Promise Me This

by Sarah Ashley Jones

  “I can’t, Charlie. Just think of it as exploring your options. You know that mom and dad will accept you back with open arms if you want to come back…you’ve always been the favorite. But once I leave, I’m never coming back. This isn’t your life either, little sis.” He looked up at the moon, one foot splashing in the water below us. I was envious, something I felt about Cameron often. He always seemed to have a plan worked out to get him out of that life, and he never let on that he was scared he might fail. I for one never doubted him, but I wondered if maybe this life was for me. If it wasn’t, then I should have no problems disappearing just like him. Or would I?

  It obviously wasn’t the movers’ first rodeo. They left packing paper, as well as a giant marker. Maybe I looked as lost as I felt, or maybe this was just their protocol. I never moved anything myself before, so it was a 50/50 chance as far as I was concerned. I inventoried the living room and the kitchen. I saw nothing major to pack, and the furniture I could sell. Or maybe not. Who was I kidding? I couldn’t sell any of his things. Donating it seemed like the less heartbreaking option.

  The most logical choice was to start in the bedroom. I said a silent prayer that I wouldn’t find anything too disgusting as I pushed the door to his room open. He was my brother, after all, and I’d rather not dig through his sock drawer. Knowing him, it would probably be like opening Pandora’s Box. I decided to start with his sheets - they had to go. His bed set ripped off easily, and I squished them into one of the newly erected boxes. If mom wanted his stuff, she was getting everything whether she liked it or not.

  Next stop was his closet. I grabbed the bottom half of as many shirts as I could hold in my arms and yanked them towards me. Anxiety rose in my chest and I knew that I needed to get these things out of my sight. None of them would make him come back. I reached up to grab the next batch of clothes, but the sight of his black leather jacket stopped me mid-reach. I took it in without touching it, until I couldn’t stand it anymore. I gingerly took it off of the hanger and wrapped it in my arms. The leather was cold and unwelcoming as it rested on my cheek, but it was his.

  I ran my hands down the smooth black surface. I couldn’t help but think how much better he looked in this than in the suit and tie they put him in for the funeral. ‘Monkey suit’ is what he would have called it. Dad always hated that jacket, and that fueled Cameron’s fire to wear it to school every day his senior year. It became his second skin. He even wore it when he brought me to the airport to go home. It was the last thing I saw him in.

  Shaking the memories away, I shoved it into the box with the rest of his clothes. Just pack it all, Charlie. Just pack it all.

  5-1-5-0 by Dierks Bentley blared from my pocket, piercing the silence. A picture of my best friend smashed up against a window popped up on my phone as I pulled it into view. Her dark brown hair was long, straight and always in her face, but it never took away from her big brown eyes, or the smile that she wore permanently on her lips. She was the craziest person I knew - my complete opposite - and my soul friend.

  “Hey Hannah,” I answered. I decided to give up on packing anything else for the rest of the day, and sat down on the now bare bed.

  “What’s up girl? You don’t sound as dead to the world as I thought you would. You’ve only been gone a day and you already found yourself a hot surfer boy, didn’t you?” She was her typical blunt and high energy self. “Ah ha! Silence. Guilty as charged. Tell me everything about him. When is the wedding?”

  “Good Lord, Hannah! Calm your britches. I haven’t even left the house yet, and the only people of the opposite sex I’ve come in contact with was the moving box delivery man, and the cab driver that took me to the apartment from the airport. And believe me, neither one of them qualify as hot or surfer guy material.” I laughed for the first time that I could remember since Cameron died. Hannah was good at making me do that, and I missed her. The last time we saw each other was before Cameron’s accident. She couldn’t make it to the funeral because she was stuck in New York, cramming for finals.

  “Hold the phone and back it up. Moving box delivery man? What happened there? Didn’t you just get there yesterday? Wait. Let me guess. Mrs. Rosalyn Jennings, at your service.” She did the perfect impression of my mother’s southern drawl. She knew me better than I knew myself; I always considered her the sister I never had. Ever since the day in Kindergarten when I spilled milk all over my lap and she stood up to the mean girls who teased me, we were inseparable. “I can’t believe she did that to you. I guess she wants you out of there quick. She’s scared that all of that California mojo will rub off on you and you’ll be stuck there in a downward spiral of surfing, weed, and tattoos. Oh my! By the way, did you find any of the above in Cam’s apartment? I know he had to be hiding some of the good stuff.”

  I should have been taken aback and hurt by Hannah’s comments, but I knew that she wasn’t trying to be insensitive. She was known for harboring a school girl crush on Cameron since the time they kissed during a game of spin the bottle during one of those summer parties down by the pond. I figured that was probably one of the reasons, besides finals, that she wasn’t able to pull herself together and make it to the funeral. If she came, it would have made it too real for her, and she was never one to face reality head on.

  “Nothing that would interest the likes of you, Miss Delinquent. I did find something interesting, though. There was a note from some girl stuck up on his fridge. It was a napkin from a place called ‘The Pointe’, saying she couldn’t wait to see him at the next Riot Night. And she signed it, ‘The girl you’ll dream about.’”

  “Weird. So maybe he didn’t bat for the opposite team after all?” I scoffed at her remark, knowing it was made out of sheer bitterness. There was never any question about Cameron’s sexuality, and she knew that firsthand. “So what’s a Riot Night? Did he take you there when you visited?” Sherlock Holmes suddenly went into overdrive mode again.

  “No, we didn’t go to any bars or clubs. Only twenty, remember? I don’t just stumble upon fake ID’s like someone else I know,” I countered.

  “Oh, I stumbled upon plenty for the both of us. You just didn’t have the balls to use ‘em like me. Sucker!” Her enthusiasm was sickening, but she was right again. The thought of getting caught with a fake ID made me want to hurl. “Apparently, ‘Riot Night’ at The Pointe happens every other Thursday. It’s some type of music night at the bar where everyone dresses like they stepped out of The Outsiders.” Hannah sounded so excited that I was scared she might actually fly out on a plane and come to this thing.

  “And how did you figure all this out?” I asked her, wondering if I even wanted to know the answer.

  “Google, duh. Don’t you do anything useful with that iPhone of yours? And guess what? It’s an eighteen and up night, and the next one is this week. You’re so going. I need you to find out who Miss-Dream-About-Me is.” Oh yeah. She was jealous, even though it didn’t really matter. No one had the chance to fight over Cameron anymore.

  “Ginger. Her name is Ginger. And I’m not going. That’s my final answer, Hannah.” I should have hung up on her right then.

  “Oh no, ma’am. Must I remind you of your New Year’s Resolution? ‘Try something new or spontaneous every month.’ Check and check. You’re going. At least find Ginger and let her know about Cameron.” Hannah surprised me. She was actually being sincere.

  Damn her and her sneaky reverse psychology. “Maybe I’ll go,” I thought out loud.

  “That’s my girl. You’ve got three days, Charlie. I expect a full report when you get home from this Riot Night. Maybe this is like Cameron’s way of saying goodbye. He knew you never did like the unexpected.” She didn’t give me a chance to think about her last comment, and certainly no time to respond to it. “I love you, girl. Be brave.”

  I heard a click on the other end and she was gone. Sighing, I threw myself back onto the naked bed, watching the fan spin in circles on the ceiling. What did I just get myself into? I pi
cked up my phone again and sent a text to my mother. I knew she wouldn’t be able to figure out how to respond back, so it eliminated having to hear any immediate arguments from her.

  Staying a few extra days. There’s something I have to take care of. Love you.

  I tossed the phone away from me onto the bed. I knew to expect at least a dozen return phone calls from her, but I didn’t want to hear it. I just wanted to pretend that everything was normal.

  I spent the next few days tying up loose ends. I didn’t have much left to do. I finished packing up the rest of Cameron’s personal items, with all but thirty-five or so boxes to spare. Apparently, Cameron never inherited the hoarding gene from the Jennings legacy. The only things still left in the apartment were the couch, TV, some random kitchen items, and his bed. I was still sleeping on the couch; it didn’t feel right to sleep in his bed.

  A text from Hannah lit up my phone.

  Don’t forget. Riot Night is today. Wear a dress. I sent the directions. No excuses.

  Her text actually made me laugh out loud. No excuses, huh? And a dress? Yeah, right! Jeans and a hoodie was more like it.

  I sent her a text back.

  No dress. I’m not going to a fancy party.

  The directions didn’t look hard to follow, but The Pointe was a good thirty-minute walk away. I’d have to take a taxi.

  It’s a party year round there. Not an excuse. Get the damn dress on.

  “She’s lucky I even packed a dress,” I mumbled out loud, as I finished the rest of my lunch and tossed the leftovers out. I had about four hours to get ready and be on my way. I couldn’t believe I was actually going to go there. This one’s for you, Cameron.

  After degreasing myself in the shower and putting the finishing touches on my hair and makeup, I pulled the one and only dress I thought to pack out of my suitcase and held it up to my body. Looking down confirmed my suspicions. The dress looked miserable. There was no way it was going to work. What used to be a sassy red and white striped dress was now a hot wrinkly mess of cotton. Tossing it onto the floor, I went back to my suitcase and dug around until I found what I was looking for: my dark jeans, a yellow tank top, and a grey cardigan. It was just going to have to work.

  I slipped on my new outfit, sans wrinkles, and looked in the mirror. That was the first time I got a chance to really looked at myself since the night we were told about Cameron’s accident. I felt like I aged about ten years since then. I left my blonde hair loose and parted down the middle; its natural curl at the end hung just to my elbows. I didn’t feel the need for much make-up, only a little blush and some chapstick. Fortunately, my eyelashes had a mind of their own and never required curling or mascara, and putting on any amount of eye shadow resulted in my already blue eyes to look even more intense than normal. My thoughts wandered to Cameron getting ready in the same mirror every day, and a smile crept into my lips. I could almost hear his voice echoing through my head. ‘Atta girl. There’s your beautiful smile.

  Obnoxious honking snapped me out of the staring contest I was having with myself in the mirror. The taxi was actually late, making me wonder if maybe the honking was just a normal thing for them. Snatching up my purse and phone, I headed down the stairs and to the parking lot where the car idled nosily. I jumped in the front seat with as much enthusiasm as I could muster. The driver was caught off-guard and his gaze fell over my body, creating an unwelcoming smile on his lips. He gave me the willies.

  “Um, to The Pointe, please?” I pulled out my phone, leaning in towards him reluctantly to show him the map.

  “I don’t need a map - everyone around here knows where The Pointe is. You don’t look like you know where you’re going, though. You’re not from around here, are you?” He didn’t wait for my answer as he took off down the street. If that was his sad attempt at small talk, the next fifteen minutes were going to be the longest of my life.

  “I actually just, uh, moved here,” I lied. I hated to do it, but it sounded so much better than, “I’m packing up my dead brother’s apartment.”

  “Well, I can’t imagine who recommended this place, then. Just make sure you keep your wits about you tonight. It’s a whole different world in there.” His comment shocked me as I scanned his face for help. He made it sound like I was being sentenced to life in prison. Surely, this place with its stamped condensation catchers would not be as bad as he made it seem.

  Slowing down, he pulled up next to a tall building, complete with a multicolored lighthouse that looked like it had sprouted out of the top of the place. “Keep the change.” I shoved a wad of cash into his hand.

  Once out of the taxi I hastily assessed my surroundings. No one stood outside, but I could hear music that I recognized coming from the inside. Folsom Prison Blues by Johnny Cash. How appropriate.

  I found my way to the entrance and pushed through the double doors, only to assume I should follow the stairs, since no one waited to greet me or check my ID. The bass of the music hummed through my body, growing more intense as I made my way up the musty stairwell; the music becoming louder with each step. When I rounded the corner at the top and stepped out onto the floor of The Pointe, nothing could have prepared me for what I saw. It wasn’t just music - it was a live band - and this was no prison. This was the 1950’s reincarnated.

  Clearly I was in the wrong place. ‘The Pointe’ sounded like it should have been dimly lit with lots of couches and lounges where people in business suits drank away their problems after five o’clock. I didn’t know when it happened, but it was as if I stepped into the scene from Grease when everyone dances the Hand Jive at prom. There were just a few tables in the back, a bar that looked like there was never a cold seat, and the rest of the space was occupied by the giant stage, which held a very unique looking band with a sea of couples spinning their partners around.

  I stood there for what seemed like hours as I watched a new world unfold around me. A man jogged past me and headed down the stairs, making me painfully aware that I probably stood out like a sore thumb. I silently cursed Hannah for being right. I should’ve worn the damn dress. I was the only girl there wearing jeans, which from the looks of things, I assumed was only acceptable for the guys. Most of them wore their jeans with cuffs at the bottoms, and a t-shirt or some sort of slacks with a button down shirt. The girls, on the other hand, all looked like they enjoyed being thrown around by their male counterpart as their dresses swirled up around them. Watching the dancing couples was captivating, but it was the band on stage that I could not stop staring at.

  Only four people stood on stage. There was a drummer, a man singing, someone playing what looked like a giant violin without a bow, and the guitarist. My eyes wandered over each guy, finally settling on the one to the far left. His eyes were closed while he made the guitar purr with a passion that seeped through his fingers to the strings. Watching him play was like being put in a trance. His black t-shirt sat just right over the upper half of his body, while his jeans matched the rest of the guys around him. His almost jet black hair was slicked back on the sides, with an Elvis-esque pompadour in the front. It was his arms, however, that drew me in. They were laced with tattoos that ran all the way from under his sleeves to his wrists. I was fascinated by them, so much in fact, that I didn’t realize his eyes were glued to me as well. I was frozen, my instincts told me to run away, but my body didn’t care to listen.

  Finally tearing away from the eyes of the guitarist, I somehow managed to make it to the bar; my gaze never left the ground. I slid in front of the plastic-coated red barstool and leaned over the long wooden bar top, desperately searching for someone who seemed to live in my century. I caught the attention of the bartender as he slid down the inside of the bar to me. “What can I get you, pretty lady? You look like a rum and Coke kind of girl.” He waited for my order with his palms resting on top of the bar.

  “Oh, I’m not twenty-one so just a water will be fine.” I evaluated him in my head as he turned to fill up my glass. He looked pretty
normal to me. He wore slacks with suspenders that rested on top of a white button-down shirt, complete with a red bowtie just under his chin. He pushed the glass towards me, his eyes never leaving mine, making me shift in my seat uncomfortably.

  “You’re not stamped. Didn’t someone check your ID at the door?” He tried to break up the uneasiness as he pointed to my hands.

  “There was no one at the door when I walked in, so I just followed the music up here,” I replied, looking down; trying to do anything to make him stop staring.

  “Sorry, we’re short-staffed lately. Here, let me check your ID.” I nodded, and then reached into my purse and pulled out my wallet, ready to present him with my ID. He took it in his hands and flipped it over as he studied it for just another second too long. He was seriously starting to creep me out. Eventually, he set it on the counter and pushed it over the grainy wooden bar top towards me. “So, Charlotte Jennings…Tennessee, huh? That’s a long ways from here. What brings you out to lovely San Diego? Hands, please.” He made a gesture with his own that indicated I should give him mine. When I did, he stamped a drunken elephant onto each one. Coincidental since, being underage, I couldn’t drink.

  “My, uh, brother comes here a lot. And you can call me Charlie, everyone else does. I just wanted to check and make sure he wasn’t hanging out at a crack house or something like that.” I stumbled over my words, frantic that my awful poker face gave away my secret. “So what’s your name, since now you know mine?” I tried my best to steer the conversation in a different direction, turning on my southern charm.

  “It’s Danny, Charlie from Tennessee. You know, we don’t get many people from out of town come through here, especially with the last name Jennings. Can I ask you another question? You’re not Cameron’s sister, are you?”