Promise Me Something

by Sara Kocek

  A few people started laughing, and John Quincy, who didn’t even know Abby, let out one of his famous wolf whistles. Abby blinked furiously and turned to walk away.

  “Abby!” I called after her. “I never said that!”

  “Then how would Olive know about it in the first place?” hissed Madison, getting up to follow Abby. “I can’t believe you told her, Reyna.”

  My heart sank, and I looked over at Levi, who was watching me with a frown on his face. He’d been drinking too, and my only hope, as I opened my mouth to defend myself, was that he wouldn’t remember any of this in the morning.

  “I didn’t say Abby violated her dog,” I blurted. “I said she touched his gizmo.”

  As soon as the word popped out, the crowd around me burst out laughing, and I felt my face flood with color. “I mean, his…thing.”

  Leah was one of the only people not laughing. “You can call me a slut whenever you want, Reyna,” she said. “But don’t tell Abby’s secrets. That’s not cool.”

  “I know—” I started to say, but a loud clatter from the front hall interrupted me. I heard a collective gasp from the crowd. Across the piano, the color drained from Olive’s face.

  I turned my head just in time to see Tim Ferguson wrestling his way out of the coat closet by the front door, his hands and feet bound together with dishcloths, his mouth gagged with an old sweatshirt and duct tape. I felt—rather than saw—Olive push past me and run across the living room. Grace trailed close behind her, the purple raincoat flapping. When they reached the foyer, Olive crouched down, yanked the sweatshirt out of Tim’s mouth, and untied the dishcloths to free his hands and feet. I ran with everyone else over to the top of the stairs to see what was going on. Peeling duct tape off his cheek, Tim coughed, “Assholes—wanted to put me back in the closet—”

  “Who did this?” demanded Olive.

  “Nobody,” said Tim, but it was obvious.

  “Go home, homo,” John Quincy called. He was leaning over the banister with a red plastic cup in his hand as though he meant to pour it over the ledge.

  Tim ignored him, rubbing the spot on his elbow where he’d bashed through the closet door. I felt sick to my stomach for the millionth time that night. Olive probably thought I was no different than John—just as spineless and self-centered and prejudiced. Maybe she was right.

  It became difficult to see anything as the people around me moved closer to gawk. That’s when Levi came over and wrapped his arm around my shoulder. “Can you believe that?” he said. “What kind of jerk throws someone into a closet?”

  I felt too dizzy—too drunk—too awful—to say anything, so I closed my eyes against Levi’s shoulder as he led me over to the couch and sat me down. More than anything else, I wanted to go to sleep and obliterate my memory of the night.

  Four other people were sitting on the couch talking drunkenly about what had just happened to Tim. “Wait, he’s gay?” one girl asked. “Like Dumbledore?”

  “Dumbledore is fictional.”

  Closing my eyes again against Levi’s shoulder, I had just enough time to wish I’d never woken up in the morning before Olive climbed back up the steps and announced to everyone that Tim was leaving because he obviously wasn’t welcome here.

  Not too many people paid attention. They kept rambling, sipping from beer bottles and plastic cups. One blond boy with glasses said, “What if you had two dads and you walked in on them having sex? That would be traumatic.”

  “Hey, shut up,” said Levi, leaning forward on the couch. “I have two moms.”

  Somebody wolf whistled.

  “That’s different,” said the blond boy. “That’s awesome.”

  “You idiot.” Olive looked murderous as she marched over. “A hate crime just happened, and you have the nerve to sit here and make jokes? Do you seriously think gay marriage would be the end of the world?”

  “It’s unconstitutional,” said the boy.

  Olive folded her arms. “What about the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness?”

  “It’s a slippery line.”

  “You mean a slippery slope?” Her eyes were bright with rage. “Are you saying that Tim doesn’t deserve to be happy? Just because he’s gay?”

  I stood up. I wanted to leave. I didn’t care if Levi was still sitting on the couch, watching everything unfold like reality TV. I wanted go to the bathroom—to the porch—to the street—to anywhere but here.

  Olive whipped her head around. “Where do you think you’re going, Reyna?”

  I sat back down like the couch was a magnet.

  “Look,” she continued. “I’m sorry about what I said to Abby and Madison. I really am. But if these are the kind of idiots you choose to associate with, you deserve it.”

  I leaned away from her, toward Levi’s shoulder. “Just because we’re sitting on the same couch doesn’t mean I agree with him,” I said, looking over at the blond boy.

  “If you don’t say anything against him, then you might as well agree with him,” she answered. “Or did you not learn about Nazi Germany?”

  “I hate to say it,” said Levi, “but she has a point.”

  “Thank you!” Olive turned back to me. “You don’t know how defend your opinions, Reyna. That’s why you always avoid talking about politics. Don’t deny it.”

  I looked over at Levi, a headache blooming behind my eyes. “You’ve seen me defend my opinions, right?” I asked him.

  “I guess,” he said. “About some things.”

  “Then defend them now,” Olive demanded. “Do you agree or disagree with this idiot?” She pointed at the blond boy with glasses.

  “Disagree,” I said.

  “Why?”

  I thought about it for a second. “Because it would be just as traumatizing to walk in on your straight parents having sex.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “But that doesn’t matter,” said the boy, adjusting his glasses. “Marriage is between a man and a woman. If you lose that definition, people could marry goats if they wanted to. Or socks.”

  “Are you stupid?” Olive’s eyes bulged. “Why would anyone marry a sock?”

  “He doesn’t mean they actually would,” I said. “He’s just playing the devil’s advocate.”

  Olive clenched fists by her sides. “Well, it’s a waste of time. The devil already has enough advocates.” Then she turned on her heel and left, Grace following her like a shadow.

  “So go marry a sock,” I said to no one in particular. The living room was swimming in front of my eyes. “Honestly, I don’t care anymore who anyone wants to be with. It’s their own business.” I half-expected everyone around me to turn around and stare, but the party kept going, breathing and pulsating like a living creature. “I don’t care if she’s gay,” I repeated, turning to Levi. “I don’t care about anything as long as you still like me.”

  “I do,” he said. “I think.”

  I’m sorry I made you come with me.

  I’m sorry too.

  It was depressing.

  I know.

  I’ll find a way to make it up to you.

  Come with me to the tracks.

  That wasn’t what I had in mind.

  Please?

  Now?

  Of course.

  I just took off my shoes.

  But you’re not really tired, are you?

  I guess not.

  Then put them back on and come with me.

  You’re becoming obsessed, Grace.

  I know.

  Are you OK?

  Maybe.

  14.

  Turn the knob, Rachael Ray. The stove is hot.

  Sprinkle me with sea salt. Set me on the pan.

  I’ll evaporate like steam. I’ll disappear for you.

  I’ll be nothing but an empty calorie, a statistic.

  Don’t think straight, it’ll kill you.

  Nobody read the February issue of the Breeze except the people who were published i
n it—and me, of course. As literary magazines went, it was pretty slim: ten pieces of paper bound together with staples running down the left side. All the artwork was done by a sophomore with a loopy signature who specialized in wispy pencil drawings of sad-looking eyes.

  On Monday, my pride still wounded from the Valentine’s party, I ducked into the library after third period to grab a copy from the stack by the door. I expected to see Olive’s name in the table of contents, but it was nowhere to be found, even when I flipped through the rest of the magazine. Only through process of elimination did I manage to locate her poem at all, published anonymously under the title, “Disappearing.” Rachael Ray was a famous chef whose name rhymed with mine—sort of. “Don’t think straight” was probably a double entendre. But other than that, I had no idea what to think. Sprinkle me with sea salt?

  My detour made me late to History, but it didn’t matter. We had a sub. The minute I walked through the door I saw a woman writing Study Hall in big letters on the blackboard while John Quincy chased Lennie around the back of the room with a fake spider.

  “Hey you.” Levi turned to face me as I sat down. He was wearing a threadbare yellow T-shirt with Jimi Hendrix’s face plastered across the front, and I had a feeling that Olive, from her seat behind me, was watching both of us over the top of her moleskin notebook. But if Levi noticed her, he didn’t let on. “All recovered from Friday?” he asked. “You must have had a monster hangover on Saturday morning.”

  “Yeah.” I smiled and settled into my seat. “I ate an entire box of macaroni and cheese for breakfast, though. That helped.”

  He laughed. “I ate a burger.”

  As the sub tried to get John Quincy to sit in his seat, Levi straightened his face and asked, “So how’s it going?”

  “Pretty good,” I said. “You?”

  “Pretty well,” muttered a voice behind me.

  “That depends whether you’re free on Friday,” Levi answered, paying no attention to Olive. “If you are, I’ll be good.”

  “Free for what?” I asked.

  “Eating popcorn and wearing 3-D glasses.”

  I laughed as he twirled his guitar pick necklace and added, “It’s the opening night for White Heat. I thought you might want to see it with me.”

  “The one about aliens causing global warming?” I asked.

  From behind me, Olive let out a snort and muttered something under her breath.

  “What’d you say?” Levi asked, noticing her for the first time.

  “I said that movie looks stupid,” she repeated. “Your taste in cinema is lamentable.”

  Something in me snapped. Even though Levi flashed her a grin like he couldn’t care less, I felt the word lamentable crawl under my skin like a spider. She sounded so smug, I wanted to slap her. Instead, I turned around and whispered, “Your teeth are lamentable, Olive Garden.” The minute her eyes widened, I stood up, marched to the front of the room, grabbed a bathroom pass, and headed out the door.

  Ensconced in the handicapped stall of the girls’ bathroom, I sat down and peed my heart out, wondering who I was becoming and why nobody was stopping me. Nobody except Levi anyway. My only hope was that he hadn’t heard what I said. If he had, it was only a matter of time before he realized the truth about me. I was no better than Gretchen Palmer. I was worse.

  Outside the stall, I heard the bathroom door swing open and shut. A pair of familiar sneakers shuffled in and stopped just outside my stall. I stood frozen, watching them. Then, with a deep breath, I stood up and flushed the toilet. When I stepped out, Olive was waiting for me.

  “I didn’t deserve that,” she said right away. “Nobody deserves that.”

  I stepped past her toward the sink, avoiding my reflection in the mirror.

  “You can’t just say that kind of thing,” she persisted, fidgeting with the bottom of her ugly blue sweater. “Not out of nowhere. Not randomly.”

  “It wasn’t out of nowhere.” I turned on the faucet and plunged my hands into the cold stream of water. “And it wasn’t random. People call you Olive Garden because it sounds like your name, and they call you a freak because you freak them out.”

  I knew my words were cruel, but I couldn’t help myself. Every shard of anger I’d felt all year toward Dad, Lucy, and Abby came back like a dagger pointed straight at Olive.

  “People?” She was standing in front of the sink now without washing her hands. “What about you, Reyna?”

  “I feel the same way,” I answered.

  “How would you feel if I shot myself in the face?”

  “Yeah right.” I knew she was trying to goad me, and I wasn’t about to fall for it. The idea of someone as arrogant as Olive suffering from low self-esteem was laughable.

  “You think I’m joking?” Her eyes widened. “I’m not the boy who cried wolf.”

  “And I’m not the wolf,” I said.

  “Maybe you’re more important to me than you think.”

  “Well, I don’t want to be.” I turned off the faucet and wiped my dripping hands against the front of my jeans. “I’d prefer to be nothing to you.”

  She stared at me.

  “I never asked for any of this,” I reminded her. “And I’m sorry if that sounds harsh, but it’s true. I never asked you to write that poem. I never asked you to be my friend.”

  I expected her nostrils to flare. I thought she might say, “Get out,” or even, “You’re better than this,” which I knew deep down that I was. But she didn’t do anything except stare at me. So I left the bathroom with the toilet still gurgling. The door closed behind me with a swish.

  Four times in one week?

  Five, actually.

  I’ve created a monster.

  Shut up. Are you coming?

  I never thought I’d say this, but I’m actually tired of reading Sylvia Plath.

  Fine, then don’t come.

  I have no choice.

  Why?

  I don’t trust you there by yourself.

  You think I’d kill myself?

  I wouldn’t put it past you.

  Then come if you must.

  I will. And I’m bringing you a beanie.

  Olive, don’t.

  It’s freezing.

  You’ve already loaned me too many clothes.

  The beanie is hideous. You’ll love it.

  Fine, just hurry up.

  Where’s the fire?

  Nowhere. But the middle of the night is the only thing I look forward to anymore.

  That’s what worries me.

  15.

  I put down the lip gloss that tasted like a Creamsicle. It was dark in my room—too dark to tell I was wearing anything on my face—so I stood up, crossed the room, and hit the light switch by the door. In the space of a heartbeat, my room glowed warm and yellow, like I was seeing it from outside on a cold night. I blinked a few times and walked back to the mirror, where I’d been sitting since before the sun went down, applying foundation to my cheeks and spraying clouds of body mist over my collarbone and throat.

  When it was time to go, I called Dad and met him by the front door with the car keys in my hand. It was all part of the ritual humiliation of not having a driver’s license: the necessity of asking your father to drive you to your first real date. When Dad saw me, I think he was relieved that I was wearing jeans and a black scoop neck sweater, which was pretty much the same thing I wore to school every day. What he didn’t know was that I’d shaved my legs with baby oil and sprayed body mist into my armpits and the cups of my bra, which was most definitely not part of my everyday routine. I was also wearing eye shadow—turquoise, in honor of Mom.

  We drove all the way to Oakwood Avenue in silence, our thoughts hovering in separate, unknowable orbits. It was one of Dad’s best qualities—the way he could be quiet without making people feel awkward. Only tonight, just this once, I would have liked a little distraction from my thoughts. I would have liked him to ask me about Levi or even about the movie we were going to
see. In my nervousness, I grabbed Lucy’s moisturizing cream off the dashboard and rubbed some down the inner sides of my wrists, where the skin was milky and smooth. I liked the way the veins felt underneath, sliding up and down, but I stopped when I realized how strong I smelled—like body mist and deodorant and Creamsicle and now hand lotion. If Dad noticed the cloud of aromas around me, he didn’t say anything.

  It was only when we were halfway to the theater that he spoke at all. He didn’t ask me how I met Levi or what made White Heat such a popular movie. Instead, he asked about Olive. More specifically, he wanted to know why he hadn’t seen her around the house in a while—had something happened?

  I told him we weren’t friends anymore, and then I stared ahead of me out the windshield. If silence was Dad’s best quality, it was probably my worst. But he knew me too well. The longer I watched the double yellow lines disappear under our car, the more he pushed. He wanted to know whose decision it was to end the friendship—who broke up with whom—as though we’d been going out. Then he wanted to know how I felt about it, and whether I’d done anything like apologize or try to make things right. Worst of all, he wanted to know if Olive was lonely. Not me—his daughter. Olive.

  “It’s not as if she doesn’t have other friends,” I told him, although I realized, as soon as the words hung in front of me in the air, that they weren’t true. Other than Grace, the only person I’d seen her hang out with was Jamie Pollock, the cello player. “She sits with someone else at lunch now,” I told Dad.

  “Who?” Dad turned on his blinker and made a left turn into the parking lot of the movie theater. “Anyone I know?”