Promise Me Something
Read Promise Me Something Online
Authors: Sara Kocek
Sara Kosek
ALBERT WHITMAN & COMPANY
C
ontents
S
eptembe
r
W
e moved en masse like a rain cloud, past the gray lockers and matching gray walls, past the boys’ bathrooms by the stairs, past the wads of gum wedged in the hinges of the windows. Everybody coming from Mr. Murphy’s history class had their tests in their hands—for me, my first test of high school. The crowd pressed in on us from all sides as we squeezed through the double doors and into the cafeteria. No matter what day of the week, it smelled like Sloppy Joes.
I unrolled my test to look again at the
A+
on the top of the page, and that was when I heard the voice behind me. “Congratulations,” it said, barely audible over the cafeteria roar. I turned around and saw the shy, mousy girl who sat behind me in History. Her face was thin and pale, half hidden by a curtain of dull blond hair. She was wearing a button-down yellow blouse and black tights under a plaid skirt. “You must have studied hard,” she said, only her voice wasn’t mousy at all. It was quiet and razor thin.
The crowd pressed us deeper into the room. We streamed past the vending machines toward the hot lunch station, where three women in hairnets served up the usual globules of organic matter that varied in appearance but not taste from day to day.
“I got a C,” said the girl, now beside me. Her two front teeth tilted toward each other like they were afraid of the other teeth. “I’m Olive, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said, picking up a tray. It didn’t take a genius to tell that Olive wasn’t popular. On the totem pole of faces at Belltown High, hers was stacked somewhere just above the girl with the unibrow and the boy who wore sweater-vests every day.
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” she said, stepping closer to me and scooping corn onto her plate, “but we have two classes together. And homeroom.”
I nodded, a flicker of hope in the pit of my stomach. Olive may have been dressed like a Sunday school teacher, but she was the first person all week to notice me. “English and History, right?” I asked, reaching for the slotted spoon. Friends were friends, popular or not.
“Yeah.” She tucked a strand of stringy hair behind her ear and moved on to the mashed potatoes. “I’ve been trying to figure you out. Are you aloof because you’re shy? Or are you aloof because you’re a snob?”
“Aloof?” The little flame of hope extinguished itself.
“No offense.”
“I’m not aloof.” I turned around to see whether anybody in the lunch line was listening, but fortunately only a group of boys was standing behind us and they weren’t paying attention.
“Then how come I never see you talking to anyone?” Olive asked, plucking a square of pepperoni pizza out of the tray. “It doesn’t make sense. You look like a cheerleader.”
In the shiny stainless steel pole holding up a rack of milk cartons, I watched my warped eyes blink. What did that even mean?
“My friends go to Ridgeway,” I said at last, choosing a slice of pizza and sliding my tray toward the register. Ridgeway was Springdale’s other high school, and it was usually referred to as “Richway” because of its special architecture program and carpeted hallways. Finding out that my house had been redistricted to Belltown High was one of my all-time worst memories of eighth grade.
“They
all
go there?” Olive dug around in her pocket while the lunch lady rang up her total. “It must suck not having any other friends.”
“It’s not like that,” I said, looking around for an open spot to sit. Olive was turning out to be weirder than I thought. She wasn’t anything like my Ridgeway friends.
“You want to sit together?” Olive asked. “I mean, unless you have other plans?”
“I kind of have to study,” I lied, craning my neck to see whether there were any free spots at the homework table, where people sat silently and worked while they ate. No luck.
“Can’t you study after school?” Olive asked. “Or will you be too busy hanging out with your Ridgeway friends?”
“We mainly see each other on weekends,” I told her, glancing over at the corner of the cafeteria where the band kids sat. No spots there either.
“On weekends,” Olive echoed. “I wonder how long that’ll last.”
We wound up at a table near the far left window, where the student teachers usually ate. Today it was empty, so Olive spread her stuff across one of the benches. I put my backpack down on the floor next to my feet and resigned myself to sitting with her.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” she said, “what do you think of Ms. Mahoney? Did you see how she spelled
controversy
on the blackboard?”
Ms. Mahoney was our English teacher—straight out of college and new to the school. I liked her just fine except for the way she always forgot my name. “I think she’s nice,” I said.
“Well, I think she’s an idiot.” Olive took a swig from her Coke bottle. “What kind of English teacher can’t spell
controversy
? If she spells it wrong again, I swear to God I’m going to say something.” She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“No, what is it?” She put down her soda. “Tell me.”
“It’s nothing,” I said again. “It’s just—can you not swear to God around me?” I felt stupid as soon as I asked. I knew I shouldn’t have phrased it as a question.
She laughed but then stopped at the expression on my face. “Wait, seriously?”
Why did people always think I was joking? I was tired of explaining myself. I put down my slice of pizza and said, “Seriously.”
“Sorry.” Olive straightened her face. “Are you Mormon?”
“Catholic,” I said, taking a sip of chocolate milk. “What are you?”
She laughed. “Recovering Catholic.”
Recovering from what?
I wanted to ask, but I didn’t get a chance. Out of nowhere, something thwacked me in the back. I whipped around, confused.
It was a banana. A banana in the hand of a cute boy in flip-flops, sprawled out on the floor behind me.
“Sorry,” we said at the same time. Then I reached down and yanked my backpack out of the middle of the aisle, where he’d tripped over it. As I stuffed it under my seat to hide the evidence, he rose to his feet and brushed off his jeans. “Are you OK?” I asked, staring at his hair. It was coppery, the color of a brand new penny.
“Yeah, my fault,” he said, grabbing the bruised banana and shoving it in his pocket, where it stuck out like an odd yellow handle. Only then did I recognize him. We had Gym together first period every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. I was used to seeing him in long nylon shorts.
“Have we met?” he asked. “You look familiar.”
“Yeah,” I said. “In Gym.” Around his neck hung a guitar pick on a leather string. It was twisted around, and I had the urge to reach over and turn it in the right direction.
“What’s your name?”
“Levi,” I said.
He laughed. “No that’s
my
name.”
Across the table, Olive snickered as I snapped back to life. “Reyna,” I corrected myself, wishing she would shut up. “Reyna Fey.”
“Rain-uh?” he repeated. “Like the weather?”
Olive let out an exaggerated snort.
Levi paid her no attention; he just looked at me like he was trying to figure me out. His eyes were warm and brown with little flecks of gold. After what felt like an eternity, he said, “Well, see you later, Rain-uh,” and headed toward the double doors.
Olive pushed her Coke bottle toward me the minute he walked away. “You poor thing,” she said. “You’re bright red. Have a drink.”
“What just happened?” I held the bottle to my forehead.
She laughed. “You acted like a moron and he thought it was cute.”
A moron? I felt like crawling under the table and hiding there for the rest of the day. “It was something about his eyes,” I said, slouching in my seat. “I just couldn’t think.”
“That much,” she said in a sarcastic drone I would come to know well, “was obvious.”
I probably shouldn’t have walked with Olive to our next period after lunch since I wasn’t sure I wanted to be friends with someone so judgmental. But she just kept talking after the bell rang, and it was hard to cut her off or break away. And when she followed me into the parking lot at the end of seventh period, I didn’t stop her. To be honest, it was nice to have company, even if that company was so…Olive-ish.
We sat together on the ledge of the stone wall in the parking lot while we waited for our rides, Olive quizzing me like I was filling out an application to be her friend. “So, you’re religious, right?” she asked as soon as we sat down. Her fingers found a few loose pebbles and flicked them over the edge, one by one. “Don’t tell me you’re a Republican.”
“I’m not,” I said, wondering why she thought it was OK to say whatever popped into her head, no matter how rude. “But I’m not a Democrat either. I don’t care about politics.”
She frowned. “You should care.”
I watched as an old, beat-up station wagon pulled into the driveway, passed the bus lane, and parked in a handi-capped spot.
“At least tell me you’re pro-choice,” she said, watching me intently. When I shrugged my shoulders, she threw her hands in the air and sighed. “I don’t get it.”
“What?”
“Connecticut is a liberal state. We have Democratic senators. We have gay marriage. Yet, somehow, everybody in this school is Sarah Freaking Palin.”
“I have to go,” I said.
“See, that’s exactly what I’m talking about. If you just walk away from every political debate without even trying to—”
“No, my dad’s here,” I said.
“Oh.” She turned to look out across the parking lot, but I didn’t point out my father’s car. I didn’t want her to see his face behind the windshield—still purple and bruised from the accident.
I hopped off the wall and as I turned toward Olive to say good-bye, she tossed a pebble that narrowly missed my ear. “Hey!” I blurted.
“Do me a favor and pass me my notebook?”
I stared at her in disbelief. What kind of person throws a pebble at someone’s head? But she didn’t even blink. Reluctantly I asked, “What notebook?”
Olive grinned. “The one where I write mean things about you.”
Not funny. The more time I spent with Olive, the less I wanted to eat lunch with her again tomorrow. Then again, people at Belltown weren’t exactly lining up to be my friends. A voice in my head whispered,
beggars can’t be choosers
.
I crouched down and unzipped her backpack, fishing around for her notebook. I started to ask if I was looking in the right pocket but stopped when I saw it—a bloodred moleskin journal. The pages were so worn around the edges that I wondered whether she took it to bed with her at night to squeeze like a teddy bear.
“See it?” she asked.
“Yeah.” I pulled it out. There was a stack of stapled papers underneath it—her history test, crumpled but visible, in the mouth of the backpack. It wasn’t the test itself but the grade that gave me pause. Red marker stared me in the face:
A+.
“Can you hand me a pen too?”
“Sure.” I grabbed one from the front pouch and decided to ignore the grade. If she’d meant for me to see it, I had no idea why.