockers.

  She shifts. Less than an inch. A microscopic movement of the bottom of her shoes, a twitch in her ankle. Something only someone who knows her would see.

  “Jen . . .” Why is it so hard to say it? I missed you. But my tongue dances around the syllables, ties itself like a sailor’s knot on the “I” and won’t let go. This vulnerability with Jen is new. Unwelcome. Terrifying.

  Jen’s line of vision shifts to a spot over my shoulder and her eyes narrow. I turn slowly, not knowing what to expect. Bean stands several feet back, watching us, one hand reaching into her locker.

  “See you around,” Jen says to the back of my head.

  When I twist back to face her, she’s already moving away.

  “Wait—”

  “No, Kayla. I had to wait for you. Now, you can wait for me.”

  I stand there in the hallway, watching her back. An arm slams into my shoulder and there’s laughter. A random voice I don’t recognize mutters, “Killer Kayla.”

  Killer.

  Like I did it on purpose.

  Which . . . I had.

  SPRING

  THE FOUR OF US snuggled under layers of blankets, our fingers greasy with buttered popcorn. Selena had been talking for fifteen minutes about how, since we were almost seniors, she was only dating college boys from now on. Bean rolled her eyes toward me and we shared a secret, patient smile, our hair mingling across our pillows like eddies of yellow and red. Jen licked her fingers clean of butter and perused the bottles of nail polish I’d brought down from my room.

  “Steven McInnis had the balls to text me last night,” Selena said. “At, like, one a.m. Like I’m a booty call? I don’t even know how he got my phone number. Loser.”

  “He was with Jay last night,” Jen said. “Jay was probably drunk and gave it to him.”

  “Why do they even hang out together?” I said. Steven McInnis wasn’t that well-liked, except for when he was with Jay.

  “The great football brotherhood,” Jen said. Her voice lowered dramatically and she waved her hands in the air. “Once, they would have gathered naked in great Roman coliseums and wrestled to the death. Bloodbaths of honor. Now, they hide under layers of padding and throw a stupid ball across a field.”

  “Shame how things have changed. They used to get all oiled up, too,” Selena said over our laughter. “Gleaming muscles. Ooh yes. Now we’re lucky if guys don’t smell like hogs.”

  I snorted. “You watch too many gladiator movies. I’m pretty sure those ancient guys were ripe, too. Deodorant wasn’t invented back then.”

  “Lucky for girls back then, body spray wasn’t invented, either. I hate when guys douse themselves in that stuff. Yuck.” Jen shoved a handful of popcorn in her mouth and unscrewed a bottle of nail polish.

  “I prefer a little smelly to oily and naked.” Bean wrinkled her nose. “But mostly, I wouldn’t want to see their . . . things flinging all over the place when they wrestled. Ew.”

  “Your imagination is lacking.” Selena giggled and reached over me to tickle Bean in the ribs. “I just wouldn’t want to see the junk of anyone around here. But gladiators? Oh yes. Give me a real man any day.”

  “Blah, blah, college guys. Yeah, we’ve heard it before. This town isn’t a complete wasteland of boys,” I said, shoving Selena back in her place. A half-popped kernel stuck in my teeth and I paused to dig it out.

  “Are you talking about T. J.?” Selena said. “Hotness is not everything.”

  “Works for now.” I shrugged. “Not like I’m trying to find my soul mate and settle down or anything.”

  “What about Jay? I can imagine him in some kind of gladiatorial combat,” Selena said.

  Jen scowled at the way her nail polish brush skipped across her finger messily. “Can we not talk about my brother and oil at the same time? I’m going to puke.”

  “You two would be cute together,” Selena continued, nudging Bean. “He keeps sitting next to you at lunch.”

  “Seriously?” Bean gave Selena an incredulous look. “He just barely broke up with Hailey. It’s like second degree of separation spit swapping.”

  “Gross,” I agreed.

  Jen blew on her nails to dry them and looked at us. Saying nothing.

  “This town needs some new blood.” Selena sighed. “Did you happen to invite anyone I don’t know to your party, Jen?”

  “I invited everyone who matters.” Jen frowned at her nails and reached for a cotton ball to wipe off the red polish.

  “So, same old, same old, then,” Selena said.

  “There are some nice guys around here,” Bean said. “What about Noah Michaelson? Didn’t you say you invited him, Kayla?”

  Selena pulled her shoulders a few inches off the floor so she could give Bean the evil eye. “He’s weird. Does he ever say a word to anyone? I don’t think you actually love me anymore.”

  “You’re one to talk. Didn’t you just suggest Jay—” She broke off, her smile fading and her glance flicking up at Jen.

  “Oh Jesus,” Jen said, choosing a new nail polish color. “It’s not like I don’t know the truth about my own brother. Even if he wasn’t my brother, I’d never date him.”

  That strange, heavy silence fell over us again. Selena finally broke it by grabbing the remote and pointing it at the TV. “This movie is crap. Let’s dance.”

  The quick inhale of air the rest of us took left me light-headed for a moment. I ran upstairs for my laptop and put on my dance playlist, then sat on the couch next to Jen and slowly unscrewed the cap to the glittery gold polish.

  I thought about the time I’d had a crush on Jay Brewster. I was probably ten or eleven and he was just starting to form muscles in his scrawny arms. He’d so far avoided the awkward phase it seemed every other boy our age was going through and looked poised to dodge it completely. But my infatuation had faded quickly. Even then, Jay Brewster knew he was something special, and his ego’s growth spurts matched his body’s.

  When Hailey first started going out with Jay last fall, we’d thought it was strange. Jay usually dated girls who worshipped him, but Hailey wasn’t the kind of girl to have patience for diva types. She was Bean’s older sister, and we all looked up to her as an example of independence and strong will, staying at the top of her class all throughout high school, getting into big-name schools, leading the field hockey team in goals. Over the past year, Jay had mellowed a little bit, though. Her influence seemed to be good. Until the weeks leading to their breakup.

  Once, back in February, I came down Jen’s stairs to overhear Jay telling Steven that he alway
s got what he wanted. And Steven agreeing with him. Who could stop boys like them? They’d laughed. I’d brushed it off then. It was easy to talk big. Nothing to take seriously.

  Still, I’d felt compelled to grab the cookies I’d come down for and hightail it back upstairs, crossing my arms over my chest because I was wearing a fitted T-shirt and no bra underneath.

  In my living room now, Selena flung her head and arms around to the music. Her reaction to bralessness and boys was different than mine. She’d given me a flippant I don’t care earlier in the evening when I’d mentioned that my brother was home and so she might want to wear more than a sports bra and boy shorts, but I knew she cared very much because her eyes roved from the front door to the stairs to the kitchen as though waiting for him to come in and see how beautiful she was.

  He was almost a college guy, after all.

  I always liked watching Selena and Bean dance. They were so different. Selena looked like she should have been dancing on a stage at a club. But Bean moved like she heard a different song than the rest of us. Her movements were a little off-tempo, slower. In one moment, Bean reminded me of a little girl. But then I blinked and she swung her hip to the left and she looked so confident that she seemed impossibly far away, older, closer to womanhood than the rest of us. More like the woman Bean’s real name, Sabine, suggested. Even though she was the only one of us four who was still a virgin.

  I drew the polish brush along my thumbnail and thought again about our one year left to be together in this town. How I wanted to make it special. Sometimes, it felt easy to figure out who everyone else was in our group. Jen, our leader. Selena, the warrior. Bean, the peacekeeper. But me?

  Across the room, my most recent competition ribbon sat on the mantle above the fireplace. A huge, ruffled blue thing that I hadn’t yet taken to Caramel Star’s stall to put with the other ribbons and cups I’d collected over the years. Jen had taken first in dressage but hadn’t placed in the top three in jumping. I’d congratulated her, and she’d said, “We did all right, but I just can’t get off the ground like you can. You’re so much stronger than me. Better grounded in your saddle.”