by Bree Despain
“You could have asked in the first place.”
“Get in here, boy!” his father roared out the window.
Daniel’s hands shook. “Please?”
I nodded, and he ran toward his house. I hid behind the tree and listened to his father yell at him. I don’t remember what Daniel’s father said. It wasn’t his words that ripped me open; it was the sound of his voice—getting deeper and more like a vicious snarl as he went on. I sank into the grass, with my knees pulled to my chest, and wished I could do something to help.
That was almost five and a half years before I saw him in Barlow’s class today. It was two years and seven months before he disappeared. But only one year before he came to live with us. One year before he became our brother.
CHAPTER TWO
Promises, Promises
THE NEXT DAY, FOURTH PERIOD
My mother had this weird rule about secrets. When I was four, she sat me down and explained that I was never to keep one. A few minutes later I marched up to Jude and told him my parents got him a Lego castle for his birthday. Jude started to cry, and Mom sat me back down and told me that a surprise was something everyone would eventually know, and a secret was something no one else was ever supposed to find out. She looked me right in the eyes and told me in this real serious tone that secrets were wrong and no one had the right to ask me to keep one.
I wish she’d set the same rule for promises.
The problem with promises is that once you’ve made one, it’s bound to be broken. It’s like an unspoken cosmic rule. If Dad says, “Promise you won’t be late for curfew,” the car is fated to break down, or your watch will magically stop working, and your parents refuse to get you a cell phone so you can’t just call and tell them you’re running behind.
Seriously, no one should have the right to ask you to keep a promise—especially if they don’t consider all the facts.
It was completely unfair of Jude to make me promise not to have anything to do with Daniel. He didn’t take into account that Daniel was back in our school now. He didn’t have the same memories that I had. I didn’t intend to speak to Daniel again, but the only problem was—because Jude had made me promise not to—I was afraid of what I might do.
That fear gripped the breath in my chest as I stood outside the art-department door. My sweating palm slipped on the knob as I tried to turn it. Finally, I pushed the door open and looked to the table in the front row.
“Hey, Grace,” someone said.
It was April. She sat in the seat next to my empty chair. She snapped her gum as she unpacked her pastels. “Did you catch that documentary on Edward Hopper we were supposed to watch last night? My DVR totally had a meltdown.”
“No. I guess I missed it.” I scanned the room for Daniel. Lynn Bishop sat in the back row, gossiping with Melissa Harris. Mr. Barlow worked on his latest “prorecycling” sculpture at his desk, and a few students trickled into the classroom before the bell.
“Oh, crap. Do you think there’s going to be a quiz?” April asked.
“This is art class. We paint pictures while listening to classic rock.” I checked the room one last time. “I doubt there are going to be quizzes.”
“Boy, you’re crabby today.”
“Sorry.” I got my supply bucket out from the cubbies and sat in the seat next to her. “I guess I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
My tree drawing sat on top of the bucket. I told myself to hate it. I told myself to rip it up and throw it away. Instead, I picked it up and traced the perfect lines, my finger just above the paper so I wouldn’t smudge the charcoal.
“I don’t get why you even care about him,” April said for the sixth time since yesterday. “I mean, I thought you said that Daniel guy was hot.”
I stared down at the drawing. “He used to be.”
The tardy bell rang. A few seconds later the door creaked open. I looked up and expected to see Daniel. The same way I used to expect to run into him at the mall or see him slip around a corner downtown after he disappeared.
But it was Pete Bradshaw who came through the door. He was an office aide fourth period. He waved to April and me as he delivered a note to Mr. Barlow.
“Now he’s cute,” April whispered, and waved back. “I can’t believe he’s your chem lab partner.”
I was about to wave also, but then I got this sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. Pete dropped the note on Barlow’s desk and came over to us.
“We missed you last night,” he said to me.
“Last night?”
“The library. We had a study group for the chemistry test.” Pete rapped his knuckles on the table. “You were supposed to bring the donuts this time.”
“I was?” That sinking feeling got deeper. I’d sat out on the porch last night, thinking about Daniel, until I was practically a Popsicle, and had forgotten all about our study group—and the test. “I’m sorry. Something came up.” I fingered the drawing.
“I’m just glad you’re okay.” Pete grinned and pulled a roll of papers from his back pocket. “You can borrow my notes during lunch if you want.”
“Thanks.” I blushed. “I’ll need them.”
“More painting, less talking,” Mr. Barlow bellowed.
“Later.” Pete winked and left the room.
“He is so going to ask you to the Christmas dance,” April whispered.
“No way.” I looked at my drawing and couldn’t remember what I’d planned on doing next. “Pete doesn’t like me like that.”
“What, are you blind?” April said a little too loudly.
Mr. Barlow glared at her.
“Pastels are far superior to charcoals,” April said, trying to cover. She glanced at the teacher’s desk and then whispered, “Pete is so into you. Lynn said that Misty told her that Brett Johnson said that Pete thinks you’re hot and he wants to ask you out.”
“Really?”
“Really.” She waggled her eyebrows. “You are so lucky.”
“Yeah. Lucky.” I looked down at Pete’s notes and then at the drawing. I knew I should feel lucky. Pete was what April called a “triple threat”—a cute senior, a hockey player, and a total brain. Not to mention, one of Jude’s best friends. But it seemed strange to feel lucky that someone liked me. Luck shouldn’t have anything to do with it.
Twenty minutes later, there was still no sign of Daniel when Barlow got up from his desk and stood in front of the class. He stroked his handlebar mustache, which draped over his jowls. “I think we’ll try something new today,” he said. “Something to challenge your minds along with your creativity. How about we have a pop quiz on Edward Hopper?”
There was a collective groan from the class.
“Oh, crap,” April whispered.
“Oh, crap,” I whispered back.
THE LUNCH BREAK
Mr. Barlow cleared his throat over and over again in irritation as he handed back our quizzes. He returned to his sculpture and twisted a wire around an empty Pepsi can with melodramatic jerks. When the lunch bell rang, he cleared out of the art room with the rest of the students.
April and I stayed behind. AP art was a two-period class with a lunch break in the middle. But April and I were the only juniors, so we usually kept working through lunch to show Mr. Barlow that we were serious enough to be in his advanced class—except on the days Jude invited us to eat with him and his friends at the Rose Crest Café (the off-campus lunchtime haven for popular seniors).
April sat next to me, perfecting the shading on her pastel drawing of roller skates while I tried to study Pete’s notes. But the more I tried to concentrate, the more the words on the pages jumbled into an unintelligible mess. That sinking feeling I had before seemed to churn inside me until it turned into trembling anger and I couldn’t think about anything else. How dare Daniel show up after all this time and then disappear again. No explanations. No apologies. No closure.
I knew there could be a million reasons why he hadn’t shown up today, but I
was sick and tired of excusing his behavior. Like when he’d steal food out of my sack lunches, or whenever his teasing got too intense, or when he’d forget to return my art supplies—I’d chalk it up to all the stuff he’d been through in his life and let it slide. But I wouldn’t excuse how he’d crept back into my life just long enough to cause me to disappoint my parents, upset my brother, ditch out on Pete, bomb a quiz, and potentially fail my chemistry test. I felt so stupid, wasting my time thinking about him, and now he didn’t even have the decency to show up. Now I really wanted to see him one more time. Just long enough to tell him off … or smack his face … or something worse.
Daniel’s tree drawing sat on the table taunting me. I hated the way it seemed so perfect, with its smooth, entangled lines that I never could have drawn myself. I picked up the drawing, marched over to the waste-basket, and unceremoniously chucked it in.
“Good riddance,” I said to the trash can.
“Okay, now I know you’re insane,” April said. “That’s due in like an hour.”
“It wasn’t mine anyway—not anymore.”
CHAPTER THREE
Tabula Rasa
WHAT HAPPENED AFTER LUNCH
When art class started up again, I pulled out a crisp new piece of drawing paper and shot off a sketch of my favorite childhood teddy bear. It wasn’t exactly up to par with my usual work—actually it wasn’t up to par with my usual work when I was nine—but Mr. Barlow had a “no tolerance” policy for not finishing an assignment. I figured shoddy work was better than no work, and slipped it under the stack of drawings on Barlow’s desk before leaving class.
April hung back to discuss her portfolio, and I ambled off to my chemistry test with only slightly less foreboding. My stomach felt better once I decided to forget I’d ever seen Daniel, but as far as the test? Well, my mother was not going to be happy. I’d managed to go over Pete’s notes a couple of times before lunch ended, but even if I’d had a full night of studying, I’d be lucky to pull a C. I’m not a bad student. I have a 3.8 GPA, but I’m most definitely right-brained.
AP chem was my mom’s idea. Dad loved it when I worked on my paintings at the kitchen counter. He said it reminded him of his days in art school before he decided to join the clergy like his father and grandfather. But Mom wanted me to “keep my options open”—which meant she wanted me to become a psychologist, or a nurse like her.
I slipped into my seat next to Pete Bradshaw and drew in a deep breath, preparing to let out a languid sigh to prove I wasn’t nervous, and was caught off guard by the clean, spicy scent of my chem lab partner. Pete had gym fifth period, and his hair was still damp from the shower. I’d noticed his scent of citrusy soap and fresh-applied deodorant before, but today it filled my senses and made me want to scoot closer to him. I guess it had something to do with what April said about his liking me.
I fumbled around in my backpack for my notebook and dropped my pen three times before I got it to rest neatly at the top of my desk.
“Feeling a little weak in the knees?” Pete asked.
“What?” My chem book took a dive off the desk.
“Test jitters?” Pete retrieved my book. “Everybody’s freaking. You should’ve seen it, Brett Johnson only snarfed down half a supreme pizza for lunch. I thought that was bad, but you look like you’ve just seen the Markham Street Monster.”
I winced. That joke had never been funny to me. I snatched the book out of his hands. “I’m not nervous at all.” I drew in another deep breath and forced out a long, calm sigh.
Pete flashed me one of his “triple threat” smiles, and my book hit the floor again. I chuckled as he picked it up, and I felt too warm in my sweater when he handed it back.
Why am I such a dumb girl? I mean, seriously, get it together.
There was only one other boy who could make me feel stupid like that, but since I wasn’t going to give him a second thought, I turned my focus to Mrs. Howell as she passed out her thick stack of tests.
“Hey, Brett and I are going bowling at Pullman’s after practice.” Pete leaned in with his lingering scent. “You should come.”
“Me?” I glanced up at Mrs. Howell as she put an upside-down test in front of me.
“Yeah. You and Jude. It’ll be fun.” Pete nudged me and grinned. “You can buy me that box of donuts you owe me.”
“Jude and I are supposed to help Dad with his deliveries to the shelter.”
Pete actually looked disappointed for a split second, but then he perked up. “Well, how about I come over to help you after practice. It’ll take, what, a couple of hours? Then we can bowl.”
“Really? That would be great.”
“Eyes up front,” Mrs. Howell said. “Your test begins”—she tapped her watch—“now.”
Pete grinned and flipped his test over. I turned mine over and wrote my name at the top. That warm, bubbly sensation you get when you know something fresh and exciting is beginning swept through my body.
CHAPTER FOUR
D-vine Intervention
IN THE MAIN HALL, AT THE END OF SCHOOL
“Why didn’t you tell me in English class, you dork?” April sidestepped around a sign-up booth for the spirit club’s holiday fund-raiser. “I told you he was going to ask you out!”
“It’s not a date,” I said with a smile.
“Who asked you out?” Jude asked, coming out of the main office right in front of April and me. His question sounded more like an accusation, and his expression looked as cloudy as the winter sky beyond the hall’s windows.
“No one,” I said.
“Pete Bradshaw!” April practically squealed. “He asked her on a date for tonight.”
“It’s not a date.” I rolled my eyes at April. “He offered to help out over at the parish after practice this afternoon, and then he wants to go bowling. You’re invited, too,” I said to Jude.
Jude jangled the parish’s truck keys in his hand. I wasn’t sure how he’d feel about my being interested in one of his friends—especially considering the last friend of his I’d liked. But Jude’s expression brightened as he smiled. “It’s about time Pete asked you out.”
“See!” April pinched my arm. “I told you he likes you.”
Jude playfully punched April in the arm. “So are you coming this time?”
April’s cheeks flared red. “Uh … no. I can’t.” Little splotches of crimson spread from her face to her ears. “I, uh, I, have to …”
“Work?” I offered.
I knew from experience that no amount of coaxing was going to get her to come. April was absolutely mortified that Jude would think she was just a tagalong. Even getting her to occasionally eat lunch at the café with Jude and me was as difficult as taking a dog to the vet.
“Work … Yeah, um, that.” April hitched her pink JanSport backpack up on her shoulder. “I’ve gotta get going. See you later,” she said, and scurried off to the main doors.
“She’s … interesting,” Jude said as he watched her leave.
“Yep, that she definitely is.”
“So …” Jude looped his arm around my shoulder, leading me through a throng of sophomores toward the exit. “Tell me more about this date.”
“It’s not a date.”
AN HOUR AND A HALF LATER
“Pastor D-vine is truly an angel of the Lord,” Don Mooney said in awe as he scanned the jam-packed social hall of the parish. There were boxes upon boxes of food and clothing—and Jude and I were in charge of sorting through all of them. “I hope you still need these.” Don adjusted the large box of tuna cans in his arms. “I got them from the market, and I even remembered to pay for them this time. You can call Mr. Day if you want. But if you don’t need them …”
“Thank you, Don,” Jude said. “Every donation helps, and we especially need high-protein foods like tuna. Right, Grace?”
I nodded and tried to pack one last coat into the bulging box marked MEN’S. I gave up and dropped it into a half-empty women’s box.
“And it was good of you to remember to pay Mr. Day,” Jude said to Don.
A huge grin spread across Don’s face. He was as big as a grizzly, and his smile resembled a snarl. “You kids are truly D-vine. Just like your father.”
“We do no more than anyone else,” Jude said in that diplomatic voice he picked up from Dad that let him be humble but contradict someone at the same time. He grunted as he tried to lift the box out of Don’s burly arms. “Wow, you brought a lot of tuna.”
“Anything to help the D-vines. God’s angels, you are.”
Don wasn’t the only one who treated our family like a group of celestial beings. Dad always said the pastor over at New Hope taught from the same good book as he did, but most everyone wanted to hear the gospel from Pastor Divine.
What would they think if they knew our last name used to be Divinovich? My great-great-grandfather had changed his surname to Divine when he immigrated to America, and my great-grandpa found it came in handy when he joined the clergy.
I often found it a hard name to live up to.
“Well, how about I let you carry that box out back.” Jude clapped Don on the arm. “You can help us load the truck for the shelter.”
Don paraded his hefty box through the social hall with his trademark snarl/grin on his face. Jude picked up my box of men’s coats and followed him out the back door.
My shoulders relaxed once Don was gone. He was always lurking around the parish “wanting to help,” but I usually tried to avoid him. I wouldn’t tell my dad or brother this, but I still felt uneasy around Don. I couldn’t help it. He reminded me of Lenny from Of Mice and Men—the way he was kind of slow and well meaning but could snap your neck with one movement of his baseball-mitt-sized hands.
I still couldn’t shake the memory of the violence that lived in those hands.
