Every Last Promise (6 page)

I WAS UP EARLY
the Sunday morning before school was out for the summer. I raced through my chores. It was already getting hot, and the glare of the sun made me squint as I headed back to the house. Dad was filling his coffee mug in the kitchen as I passed through on my way to the stairs.

“How's it going with the new boards?” He replaced the coffeepot and picked his baseball hat off the counter.

“Pretty good. They're looking watertight since we re-bent that wonky one, but I won't know for sure until she gets on the water. All that's left now is sanding and painting. We should have her in the river by the end of June.”

“Can't wait. Better think of a name before then.”

I paused. “Me?”

Dad fitted his hat on his head and nodded. “You brought her home—”

“For you,” I interrupted.

“—and you've worked hard to get her in shape. I think you should do the honors.” Dad flashed me a smile as he headed back outside, sidestepping Mom as she walked into the kitchen.

“Are you going upstairs? Will you tell Caleb to put his laundry away instead of throwing it on his floor, please?
We're leaving for the Pattersons' in a hour.”

I nodded, but my thoughts were on boat names. The
Farmer's Daughter
?
River Drifter?
“Will do.”

Upstairs, Caleb lounged on his bed, finishing his homework. His clean socks were balled up and scattered across his floor.

“Mom said put your clothes away. Slob.”

“I will later. Have to finish this.”

I peered at the notebook he was writing in. “Homework? I'm done with that for the year.”

“No, not homework, dummy. I was done with that the moment my acceptance letter came.” He made a mark on the piece of paper without looking up at me. “This is my list of girls who might be lucky enough to get some of this hot, hot Caleb action before I leave this summer.”

I picked up a sock ball at my feet and threw it at his head. “Gross.”

“You say gross, but I've seen the way your friend looks at me. No one can resist all this.” He grinned and tossed the sock ball back in my direction. I spun out of the way.

“Stay away from my friends,” I called over my shoulder as I headed for the shower.

Caleb jumped out of the car before it had really come to a stop, raced across the yard, tossed Bean's little brother, Eric, over his shoulder, and hauled him to the trampoline out
back. Easy to do, since Eric was the smallest fifteen-year-old I knew, even though he promised everyone he came into contact with that his growth spurt would come soon. And then they'd be sorry.

I met Bean on the porch, handing her the peach pie I'd baked.

“Brothers,” I said.

“Caleb's his favorite person in the world,” Bean said. “It'll suck when he leaves for college.”

“Not for me. The house will be way less stinky.”

Bean laughed and we went into her house to set the pie on the kitchen counter before heading to the back deck. Ever since my mom had delivered Bean's older sister, Hailey, a couple of months before Caleb was born, she and Bean's mom had been good friends. When the weather was good, our families would get together around a table groaning with food. The adults reminisced about simpler times while we shuddered at the idea of a world without the internet. Today, with the heat of late spring soaked into the ground, Bean's dad was cooking burgers on the grill.

I grabbed a can of Orange Crush from the cooler at my feet and popped the tab, peeking over his shoulder at the meat sizzling over coals, then at the spread on the wooden picnic table behind him. I turned back to Bean. “What are you going to eat?”

“Potato salad and pie, I guess,” Bean said. “My mom
went to the store last night and goes, ‘Bean, since you don't eat meat, I'll pick you up some chicken, okay?'” Bean rolled her eyes. “They don't get it.”

I laughed and followed Bean over the backyard's wooden pole fence and out into the fields, stepping carefully to avoid cow pies. “Ah, Bean, our favorite town oddball.”

“And that's okay with them when it comes to almost everything else. ‘Want to do art? We'll convert the barn loft into a studio for you!' ‘Want to go vegetarian? Here, eat chicken. It's not meat, right?'” She threw her hands in the air and shook her head. “But Eric doesn't mind. He gets to eat all the leftovers.”

“I'll eat your burger tonight, Bean,” I said.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“Here to help.”

Bean slid the barn doors open. I climbed the ladder to the loft and flopped on the futon across from her easel. The canvas propped up there was unfinished. Something like a landscape, I thought, but in unlikely colors. Magenta and teal. I peeked out the window, noticing echoes between the way the land rolled outside and the way the landscape in Bean's painting did in front of me.

“How's Hailey doing?”

“Fine. She should be home from work any second. She just gave her two weeks' notice.” Bean picked up a brush and tapped it against the side of a jar. The smell of solvents
drifted to me lazily. I grabbed the patchwork pillow next to me and put up my feet.

“I thought she was staying for the summer.”

Bean dabbed the brush on a rag and reached for her palette. She shook her head. “She's nannying for a family in South Carolina in June and July. Decided she could use the extra money. She is so ready to get out of here.”

“I don't get it.”

“I know you don't,” Bean said. “Sometimes I can't imagine leaving, either. Other times, I can't wait to go. Just depends . . . I don't know. On how restless I'm feeling, I guess.”

“It's so beautiful here.” Through the skylights above my head, I watched the sky slowly change colors. A little bit of violet. A little bit, even, of that magenta Bean had used in her painting.

“There are lots of beautiful places in the world.” Bean examined her painting, scrunching her nose critically. “And I want to see them all. And then paint them.”

“I'll stay here and keep your studio safe for when you want to come back home.”

“Good.” Bean twirled to face me, the escaped hair from her bun soft across her face, and smiled. “It'll be nice to come back home to you every once in a while.”

“It's always nice to come back home,” I said, plumping the pillow and tucking it behind my head.

I KEEP MY HEAD
down, my pen constantly taking notes, even when no one's talking. My feet always move quickly down the hallways, around corners. I breathe normally only when I can hide out in the bathroom during lunch. My locker door has become the new favorite place to stick old, chewed gum. I carry paper towels with me to wipe it off the handle before opening the locker.

The tiny notes tucked in my locker say,
I hate you!!!

They say,
Fuck u Kayla
.

Killer Kayla
doesn't ever seem to get old for them.

By Wednesday, I have mastered the art of tunnel vision, keeping my glassy gaze focused directly in front of me and blurring out everything around me. I don't feel it when they flick my shoulder or when their tobacco-laced spit lands beside my foot. I don't look up when they ask how it feels to be a murderer or even when my teachers call on me to finish a math problem or read out loud in English class.

But I notice when I open my locker and another folded note falls out. My palm automatically shoots forward to catch it. I bite back a sigh. I should throw it away. Instead, I unfold it, like I did with every other note. It's typed. A lot of them are, because anonymity allows for cruelty.

You killed him on purpose.

My nostrils flare and my shoulders shudder through my exhale.

No.

A series of possible reactions sweeps through my mind.

I could drop the note like it's garbage.

Tuck it back in my locker and pretend it doesn't affect me.

Freak the fuck out.

I know I can't look up, around, down the hallway, because the prickling on the back of my neck tells me whoever left this for me could be watching.

Bean?

Jay?

No one can know what I know. What I'm hiding . . . how I'm pretending. And even if someone did know, what would they have to gain by teasing it out of me? This is not a secret Jay wants out in the open. Unless it's a warning: If I stay quiet, he'll stay quiet.

There's a thin sheen of sweat in my hand from holding the note too tight and too long. It takes every last thread of control I can muster to cock my head like I don't understand, shrug, and paste on a smile, and to widen my eyes innocently as I turn around. I don't look for the person who left the note, but close my locker with a snap and drop the note in the nearest trash can, my shaking hand rattling the can too loudly.

“Are you okay?”

Bean is at my side, clutching a pile of books to her chest. Her mouth twists with worry. Bean is always one to worry about everyone else. The nicest girl anyone has ever known.

I take a breath. Clear my throat. Clear every thought out of my head. I don't want to look at her suspiciously. I don't want her to look at me curiously. Waiting for a reaction. I want to pretend the note never existed. “Fine. Why?”

“You look a little . . .” One hand reaches toward my face. I beat her to it, pressing my hand to my cheek. It's cold.

“I'm okay.” I drop my hand.

The back-to-school poster on the wall behind Bean catches my attention. The official homecoming game is still weeks away, but other school pride activities begin soon. My glance lands on the kickoff event, the powder-puff game this Saturday. “I was making sure I knew what time the powder-puff game starts on Saturday,” I say evenly.

Bean furrows her brow, then turns and reads the poster. Her pale eyebrows rise. “You're going? Do you . . . think that's a good idea?”

I stare at her fingertips clutching the edges of her books so hard that they're white. As though she can see, feel, the way my stomach twists when I think about going to the game. I bite the inside of my mouth to keep the tears from escaping.

A year ago, when we were juniors, the four us had sat in the stands at the annual powder-puff game and cheered on Bean's sister's team.

“Hailey got all the athleticism in the family.” Bean had sighed as her sister scored her second touchdown of the first quarter. Jay Brewster, on the sidelines during the plays, ran out each time to lift his girlfriend in the air and swing her around, as though he couldn't bear not being part of it. Even though he'd have his own, much bigger moment in about a month.

“Next year you can be our personal cheerleader,” Jen had said to Bean, throwing her arm around my shoulders. “Me and Kayla are going to kick some powder ass.”

Competition is a Brewster family trademark. I couldn't imagine having to pit myself against Jay for attention—from this town, from my parents. I'd returned the one-armed hug, pumped my fist high in the air, and let out a whoop. “We'll bury them!”

“You guys are dorks.” Selena had laughed as she waved her pom-poms in the air next to us.

“Don't worry, we'll leave some glory for you,” Jen had said, wiggling her eyebrows. “College boys like their girls dirty.”

“And we all know Selena hates high school boys.” I laughed.

“They're slobs!” Selena yelled in the direction of the game.

A couple of guys in the stands below us turned around to see who was shouting, and Selena stuck her tongue out at them.

“Poor, poor high school boys.” Bean shook her head.

“Poor high school girls who don't end up on
our
team next year, you mean. We'll destroy them!” Jen yelled. She growled and I growled louder, and eventually we dissolved into laughter.

The girls on the homecoming court always flip a coin before the powder-puff game to determine who will be captains for the two teams. Last year, Jen and I had both expected to be a part of the court, but we'd agreed: if we both ended up as captains senior year, Jen would step down and let another girl take over the second team. And I would pick her for my team first.

Both of us being team captains isn't an issue anymore. Now, it would be a miracle if anyone picks me for their team at all.

And I doubt Bean will be cheering for either me or Jen.

I look away from the poster and back at Bean. Her mouth is soft with sympathy. I can't be near it.
Her
. The way she worries about me and the way I'm not entirely sure if I have or have not failed her.

The way I'm lying to myself. The way I haven't done
enough. The way I want her to say that killing a boy
is
enough. The sacrifices I'm willing for her to make so I can come home again.

The guilt. The guilt that
isn't big enough
.

“Yeah,” I tell her as I push back into the river of students moving between classes. Running. Desperately. “It's a good idea.”

The smell of smoked and cured pig belly fills the house Saturday morning. The sizzling sound stays near me, relegated to the space where fat pops and burns tiny dots on my arms as I turn the pieces over. I prefer the pain to thinking about what's going to happen in a few hours at the powder-puff game.

“That smells good,” Dad says, joining me at the stove. He stares down into the pan with a hopeful expression on his face. “Cooking for a crowd?”

“Not exactly.”

“That's a pretty big snack.”

He's a terrible hinter.

“I'm hungry. I need energy for the game tonight.”

He doesn't seem to notice the way my voice falls flat, instinctively defensive. I don't want him to ask about the game, about my reasons for going. About my first interactions with Jen and Bean and everyone else. He'll want to hear about how everything is fine. That my friends are standing
beside me. And when I can't confirm those things, he'll worry about what they're saying. What they might do to me at the powder-puff game. He'll want to protect me.

But I want to protect
him
. He doesn't need to spend his worry on me when he's busy running a farm, especially since it's the first harvest season without Caleb here to help.

I fling a piece of bacon in the pan and the melted fat hits me in the face.

“How was being back at school this week?” he asks as he hands me a paper towel.

I wipe my cheek slowly, watching the bacon finish browning. The question is inevitable, I realize. “Okay.”

“People aren't being . . . ?”

“It's fine.” The anonymous note left in my locker was the only one that directly referred to what happened that night, except for the ones calling me a killer. And there was no follow-up. I don't know if the occasional knots that tie in my stomach are because I'm not sure who left it for me—and what they want me to do about it—or due to the powder-puff game tonight.

He nods slowly and maybe he believes me when I say it's fine, maybe he doesn't. Either way, he lets it go and I'm grateful. “Right. You need a ride to the game tonight?”

“I'll ride my bike,” I say, dishing the bacon strips onto a paper towel–lined plate. “Thanks anyway.”

“Enjoy your snack.” He snags two pieces, tossing the hot
bacon slices between his hands to cool them, and steps out through the back door.

I watch his long, sure strides until he disappears before I sit down at the kitchen table with my plate.

I can still hear Dad's flat tone as he told me that they were sending me to his sister's in Kansas City. A never-ending echo of disappointment. Now that I'm back, we go about our days like neither of us can remember details: me, what happened that night, and him, that open desperation to get rid of me. It creates a strange tension, the inability to look each other in the eye.

Mom's reaction last May was different. When the alcohol results came in proving that I hadn't been drinking, that it was something else that caused the accident, she only said, “I knew it all along.”

There's a certain kind of faith mothers have that makes life bearable.

The crowds are never as big for the powder-puff game as they are for the real homecoming game.

“It's because they call it
powder-puff
,” Jen used to say bitterly. “Like we're out on that field with our makeup kits.” And then she'd roll her eyes all,
What can we do
?

Still, the south stands, where the late-afternoon sun has warmed the metal, are almost completely full of spectators. The loudest are the alum football players, sneaking sips from
flasks hidden down the front of their pants, sexist remarks, as always, at the ready.

“Give me a touchdown, Selena!” someone with a deep voice yells.

“Touch
me
down!” The guy next to him adds, not making much sense but also not seeming to care.

For one of the first times this school year, the abuse isn't for me. Those guys don't care about me and won't, unless my shirt flies up at some point.

Selena folds her arms across her chest and turns her back to the stands, a frown dragging her mouth down.

But the boys still holler. “I like that view better!”

I finish securing my braid. My blood is hot and angry for Selena. For all of us here, just wanting to play the game.

But then the girls on the field notice I've arrived and Selena's eyes light up. She crosses over to me and plants herself close enough that I can smell what she had for dinner.

“Pretty ballsy coming out tonight,” she says. Her long, dark hair is held back in a ponytail and with an elastic headband, but a piece has escaped and I can't help watching it as it spills across her high cheekbone.

“I have every right to be here.” I dig my palms into my hips, opening my body to her. Proving my fearlessness. She can't see the way I'm pressing my toes into the tops of my shoes to keep steady, though. She can't feel the clenching in my stomach.

In a moment that passes so quickly I wonder if I've imagined it, a flicker of worry draws her eyebrows together. Selena hesitates, searching for the correct next thing to say. We are being watched. She is under pressure.

But she struggles. For one tiny second.

Suddenly she throws her hands against my chest.

I stumble backward, catching myself in a half crouch, as though my life depends on not hitting the ground. My ankle threatens to give way, but I will it to behave. I know I look like an idiot; I hear laughter around me. I feel small and tinny under their comments, and if I could walk away without consequences, I would. But turning my back means they win. It means I'll never be the Kayla I used to be.

“You're going down, bitch.” One of their voices sails over to me.

“Careful, that's the killa you're talking to,” someone else says.

“Watch out,” Selena says in a low voice, just loud enough so I can hear. I can't tell if the warning is malicious or if she's actually concerned.

Across the field, Jen watches us as she adjusts the drawstring in her shorts. Not participating. Not stopping it, either. I am so far away from being able to guess what she's thinking, that it's hard to believe we were best friends.

I step forward again, closer to Selena. “You too.”

The homecoming court—Jen and Selena and two girls
who are not me—was voted on the third day of school after a whirlwind campaign of cupcakes, stickers, and empty promises of friendship in exchange for votes. The winners were announced during fifth period the next day. Some people, like Jay and Jen, were shoo-ins from the beginning. I would have been, too, probably. In a different life. But now, the four girls who still belong to this town are called out onto the field, and everyone's attention shifts away from me. I jog slowly in place to warm up as they pick captains. Jen's one of them, holding her yellow flags in two hands.

The rest of us line up along the fifty yard line and wait. I will Jen to look at me.
Remember the promise we made each other last year?

She doesn't look at me.

But Maria, the other captain, does. And she picks first.

“Kayla Martin,” she says without hesitating.

I pretend I get why she picked me first as I sprint over amid hoots and jeers from the field and the stands, take my red flag, and secure it around my waist. My face burns, so I stare at the ground so they can't see. Maybe it's a pity move. Or Maria wants someone she knows can catch a football. Probably, though, she picked me to be a dedicated battering ram.