Every Last Promise

by Kristin Halbrook

  And maybe that was me. Strong and grounded. I knew, somehow, that after high school, I was going to be the one to keep us close. I was going to be the one to insist we come together, insist they come home regularly and reconnect with one another. Without that, I was afraid the four of us would drift apart.

  But we never would. I’d make sure of it.

  FALL

  WHEN MY FIRST DAY back at school finally ends, I wait for the bus several feet away from the little groups of two and three students, my collar drawn up, my shoulders hunched to my ears even though it’s sweltering. My fingers search for fuzz in my pockets.

  I stare at Ulysses S. Grant High School to avoid looking at the people around me. To avoid meeting their eyes. Guessing what they’re saying because none of them bother covering their mouths with their hands as they gossip about me. T. J.’s so-clever “Killer Kayla” has spread. At first, I wanted to puke every time I heard it. From my old friends. From people I barely know. But now my ears have started tuning it out like background noise.

  It’s just a beginning, I know. I fluctuate between feeling slowly destroyed and feeling almost buoyed by their actions, as though their words are a penance I have to weather before I can belong again.

  I have three classes with Jen and Jay Brewster. Three hours each day to sit in the back corner and pretend to be invisible while people glance over their shoulders every few minutes to check up on me. Three hours to watch her talk and laugh with her friends—our friends—and watch him give teachers lopsided grins when they reprimand him for talking over their first day of school syllabus reading. Even the ones who frown at him give a reluctant pass. Boys will be boys, and Jay, he’s a star in whose orbit everyone shines a little brighter.

  Bean stands on the school’s front lawn, in front of the boulder engraved with a picture of the mascot, with another girl, someone I don’t know, who might have moved here over the summer or is bused in from one of the four towns surrounding ours. I’m not sure if her new friendship makes me happy for Bean or sad. For her, for me. For Jen and Selena. She seems to feel my eyes on her because she looks away from the other girl, and her expression as she faces me is different from everyone else’s. There’s no hostility. Nothing to read in her eyes, her mouth, her stilled body language.

  I watch Bean for too long. My thoughts form questions I’ve gotten good at ignoring. For a moment, I wonder if she’s thinking the same thing I am: What does she know? What does she remember? I tuck the possibility away in a corner of my mind and turn away from the school to face the highway.

  I grip my bag tighter. With my other hand, I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear, finger my shirt collar, and finally, rest my hand stupidly by the top of my thigh.

  I jump when a voice sounds in my ear. Noah Michaelson stops next to me. “Why are you standing here all alone?”

  He doesn’t seem uncomfortable to be talking to the school pariah. I study his face: golden skin across high cheekbones, dark, almond-shaped eyes, lips set in a serious line. His dad’s white and his mom’s Filipina. I recall he spent a year during elementary school in the Philippines with his mom. When he came back, he was different. Something was different. But I didn’t see him enough anymore to put my finger on what. When I don’t answer his question, he rummages through his backpack, pulling out a candy bar.

  “Twix?” he says.

  “I’m okay,” I say.

  Noah looks over at the school mascot boulder. When he starts to stuff the candy bar package in his pocket, I fiddle with my sweatshirt zipper and begin to turn away, my chest stinging more than I want it to from our three-second exchange.

  “Glad to be home?” he says.

  I squint down the road, searching for the telltale yellow of the school bus. “I don’t know.”

  I’m not sure what compels me to be honest with Noah Michaelson. Maybe it’s the way he approached me, first. Or how he didn’t call me Killer Kayla. Or how we’re both kind of outcasts now.

  “It’s good to see you again,” he says.

  I’m glad my face is half obscured by my collar because my chin trembles when he says it. I swallow back a lump and can’t answer him.

  The candy wrapper crinkles again. Noah’s dark eyebrows are drawn, but then he looks up at me from under his lashes and gives me a weak smile.

  “Thanks,” I finally say. I scan the crowd around us, my glance falling, again, on Bean. She’s still watching me and something inside me twists. I adjust my bag strap on my shoulder as the bus approaches. “See you later, Noah.”

  “Yeah.”

  I climb onto the bus, relief taking over when I spot an empty seat. I fall on the bench and look out the window. Noah waves his Twix at me as the bus pulls away from the school.

  SPRING

  I WAS UP EARLY the Sunday morning before school was out for the summer. I raced through my chores. It was already getting hot, and the glare of the sun made me squint as I headed back to the house. Dad was filling his coffee mug in the kitchen as I passed through on my way to the stairs.

  “How’s it going with the new boards?” He replaced the coffeepot and picked his baseball hat off the counter.

  “Pretty good. They’re looking watertight since we re-bent that wonky one, but I won’t know for sure until she gets on the water. All that’s left now is sanding and painting. We should have her in the river by the end of June.”

  “Can’t wait. Better think of a name before then.”

  I paused. “Me?”

  Dad fitted his hat on his head and nodded. “You brought her home—”

  “For you,” I interrupted.

  “—and you’ve worked hard to get her in shape. I think you should do the honors.” Dad flashed me a smile as he headed back outside, sidestepping Mom as she walked into the kitchen.

  “Are you going upstairs? Will you tell Caleb to put his laundry away instead of throwing it on his floor, please? We’re leaving for the Pattersons’ in a hour.”

  I nodded, but my thoughts were on boat names. The Farmer’s Daughter? River Drifter? “Will do.”

  Upstairs, Caleb lounged on his bed, finishing his homework. His clean socks were balled up and scattered across his floor.

  “Mom said put your clothes away. Slob.”

  “I will later. Have to finish this.”

  I peered at the notebook he was writing in. “Homework? I’m done with that for the year.”

  “No, not homework, dummy. I was done with that the moment my acceptance letter came.” He made a mark on the piece of paper without looking up at me. “This is my list of girls who might be lucky enough to get some of this hot, hot Caleb action before I leave this summer.”

  I picked up a sock ball at my feet and threw it at his head. “Gross.”

  “You say gross, but I’ve seen the way your friend looks at me. No one can resist all this.” He grinned and tossed the sock ball back in my direction. I spun out of the way.

  “Stay away from my friends,” I called over my shoulder as I headed for the shower.

  Caleb jumped out of the car before it had really come to a stop, raced across the yard, tossed Bean’s little brother, Eric, over his shoulder, and hauled him to the trampoline out back. Easy to do, since Eric was the smallest fifteen-year-old I knew, even though he promised everyone he came into contact with that his growth spurt would come soon. And then they’d be sorry.

  I met Bean on the porch, handing her the peach pie I’d baked.

  “Brothers,” I said.

  “Caleb’s his favorite person in the world,” Bean said. “It’ll suck when he leaves for college.”

  “Not for me. The house will be way less stinky.”

  Bean laughed and we went into her house to set the pie on the kitchen counter before heading to the back deck. Ever since my mom had delivered Bean’s older sister, Hailey, a couple of months before Caleb was born, she and Bean’s mom had been good friends. When the weather was good, our families would get together around a table groaning with food. The a
dults reminisced about simpler times while we shuddered at the idea of a world without the internet. Today, with the heat of late spring soaked into the ground, Bean’s dad was cooking burgers on the grill.

  I grabbed a can of Orange Crush from the cooler at my feet and popped the tab, peeking over his shoulder at the meat sizzling over coals, then at the spread on the wooden picnic table behind him. I turned back to Bean. “What are you going to eat?”

  “Potato salad and pie, I guess,” Bean said. “My mom went to the store last night and goes, ‘Bean, since you don’t eat meat, I’ll pick you up some chicken, okay?’” Bean rolled her eyes. “They don’t get it.”

  I laughed and followed Bean over the backyard’s wooden pole fence and out into the fields, stepping carefully to avoid cow pies. “Ah, Bean, our favorite town oddball.”

  “And that’s okay with them when it comes to almost everything else. ‘Want to do art? We’ll convert the barn loft into a studio for you!’ ‘Want to go vegetarian? Here, eat chicken. It’s not meat, right?’” She threw her hands in the air and shook her head. “But Eric doesn’t mind. He gets to eat all the leftovers.”

  “I’ll eat your burger tonight, Bean,” I said.

  “Yeah. Thanks.”

  “Here to help.”

  Bean slid the barn doors open. I climbed the ladder to the loft and flopped on the futon across from her easel. The canvas propped up there was unfinished. Something like a landscape, I thought, but in unlikely colors. Magenta and teal. I peeked out the window, noticing echoes between the way the land rolled outside and the way the landscape in Bean’s painting did in front of me.

  “How’s Hailey doing?”

  “Fine. She should be home from work any second. She just gave her two weeks’ notice.” Bean picked up a brush and tapped it against the side of a jar. The smell of solvents drifted to me lazily. I grabbed the patchwork pillow next to me and put up my feet.

  “I thought she was staying for the summer.”

  Bean dabbed the brush on a rag and reached for her palette. She shook her head. “She’s nannying for a family in South Carolina in June and July. Decided she could use the extra money. She is so ready to get out of here.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “I know you don’t,” Bean said. “Sometimes I can’t imagine leaving, either. Other times, I can’t wait to go. Just depends . . . I don’t know. On how restless I’m feeling, I guess.”

  “It’s so beautiful here.” Through the skylights above my head, I watched the sky slowly change colors. A little bit of violet. A little bit, even, of that magenta Bean had used in her painting.

  “There are lots of beautiful places in the world.” Bean examined her painting, scrunching her nose critically. “And I want to see them all. And then paint them.”

  “I’ll stay here and keep your studio safe for when you want to come back home.”

  “Good.” Bean twirled to face me, the escaped hair from her bun soft across her face, and smiled. “It’ll be nice to come back home to you every once in a while.”

  “It’s always nice to come back home,” I said, plumping the pillow and tucking it behind my head.

  FALL

  I KEEP MY HEAD down, my pen constantly taking notes, even when no one’s talking. My feet always move quickly down the hallways, around corners. I breathe normally only when I can hide out in the bathroom during lunch. My locker door has become the new favorite place to stick old, chewed gum. I carry paper towels with me to wipe it off the handle before opening the locker.

  The tiny notes tucked in my locker say, I hate you!!!

  They say, Fuck u Kayla.

  Killer Kayla doesn’t ever seem to get old for them.

  By Wednesday, I have mastered the art of tunnel vision, keeping my glassy gaze focused directly in front of me and blurring out everything around me. I don’t feel it when they flick my shoulder or when their tobacco-laced spit lands beside my foot. I don’t look up when they ask how it feels to be a murderer or even when my teachers call on me to finish a math problem or read out loud in English class.

  But I notice when I open my locker and another folded note falls out. My palm automatically shoots forward to catch it. I bite back a sigh. I should throw it away. Instead, I unfold it, like I did with every other note. It’s typed. A lot of them are, because anonymity allows for cruelty.

  You killed him on purpose.

  My nostrils flare and my shoulders shudder through my exhale.

  No.

  A series of possible reactions sweeps through my mind.

  I could drop the note like it’s garbage.

  Tuck it back in my locker and pretend it doesn’t affect me.

  Freak the fuck out.

  I know I can’t look up, around, down the hallway, because the prickling on the back of my neck tells me whoever left this for me could be watching.

  Bean?

  Jay?

  No one can know what I know. What I’m hiding . . . how I’m pretending. And even if someone did know, what would they have to gain by teasing it out of me? This is not a secret Jay wants out in the open. Unless it’s a warning: If I stay quiet, he’ll stay quiet.

  There’s a thin sheen of sweat in my hand from holding the note too tight and too long. It takes every last thread of control I can muster to cock my head like I don’t understand, shrug, and paste on a smile, and to widen my eyes innocently as I turn around. I don’t look for the person who left the note, but close my locker with a snap and drop the note in the nearest trash can, my shaking hand rattling the can too loudly.

  “Are you okay?”

  Bean is at my side, clutching a pile of books to her chest. Her mouth twists with worry. Bean is always one to worry about everyone else. The nicest girl anyone has ever known.

  I take a breath. Clear my throat. Clear every thought out of my head. I don’t want to look at her suspiciously. I don’t want her to look at me curiously. Waiting for a reaction. I want to pretend the note never existed. “Fine. Why?”

  “You look a little . . .” One hand reaches toward my face. I beat her to it, pressing my hand to my cheek. It’s cold.

  “I’m okay.” I drop my hand.

  The back-to-school poster on the wall behind Bean catches my attention. The official homecoming game is still weeks away, but other school pride activities begin soon. My glance lands on the kickoff event, the powder-puff game this Saturday. “I was making sure I knew what time the powder-puff game starts on Saturday,” I say evenly.

  Bean furrows her brow, then turns and reads the poster. Her pale eyebrows rise. “You’re going? Do you . . . think that’s a good idea?”

  I stare at her fingertips clutching the edges of her books so hard that they’re white. As though she can see, feel, the way my stomach twists when I think about going to the game. I bite the inside of my mouth to keep the tears from escaping.

  A year ago, when we were juniors, the four us had sat in the stands at the annual powder-puff game and cheered on Bean’s sister’s team.

  “Hailey got all the athleticism in the family.” Bean had sighed as her sister scored her second touchdown of the first quarter. Jay Brewster, on the sidelines during the plays, ran out each time to lift his girlfriend in the air and swing her around, as though he couldn’t bear not being part of it. Even though he’d have his own, much bigger moment in about a month.

  “Next year you can be our personal cheerleader,” Jen had said to Bean, throwing her arm around my shoulders. “Me and Kayla are going to kick some powder ass.”

  Competition is a Brewster family trademark. I couldn’t imagine having to pit myself against Jay for attention—from this town, from my parents. I’d returned the one-armed hug, pumped my fist high in the air, and let out a whoop. “We’ll bury them!”

  “You guys are dorks.” Selena had laughed as she waved her pom-poms in the air next to us.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll leave some glory for you,” Jen had said, wiggling her eyebrows. “College boys lik
e their girls dirty.”

  “And we all know Selena hates high school boys.” I laughed.

  “They’re slobs!” Selena yelled in the direction of the game.

  A couple of guys in the stands below us turned around to see who was shouting, and Selena stuck her tongue out at them.

  “Poor, poor high school boys.” Bean shook her head.

  “Poor high school girls who don’t end up on our team next year, you mean. We’ll destroy them!” Jen yelled. She growled and I growled louder, and eventually we dissolved into laughter.

  The girls on the homecoming court always flip a coin before the powder-puff game to determine who will be captains for the two teams. Last year, Jen and I had both expected to be a part of the court, but we’d agreed: if we both ended up as captains senior year, Jen would step down and let another girl take over the second team. And I would pick her for my team first.

  Both of us being team captains isn’t an issue anymore. Now, it would be a miracle if anyone picks me for their team at all.

  And I doubt Bean will be cheering for either me or Jen.

  I look away from the poster and back at Bean. Her mouth is soft with sympathy. I can’t be near it. Her. The way she worries about me and the way I’m not entirely sure if I have or have not failed her.

  The way I’m lying to myself. The way I haven’t done enough. The way I want her to say that killing a boy is enough. The sacrifices I’m willing for her to make so I can come home again.

  The guilt. The guilt that isn’t big enough.

  “Yeah,” I tell her as I push back into the river of students moving between classes. Running. Desperately. “It’s a good idea.”

  The smell of smoked and cured pig belly fills the house Saturday morning. The sizzling sound stays near me, relegated to the space where fat pops and burns tiny dots on my arms as I turn the pieces over. I prefer the pain to thinking about what’s going to happen in a few hours at the powder-puff game.