Every Last Promise

by Kristin Halbrook

  “We were close,” I blurt out. “What happened?” She hasn’t turned around, so she misses the way I cringe at my words and sink back into myself until I feel my heels scrape the backs of my shoes. What a stupid thing to say when I, too, have been avoiding Bean. To confront her about friendships when I’ve managed ours so poorly makes me a hypocrite.

  What I really mean to say is You never told the police. Never filed a report. Dumping old friends is suspicious. Changing our patterns, acting out of turn . . . all those things that are supposed to clue people in that something is wrong. And since no one’s picked up on that or they’re ignoring that or . . . something . . . that means that not telling is what we’ve decided, right? To go along like nothing happened? Right? Right?

  She spins the lock open and faces me. The redness around her eyes gives her away and my heart shrinks. It wasn’t the rain she was wiping away. “Nothing. We’re fine.”

  “We’re not,” I say softly. “Not you and me. Not . . . any of us.”

  There’s an ache growing in my chest. Slow to spark, steady in building, then, suddenly, roaring. Painful, licking flame.

  We were four. We were four in one town with one winding river and a diner with sweet rolls the size of our heads. We were.

  Her eyes start to flicker: to the left, over my shoulder, toward the entry doors.

  The wind howls through, keeping the doors open without anyone holding them, and I realize that in my longing for Jen’s friendship again and my desperation to put that night last May out of my thoughts, that I’ve neglected one of the four. The one who needs me the most. The one I need the most.

  “Maybe we could do something next . . .” I trail off as her eyes lock on something behind me.

  I already know who I’ll see standing there when I turn around, but I do it anyway to see Jen watching us with a blank expression, and when I catch her eye, I can’t read anything there. Selena is next to her, looking suspicious. It’s that moment I stop caring, though. What Selena might think. Whether or not Jen would approve of my snooping. There’s something about realizing how cowardly Caleb and I have been that’s lit the tiniest flame of courage inside me. That makes me believe I can fight to keep all of my friends.

  I look at Bean again. “I came home, but so much changed while I was gone, Bean.”

  “People change. It happens.” Bean tugs on a curl lying over her shoulder. She looks away from Jen and Selena and stares at the contents of her locker for a moment. I’m waiting for her to give me some indication that we can close the door on the past and move forward.

  And when she finally looks back at me, maybe she sees what I want. Maybe she doesn’t want to give me that. She says, “You shouldn’t be asking about why.”

  I want to ask her why not but I don’t. I just say, “That’s what Selena said.”

  I see Bean’s disappointment in a sudden twisting of her mouth.

  But it should be worse. It should be a loud, angry scream or a cry of pain.

  Bean’s best friend in the world knows what happened but turned her back on Bean anyway. And yet. Bean blinks slowly, smooths the frown from her face, drops the curl around her finger, and says, “She’s right, I guess. See you, Kayla.”

  Bean moves down the hall and around the corner, forgetting to close her locker. I shut it and turn the dial slowly. Last year, we all knew each other’s codes.

  When I turn back around, Jen’s walked away, but Selena still stands there, has walked closer and is watching me, chewing on the eraser end of a pencil.

  “Selena,” I begin. I have nothing to follow her name with.

  She cocks her head to the side. “Kayla,” she says, “I told you not to snoop.”

  Then she turns away and I’m standing here alone, again.

  I call Bean and leave a message when she doesn’t answer.

  “It’s me . . . ,” I begin.

  But that doesn’t feel right. Like I am beyond recognition. I start again. “It’s Kayla. I thought we could go to the homecoming dance together. Want to be my date? Call me back.”

  She never calls.

  I believed Selena when she said Bean was the one to walk away from her friends. I would have understood why, in those first days after the accident. Now, I don’t know what’s going through Bean’s head. Why and how she can exist, calmly, day to day, beside these people when the anger inside me feels too heavy to move, but inside her . . . it should be ferocious and explosive. Because Bean had wanted to tell—she did tell someone, her best friend. Bean hasn’t stayed silent because she’s wanted to. It’s because she’s had to.

  I could have changed that. I still can change that.

  Except for the fear. The fear that might be, after all, bigger than the anger I feel.

  In a town that felt, for so long and in the best way possible, like nothing ever changes, things have. They changed that night and they changed while I was gone and I can’t change them back to the way they were before I left. Even though I keep trying.

  I don’t want to be angry and I don’t want to be afraid. Not of my own home.

  I lie in the boat and drink orange soda, waiting for Jen to come pick me up for the homecoming carnival. After the storm passed, the sky became clear and sunshiny again.

  I text Noah. Are you going to the carnival?

  Who is this? he texts back. Then, Just kidding. Probably going.

  Yesterday, at school, I caught Noah’s eye as we walked in opposite directions down the hallway. My breathing picked up as he came nearer to me. His washed-out orange T-shirt was printed with a cartoon moose. It stretched nicely across his shoulders. I stopped walking, preparing to say something to him, but Jen grabbed my wrist to pull me along. So Noah and I passed each other wordlessly. But I could see the question in his eyes. His wondering if, since I have my old friends back, he is out of the picture.

  Out of my life.

  I don’t want him to be.

  I want him and everyone else. That’s why I came back. That’s what I’ve worked for.

  And I want Bean back, too. So why does she stay away from me—as though we hadn’t both decided to keep our secrets? As though we aren’t both pretending nothing’s wrong?

  Maybe I’m only trying to convince myself that we’re pretending. Maybe the world would split in half if Bean knew I remembered everything from that night.

  Of course she’s not friends with Jen and Selena anymore. Or me.

  How can she even look at us without feeling ill?

  I am so still that I feel the earth spinning under me. A wave of dizziness blackens my vision. I sit up and lean over the edge of the boat so that my orange puke hits the grass instead of my boat.

  Just when back-to-school month is winding down, the events pick up with a fever: the carnival tonight, dance tomorrow night, and then, finally, the big game Saturday against Highland Hills, the crappiest team in the state. Homecoming is always scheduled when the team with the worst record the previous season comes to Winbrooke. A guaranteed win keeps the alumni who travel back home once a year feeling like it was worth their time.

  I zip up a hoodie to ward off the cool breeze running across the school courtyard at the carnival. It smells good. Everything. The lingering dampness and the air heavy with earth and food booths and the bales of hay used as seating.

  “The lineup for the kissing booth sucks,” Selena says as she and I wait for Jen to finish her shift in the dunk tank. “Why even bother?”

  I shrug and examine the pink-and-orange hedgehog-looking stuffed animal I won at the balloon race in Game Alley. I’ve always been good at fair games. Its eyes are crooked, but I like the imperfection.

  “Kissing booths are gross. All that germ swapping. Ick.”

  Selena raises an eyebrow at me. “I guess it’s a good thing I only date college guys, then.”

  “Right, because they’re known for keeping their germs to themselves.”

  “Does your brother keep his germs to himself?” Her eyes flick over my shoulder
. “I forgot how cute he is.”

  I turn my head and see Caleb trying to flip rubber frogs onto lily pads floating in a kiddie pool of water. Eric, who I’ve seen a couple of times at my house since Caleb came home, is standing next to him with that hero-worshipping expression he always uses when he looks at my brother. But Caleb is a lackluster hero. He misses the lily pad every time, passes over more money, and keeps missing, whooping and hollering it up each time a frog lands in the water, just like the old Caleb would. He’s starting to gather a crowd.

  “What happened to Dan?” I ask.

  “I’m not known for keeping my germs to myself, either.” Her smile is pure naughty girl.

  I roll my eyes and drag Selena toward the food booths. “I’m hungry. Corn dogs, root beer, and funnel cakes or death!”

  “You mean corn dogs, root beer, funnel cakes, and death.” She giggles, holding her belly.

  “You think that’s bad? Your cute Caleb always gets deep-fried Ding Dongs.”

  Her sound of disgust is accentuated by the roar of the crowd as Caleb, finally, lands a lily pad.

  We walk up and down the booths and, food in hand, enter the football stadium and climb the bleachers until we’re happy with our view. A farmer in a baseball cap sips punch from a red plastic cup a couple of rows down. Some freshman boys from school balance on the railing at the very top of the bleachers, showing off for their girlfriends sitting below them. A few guys on the football team toss the ball around below us. The breeze plays with my ponytail. Point Fellows is a blur in the distance.

  I breathe in and out slowly.

  Selena’s mouth is full of funnel cake.

  I take a huge bite of corn dog and mustard. When I swallow, I set my plate on the seat next to me. “Jay was drunk that night.”

  Selena brushes her hands together and a wispy cloud of powdered sugar blows toward the stadium floor.

  “At least that,” she finally says.

  “So how come that didn’t come out in the accident report?”

  A length of hair twists around her finger slowly. “His mom’s Erica Brewster. She could’ve made people think Steven was the one driving the car if she’d wanted to. But does it matter? Jay wasn’t driving. Nothing against the law about being drunk in the passenger seat.”

  I squirm at the mention of Jay’s mom. Even now, she avoids looking at me when I’m at the Brewsters’ house.

  “Except for that whole underage thing.”

  Selena laugh-coughs. “Like anyone cares.”

  Jen pokes her head into the stadium, rubbing a towel over wet hair, and waves us over.

  “Jen’s done with the dunk tank,” I say. And then, “I think his being drunk matters. In a different way.”

  “Fuck, Kayla. Boys get drunk all the time.”

  It’s just what boys do.

  She shouldn’t have been drinking. She shouldn’t have walked off alone. She shouldn’t have flirted with him. She shouldn’t have worn that skirt.

  A strain of music from several bleachers over catches my attention. A small group surrounds a boy playing a guitar. Not Noah. But suddenly, I want to find him. I scan the crowd and, after a moment, spot his wet-sand hair at the dart throw booth. He pulls his arm back and sends a dart flying. I hear a balloon pop. Or maybe I imagine the sound.

  I will him to turn around and look at me. He doesn’t.

  “You should ask someone to the dance,” Selena says.

  I did.

  “No, it’s too late for that,” I say.

  I wonder who Noah is going with. If he’s going. I wonder what he’d say if I asked him. The way he’d have to stammer out a no, trying not to hurt my feelings, because why would he want to go with a girl who seems to have ditched him at the first sign of her old friends?

  I flick a mosquito off the edge of my plate. “Let’s go. Jen’s waiting for us.”

  We head back down, tossing our half-eaten food in the garbage, and reenter the mix of students, faculty, and alumni on the field.

  “Was the water cold?” I ask Jen.

  “Freezing.” Jen shudders and wraps her towel tighter around her shoulders. “Have you seen Jay?”

  “I don’t think he’s here yet,” Selena says.

  “Yeah, too much to expect he’d take a turn at the dunk tank.” Jen grimaces. A halfhearted attempt to pretend she is teasing. “Jerk.”

  At a souvenir booth, Bean and her new friend Grace perform a mock fight with foam gladiator swords. My feet still; I watch them for a long time. Too long.

  Grace looks up at me and her mouth twists with a sheepish smile. To catch her acting like a kid.

  But when Bean sees me her face loses its smile. She presses her lips into a thin line and sticks the sword back in the vendor’s basket.

  “Hurry up, Kayla,” Jen calls, and I follow her, pretending that I haven’t been looking at Bean. I don’t think she’s noticed and then it doesn’t matter because everyone starts cheering.

  “Yeah, man, there he is!” someone yells next to me, clapping his hands above his head. The whistle he gives is shrill and hurts my ears.

  Jay Brewster has finally decided to grace us all with his presence.

  We get ready for the homecoming dance at Jen’s house because she has a date to come pick her up and I’m just riding along in the backseat.

  Maybe I should have asked Noah to come with me.

  Maybe I shouldn’t be going at all.

  Jen’s white strapless dress hugs her body, beginning where her small breasts start to squish out at the top and ending halfway up her thigh. Her legs are long, long, long. She leaves her hair loose and does her face in mod makeup: thick black eyeliner on her top lid and nude lipstick. My dress is black with a full, but short, tulle skirt. I pull my hair back into a bun and fill my lips with deep red lipstick. We teeter around Jen’s room in our sky-high heels; I’m a little better at walking in mine than Jen, despite my ankle. Her date rings the doorbell as I’m pulling on my lace gloves.

  Erica Brewster pokes her head in.

  “T. J. is here,” she says to Jen. Always to Jen, even when I’m standing next to her. Never saying something to me, looking at me, thinking about me.

  “My mom’s a bitch,” Jen always says, even if I don’t bring it up. “Ignore her.”

  I do ignore her, and Erica ignores me back, and that, I know, is as good as it will ever get with her.

  Downstairs, T. J. stands in the entryway with Jay. They’re both wearing black dress pants, but T. J. has a gray vest over a pink dress shirt while Jay’s wearing a tie and jacket. A few months ago, I would have gotten mad at Jen for not asking if it was okay for her and T. J. to go to the dance together. T. J. had been my crush. But now, I hear him say, “Hey, Kayla,” and my name sounds a little bit like “killa” still, and I don’t care that Jen didn’t ask me if it’s okay to go with him.

  I’m not the same Kayla.

  Jay says hi, too, and not for the first time, I wonder, How can he look at me when last summer I drove into a ditch to escape him? How can our interaction right now be so normal? As though Jay doesn’t care what he’s done, what I’ve done, what I might know about him?

  He has never had to care.

  T. J. looks up at Jen with the smile of a boy who knows he’s getting lucky later on. Jay slaps him on the back, says, “Keep it clean, kids,” like Jen isn’t the older twin by five minutes, and heads out the door, his keys in hand, to meet up with his own date.

  “Shall we?” T. J. holds his arm out toward Jen. I look away from his white-knight performance and fall in line somewhere behind the two of them and their nervous laughter.

  The high school gym is decorated like every high school gym in every teen movie’s dance scene. Balloon towers flank the doors; there are food tables and a picture-arch thing. Long streamers crisscross over our heads. And there’s a DJ on the stage under a rainbow of strobe lights. By the time we arrive, couples are slow-dancing badly to an administration-approved soundtrack.

  I lo
ok around for Bean.

  Then force myself not to look around for Bean.

  Jen and Selena ditch their dates for three songs in a row so we girls can dance in a little circle. We let a few others in—the other homecoming princesses, a friend or two—but not everyone. In between songs, I look out and think how, with another decision, those people might have been me.

  Halfway through the night, I allow myself to recognize that Bean isn’t here. Then the main lights come on and the homecoming court is introduced, one by one. There are jokes about a brother and sister winning king and queen, but I guess the jokes aren’t wrong because, sure enough, it’s Jay and Jen standing on that stage with crowns on their heads when all is said and done.

  It’s the culminating moment they both have waited on for years. In another life, it could have been me up there with Jay. Or Bean. Always, though, it would have been Jay.

  Instead of dancing with each other, like the king and queen normally do, Jen and Jay each grab their dates and take the floor.

  I smile for Jen because the spotlight lifts the gold tones in her hair and her dress flashes and T. J. smiles like he’s the luckiest guy in the room. The moment passes when Maria and Jay, slowly spinning in a circle, block my view of Jen. I shiver. Someone has opened the doors to let out some of the sweaty stink of a bunch of teenagers packed into one room and it’s suddenly so cold. My jaw muscles clench. Selena and her home-from-college date head out onto the dance floor when the DJ announces it’s open to everyone, and I’m left standing here alone.

  I walk outside and call my mom to ask her to come get me. I know she’s surprised by the way a too-long silence answers my request for a ride. But then she simply says she’s on her way and I’m grateful that she sees some things clearly but not other things. I let the heels of my shoes sink into the grass.

  “The party’s inside,” Noah says, coming up behind me.

  “Then why aren’t you in there?” I turn to look at him. His button-down shirt is open at the collar and he’s wearing skate shoes with his khaki pants. Shivers erupt over my bare shoulders, but they have nothing to do with the cold. “Who are you here with?”