The Promise

by Melody Grace

  So, I waited. I had enough to occupy my time, more than enough with the dozens of tiny decisions it took to build a life from scratch. I learned the bus schedule and MBTA routes, opened a bank account, and found a pharmacy and grocery store. I furnished my sparse room with bright thrift-store bedding and books from a sidewalk stall, bought a second-hand bicycle with upright handlebars and a faded mint-green paint. I cycled the city for hours after my shift each afternoon, roaming from Harvard Square to Somerville and back. I learned where to find the best cheap falafel from a food truck, which dollar donuts melted on my tongue, the streets that pulsed with bright echoes of life after ten p.m., and which stayed dark and deserted, to avoid. I hoarded the last of my savings and then spent them all in a single glorious afternoon at the art supply store, setting my brand-new easel in the corner of the living room and inhaling the familiar scent of oil paints as I dented their smooth tubes with those first rebellious fingerprints.

  But all the time, I felt Hope’s words taunting me. She was the reason I was here, after all: clutching for an elusive freedom that had felt so out of reach back home. I’d made a bargain with myself, yet here I was hanging back on the edge of the cliff, too scared to let go and jump into that sparkling blue.

  Friday night, I was sketching Theo again, feet propped up in front of the TV, when my roommate came clattering up the three flights of stairs and burst, breathless, through the door.

  “Oh god, I thought they’d never let us go,” she groaned, unloading two book bags, her laptop case, and a brown paper bag of groceries onto the scratched old dining table. “That lab tech acted like we’d never seen a freaking pipette before.”

  Tessa was a petite, dark-haired whirl of focused energy. A third-year Harvard med student who also rowed crew, she was out of the door before dawn broke, icy on the river, and back each night at six to conjure up a hearty, home-made dinner before striking out again to the library or lab or endless stream of social mixers. I caught her in glimpses, braced against her waterfall of chatter; the neat row of athletic trophies lined up on her bookcase beside academic honors and camp photos were evidence of her limitless spirit. I’m not sure why she picked me out of all the other applicants to share our tiny attic apartment. Perhaps she sensed I would never invite friends over late to interrupt her precious six hours of sleep, or insert myself into that half-person galley kitchen to clash with her routine. She was right, of course. I was content to shape my life around her hours, let her paper the living room with her textbooks and class notes, and leave her neat Tupperware containers untouched in their stacks in the fridge.

  “Tough day?” I asked.

  “The worst.” She hurled herself down in the other threadbare lounge chair. “My lab partner had some kind of breakdown; he’s dropping out to move back to Michigan.”

  “That’s awful,” I offered, sympathetic.

  “I know, he took half our notes! I’ll never get finished on my own.” Tessa scowled. “Couldn’t he have at least waited until the end of the semester before quitting on his meds?”

  I paused, startled, then laughed. I couldn’t help it; it was just too surprising to glimpse the cutthroat edge of Tessa’s temper after two weeks of perky “Morning!”s and upbeat chatter.

  She caught my gaze and then laughed too, looking self-conscious. “I’m such a bitch, I know, but you don’t understand the kind of pressure we’re under. If I fail this lab, I’m totally screwed.”

  “I’m sorry.” I tried to put myself in her black lace-up Keds, staring down the barrel of midterms and research papers. “Can you find someone else?”

  “It’s too late for that. But . . .” She paused, looking thoughtful. “Amy and Varun partnered up, and I heard they’re on the verge of a major break-up. Maybe if I poke around, I can steal him over to my station.”

  “Divide and conquer.”

  “Exactly!” She bounced up again, her usual buoyancy restored by the thought of such Machiavellian dealings. She headed for her room, but then paused by the doorway, looking at me with a fresh gaze. “I’m heading to a party over at Kappa Pi after dinner. You want to come?”

  There it was, lying before me. The invitation, all but gift-wrapped with a silver ribbon.

  “Thanks,” I said, my heartbeat shivering with a new pulse. “I will.”

  I don’t remember what I wore. Everything else about that night is frozen in my mind like a movie I’ve seen so often I can whisper the words right along with the actors on screen, but when it comes time to picture myself, it’s all a vague blur. Theo swears it was my denim skirt and T-shirt, the blue one with an old Coke logo, but the weather had already shifted to a chilly night breeze; I would have been wrapped tight in a parka jacket, a sweater at least. Either way, I remember the nerves more than anything. A sick thump-thump in the pit of my stomach that seemed so stupid, so young. It was a party, that’s all. I’d been to a few in my time: backwoods ragers that Hope dragged me to, a handful of kids drinking beer in a field; somebody’s basement rec room; an underage rave out of town. I shouldn’t have felt like it was a big deal, except it was: the simple challenge on that sheet of notebook paper marked tonight as something more than ordinary. I was on a mission, a target firmly in my scope.

  It had to be an adventure.

  “The gang from my lab will be there,” Tessa explained, as she cut a determined path through the busy streets. Friday night, and it seemed like the whole city was out in search of a good time, just like me. Girls teetering in high heels, and freshman boys with their flushed cheeks and dress shirts; cabs crawling at a snail’s pace, and the bright glow of the streetlights strung like jewels through the center of Harvard Square. “The guys act like they’ve been homeschooled their whole lives, but they’re sweet enough, really. I’ll see if my crew team are out, they know how to party. Are you seeing anyone? Boyfriend? Girlfriend?” she asked, voice rising with curiosity.

  “No. Boyfriend, I mean,” I added quickly, but she didn’t pause for breath.

  “I don’t blame you. God, some of the girls drive me crazy, all they do is trail after whatever jock asshole they met during orientation. I mean, hello? Don’t you have something better to do, like plan your entire education? I made a rule, no serious relationships until senior year, at least. And even then, I’ll probably wait. I’ll be applying for med schools then; the last thing I’ll want is anyone tying me down.”

  She came to an abrupt stop on the sidewalk and then flashed me a pixie grin, full of mischief. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t have any fun first. Come on.”

  Tessa stepped through an open gate and headed up the path to a vast Victorian-style mansion with brightly lit windows and turrets soaring into the dark. Crowded bodies spilled onto the wide wraparound porch, which was echoing with laughter and the low, steady thunder of bass.

  We had arrived.

  I trailed up the path and followed her slowly over the threshold, hit right away by a shockwave of heat and bright lights and a dozen loud conversations. The place was packed, seething with young, restless bodies that seemed to swell and ebb like a tide as people jostled between rooms and called to one another. Tessa bounced through the crowd and was immediately swept up by a cluster of similarly tiny loud girls, but I hung back, absorbing every glimpse. It had been months since I’d dived into a scene like this, and now it felt like a jolt of cold water, that first sharp slap breaking through the surface of an early-morning swim. I hardly knew where to look, but suddenly, I was thirsty to drink it all in.

  There was a pattern to the chaos, I saw after a few moments. The hosts held court in the main room, a mismatched group of guys united by strong jawlines and broad shoulders. They didn’t look like the frat boys back home, there were no backwards baseball caps or sagging denim, but there was still a swagger to them, that universal confidence the world bestows on boys with team colors and a seat up front on the bus. They bumped fists and slapped backs with new arrivals, calling to B-man and Hudders, K-berger and the Kranz: each new nickname
announced with unbridled delight. Girls orbited around them—not the ones in vintage-print dresses, sharp bangs, hipster glasses; they were tucked away at the top of the stairs sipping beer from glass bottles and comparing pics on their phones—no, these girls were all tight jeans and cute little tops, hair cascading over glossed lips and perfect nude makeup designed to look as if they’d never so much as glanced at a mascara wand. They flirted and posed, leaning casually against the furniture as they laughed at the guys’ jokes and twisted hair around peach-lacquered fingertips. A brave few even danced, swaying and grinding to the thundering hip-hop blasting from every corner of the surround-sound room, smiles plastered wide, their eyes flicking back to the boys every few moments, wondering if they were being watched, being seen.

  Tessa was out of sight now, so I let the crowd jostle me onwards, through the downstairs rooms towards the hub of a kitchen at the back of the house. Here, bottles teemed on every surface, kegs sitting fat beside buckets of ice and the trail of plastic cups. I took one and hunted down a soda, pouring carefully as the guys beside me fiercely argued about the protests on campus that week.

  “It’s about free speech!” one insisted, energetic. He had dark hair and black square-rimmed glasses, a rumpled white shirt fitting closely to his lithe body. “You can’t go censoring everything just because someone’s too sensitive to deal.”

  “Respect isn’t censorship,” his friend argued. “Come on, don’t throw that bullshit around.”

  I tried to edge away, but they’d blocked me in against the countertop. “Umm, guys?” I spoke up, but they didn’t notice.

  “It isn’t how we’re talking they’ve got a problem with, it’s what we’re saying at all.” The dark-haired guy smiled, clearly enjoying the argument. He tossed his empty beer bottle towards the trashcan, and it arced in a lazy curl across the counter before it hit the rim, already overflowing, and clattered to the floor. “You want to tell me again that’s not censorship?”

  “Hello?” I said, louder this time. I finally tapped on his arm.

  He turned. “Oh, I didn’t see you there. Hey, wait.” He stopped me as I tried to slip past. “Aren’t you in my poli sci class? Tuesday mornings, Professor Blakemore?”

  I shook my head. “Sorry, must be someone else.”

  “But I know you.” He studied my face, taking his time. “Maybe the dorms. Do you live on Radcliffe quad?”

  “None of the above.” I took another step, but he shifted slightly.

  “You can’t go now, this is going to bug me all night.” His smile turned teasing. “I’m Jamie.”

  “Claire.”

  “So, how do I know you, Claire?” Jamie mused, tilting his head.

  “You won’t guess,” I told him.

  “Want to bet?”

  There was something in his eyes, inviting. Interested. “OK,” I said slowly, feeling a flush in my cheeks under his scrutiny. “What do you want to bet?”

  “How about, if I get it right, you give me your number.” Jamie leaned back against the counter, all confidence again.

  “And if I win?” I countered.

  He grinned. “You give me your number.”

  I laughed. He was unshakeable, and I wondered what it must be like to feel that way, immune to indecision and the fear of rejection, safe on solid ground. “OK.” I relaxed. “Then you get three guesses. And you’ve already used two of them up.”

  “Hey, that’s not fair.” Jamie furrowed his brow.

  “I thought this was win-win for you.”

  “True,” he said. “But it’s the principle of the matter. Come on, let’s start fresh.”

  “Nope.” I shrugged. “Your call.”

  He blinked at me, and I could see his mind ticking over, trying to figure me out, find a neat little box to put me in. This was genuinely irritating him, I realized. For all the smiles and teasing, he liked to know things for sure. I was a wild card, a challenge, and maybe that’s why he was in here arguing rings around his friend instead of flirting with the gloss-lipped girls out front.

  “I know!” His friend interrupted us, after loitering in silence, watching our loaded exchange. “The library. You study in the Arabic section on weekends.”

  “Shh.” Jamie actually hushed him. He was still studying me, but then suddenly, his face lightened in recognition. “I knew it.” He snapped his fingers, then pointed at me. “That coffee shop on Brattle. You work the register there.”

  I felt strangely disappointed to lose my trump card of mystery, but Jamie chuckled, all ease again now that he had me figured out. “Told you.” He leaned closer and looked in my cup. “What are you drinking? Don’t tell me you’re sticking to soda.”

  “Maybe I like soda.”

  “You should loosen up a little.” He reached across me and snagged a bottle of rum from the table. “You only live once.”

  He poured a long splash into my cup, and I sipped it, the cloying sweetness taking me back in an instant: to that 7-11 parking lot, sitting up on the back of a pick-up truck while Hope danced in the neon lights. C’mon, Claire-bear, she would sing, spinning over shattered glass and day-old fast-food wrappers like they were a carpet of rose petals and silk. You only live once.

  She’d been going out of her mind with boredom all those nights, bitter that all we had of the world was that empty asphalt and a brown paper bag of Bacardi, but I’d loved them, all the same. I hadn’t needed anything more, not like she did; I was content to play her favorite station on that crappy AM radio and watch the light fracture like diamonds on the ground under her restless feet.

  “. . . here anyway?”

  “Huh?” I snapped back to find Jamie looking at me, a question between us in the air. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you. It’s so loud in here,” I added.

  “Then let’s go someplace quieter.” Jamie nodded towards the back door, out to the dark porch and the chilled night air. “You can tell me what you’re doing here in town—besides serving up coffee and mystery,” he added with a wink.

  I paused. This was why I was here, wasn’t it? Go to a college party and make out with a boy. I could hear Hope urge me on, giggling in my ear; feel her nudge me after him with a playful Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!

  I glanced back to the living room, looking for Tessa’s dark hair and bright scarlet shirt. That’s when I saw him.

  Theo.

  He was off to the side of the main scrum, his head bent as he talked to someone, almost unnoticeable—to anyone except me. He was wearing a faded grey T-shirt, and his blonde hair was raked back—except for that tuft on the crown of his head that skewed at a rebellious angle. He laughed suddenly, and the way his face lit up with that smile was enough to make everyone else in the room fade away.

  My stomach turned a slow flip, a champagne fizz of awareness shivering through my veins.

  “Claire?”

  I turned. Jamie was waiting by the door, another couple of beer bottles in his hand. He gave me a charming smile, and maybe ten seconds ago, that would have been enough. Enough to make me follow him out to that dim porch, enough to smile and chat and tilt my head towards him, waiting for the slide of his hand around my waist, the slow descent of his mouth to check another mark off my list. But now? Now I barely recognized him. He was fading into the peeling paint before my eyes, a pale Xerox copy compared to the real thing in the other room.

  I slowly shook my head. “I better go find my friend,” I said, already backing away. “But it was nice to meet you!”

  He frowned. “Wait a sec—”

  His voice was lost under the music as I turned and scurried away. My heart thundered with a fierce anticipation, but when I arrived in the hallway again, Theo was nowhere to be seen.

  I felt the swift sink of disappointment, hitting solid ground after my brief flight.

  “There you are!” Tessa suddenly materialized beside me, and scooped her hand through my arm. “I’ve been looking all over. Come meet everyone.” She steered me over to the corner, wh
ere a group of boys and barefaced, athletic girls were collapsed in a tangle over chairs and couches. “This is Claire!” she announced, presenting me like a medal.

  “Hey, Claire,” they chorused in unison, and then laughed.

  Tessa leaned in. “They come off all tough, but they’re teddy bears really. Hudders!” she called. “Don’t even think about changing this song!”

  Chapter Three

  I stayed with Tessa the rest of the night, letting her group’s tapestry of insider jokes and campus gossip weave around me in a comforting blanket. They were an interesting crowd, drawn from a mismatched assortment of college majors and backgrounds, but all united by their early-morning practice sessions on the river and late-night gym sessions, pulling hard on the rowing machines. Tessa was their pint-sized ringleader, chatting loudly with the other girls and teasing all the guys, her bright laughter cutting through the din. She sprawled on the couch, and kicked her legs up into the lap beside her, commanding the space as easily as she dominated our tiny apartment back across town.

  “I’m not your furniture,” a boy groaned, trying to shove her legs off. He was stocky and sweating through his athletic T-shirt, with a dark buzz cut hugging the lines of his bullet-shaped head.

  “You’re taking up all the space!” Tessa shoved him good-naturedly. “See, Claire? This is what I have to put up with all day. These Neanderthals sweating and grunting over everything.”

  The boy snorted. “Is she like this at home too?” he asked me. “Barking out orders like a little dictator?”

  “You love me, really,” Tessa beamed prettily. He rolled his eyes, but the affection there was clear. “I should go soon,” she added with a sigh.