Every Last Promise (8 page)

WE TOSS MY BIKE
in the back of Noah's truck.

“Nice game, anyway,” he says as I fumble for a tissue in his glove compartment to shove up my still-bleeding nose.

“Thanks.”

My muscles are tight. I am bruised all over. A sickening feeling weighs me down. I trace a crack in his dash with one finger.

Noah clears his throat and sneaks a glance at me. “Why did you go to that game?”

“It's a free country,” I tell him, searching the horizon beyond the playing fields. I'm not sure what I'm looking for, only that I can tell he hasn't moved his warm brown eyes from me and I don't want to look at him. I don't know why he's being so nice to me.

“That's not what I meant.” Noah starts the truck and pulls out of the parking lot. We're quiet, and I know that even though he isn't looking at me anymore, he's waiting for some other explanation from me. He turns the steering wheel, aiming the tires for a pothole in the road so that we both jump in our seats and bonk the top of the cab with our heads. I want to laugh at his childish driving maneuver, but it feels strangely vulnerable to laugh with him. To share that kind of intimacy.
Humor. To let him pull out a piece of the old, happy Kayla when so much about who I am now . . . aches.

“Yeah,” I say, finally, with a sigh. I know what his question means. But I can't tell him that game was all the reasons I did what I did and all the reasons I came back. He wouldn't understand. Noah Michaelson has never been on the inside like I was. Never seemed to care about sports or spirit week or parties spilling across the banks of the river.

I rub my head and look out the window into a dark, fallow field, imagining the listless brown soil bursting with baby green life. The promise of early springtime. Change and renewal.

I push my long bangs out of my face, wondering if the dark shadows under my eyes hide the greens and yellows of my hazel eyes, and focus on the view out the window, judging how far I can see before a tall building mars the landscape. Here, in a patch between barns and houses, I can see a long ways away, the first flickering of light seemingly as far as the moon.

We drive in silence another mile. The dust flies behind the tires of the truck, creating a cloud that rises, billows out behind us. Noah pulls off onto another dirt road. The dirt roads out here crisscross forever like the lines over the top of a ball of yarn.

“I live on Sunview,” I tell Noah.

He hesitates before answering and I realize he already
knows that. Because I know where he lives, too. We all know where everyone lives in a town like this. But my memory tickles with something more. Playing together as children, a long time ago. The scent of food no one in this town but his mom cooks. He doesn't mention a long-forgotten history. He says only, “Oh. Okay.”

When we get close, I point out my house. Unnecessarily but for some reason I need this control. This pretending Noah isn't as much a part of this town's landscape as he is. His otherness draws me to him, to the idea that he won't—can't—hate me as much as everyone else. Because he is not like them? Or because he is like me? I don't know which. None of the above.

Maybe he's just a good person and that's it.

His hand on the steering wheel is sure as he slips into my driveway. I glimpse a movement in the front window. Ella, my family hound dog, watches us, her dark eyes flickering with interest. When we take too long to get out of the truck, she howls forlornly. My fingers tap the edge of the door handle silently, manically, a sporadic rhythm.

“Okay. We're here,” he says after a moment. Then: “You smell like bacon. Dirty, sweaty bacon.”

I laugh like I haven't for a long time.

My laughter opens a space between us that he fills with his smile. It's a great smile, lighting up his face, reaching to the corners of his eyes. His shoulders relax. “I remember you
always being on a horse. You used to ride by my house a lot. Did you ride in Kansas City?” he asks.

Those were quiet days, when Jen and I ambled for hours down the roads and trails that led past his house, only a mile or so from mine. I can picture the yellow siding and white trim. His mom gardening in the front yard, wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat. A small woman. Skin the same color as Noah's, but dark hair to go with it.

The time I really knew him feels so long ago. But I can almost see the inside of his house. The cross on the wall. The thick rugs under bare feet. I don't recall him being around at all much the last several years, as though he'd slipped into some quiet shadow place. As though people like me and my old friends put him there.

I look at him again, surprised but grateful to see kindness in his eyes. “No. I don't ride anymore. I've lost interest.”

“Oh. I thought that was your thing.”

It used to be my
favorite
thing. I loved the way the air combed my hair like invisible fingers when Caramel Star and I sprinted across the back fields and the way I seemed to grow wings as we jumped fences in gravity-defying weightlessness. The beautiful ache in my ab and thigh muscles. The coming down, catching our breath, as I slowly brushed her flanks after.

But now, my injured ankle spasms even as I just think about riding.

My heart bursts because my horse is boarded at Jen's.

“You know how they put down racing horses when they break their ankles?”

“You're not the horse, though,” he says. “You're the rider.”

My back stiffens. “It's not that easy.”

“Sure it is. Like riding a bike, right? Just get up there and—”

“I can't do it anymore.”

Silence fills the cab of the truck. I check my tone. Open the door. Say, meekly, “Thanks for the ride, Noah.”

I catch his “No problem” just before the door slams closed behind me.

MY PRIMARY REASONS FOR
showing up at school that last Wednesday of classes were to turn in my last paper for English class and to get my yearbook signed. Jen and Selena and Bean and I crammed our heads together over the yearbook at lunch, first checking our class photos—we laughed at how Bean wasn't looking at the camera but at some point over the top of it—and then flipping through to count how many other club and social photos we were in.

Selena was all over the cheerleaders' page, while Jen and I were part of a special spread on “Horsemanship at Ulysses S. Grant High.”

“Thank you, Noah Michaelson,” Jen said.

The photo of Bean receiving her county art award for a pastel piece she'd done of the landscape viewed from Point Fellows in the fall was taken at profile.

“Bean,” I said, “are you one of those people who believes looking directly at the camera steals your soul?”

“Maybe. That would explain a lot about the three of you.” She hooked her hands into the big square pockets at the front of her circle skirt. Pulled out a half-empty tube of white acrylic paint, looked at it, puzzled, and replaced it in her pocket with a shrug.

“Well, I don't believe in souls at all,” Selena said.

T. J. crossed the lunchroom and sat next to me, catching the end of Selena's statement. “Why not?” he said.

“Because it's inconvenient. My Catholic soul is destined to burn in hell if I do anything wrong. It's not worth the anxiety to believe when it's so much more freeing
not
to. If I went to confession, the priest would die of shock.”

“I doubt that,” T. J. scoffed.

“Just tell her you agree.” Jen turned the page in the yearbook and squinted at the members of the French club. “She has a reputation to uphold.”

I pulled the yearbook out of Jen's hands and flipped to the back pages where the candid photos were. In the center of one page, a large photo of the four of us was framed by black swirls. It was taken at last fall's homecoming carnival. Jen and I stood on the left and Selena and Bean on the right, but all four of us were held tightly together by arms around one another's shoulders. Selena wore her cheer uniform. Bean wore a lacy, cream-colored dress, and Jen wore shorts and a flowery, button-up top over a T-shirt. I had on jeans slung low across my hips and a tank top. Each one of us was wearing a big grin. Even Bean was looking at the camera in this one. Behind us, the setting sun haloed our heads in a flare of reddish-yellow color.

Looking at the photo raised sacred memories: the scents of fried foods and hay and the feeling of a breeze growing
cooler as evening came. That was the night Caleb went six rounds at the dunk tank, sending Tory Worth into the water over and over again because he was too intimidated by her to just ask her out. She hated him from that day on.

“This is my favorite picture,” I said, laying the book flat on the table and pressing my hands over the page. “I might have slipped it to Noah along with our riding photos.”

“I love that,” Jen said softly.

“Noah . . . Michaelson? He goes to my church,” Selena said. “Weird guy. Quiet.”

“You say that every time I mention his name.” I squinted at her. “I thought you didn't believe in church.”

“Don't believe in souls,” she corrected. She shrugged. “But church . . . it's a
thing
. Being Catholic in a town like this, you all stick together because of
community
or something like that.” She nosed in close to see the photo, then sat back with a smug smile and nudged Bean's shoulder. “And on that topic, there goes our theory about your soul. I guess you just can't be bothered to look at the camera most of the time.”

Bean shrugged and smiled at us.

Behind her, Jay and Steven and the rest of the guys who sat on the other side of our table were getting to their feet. I shouted, “Hey, Steven, what time are you coming by?”

Steven shoved a last handful of limp fries in his mouth and shook his head. His food was only half chewed when he opened his mouth to answer me. “Oh yeah. Don't worry
about it. I got this.” He tipped the rest of his milk into his mouth, swished it around his cheeks, and swallowed.

“Did you find someone else to help?” I asked.

“Something like that. Got to run, though. See ya.” He swept his tray off the table, dropping and ignoring half his food that had fallen on the floor, and followed Jay out of the cafeteria. I made a face at his retreating back.

“Jerk. I left mucking out mom's chicken coop till today because I thought he was coming over.”

“They're all jerks,” Jen said breezily. She closed the yearbook and handed it back to me, her dimple deep in her cheek. “Anyway, I love that picture of us. We look hot.”

I stashed the yearbook in my backpack and zipped it. “Speaking of physics, I haven't decided which science I'm taking next year. I should take health sciences because it's more nurse-y, but that forensic sciences class Olson started last fall sounds so fun.”

“I want to take the forensic class, too,” Jen said. “But I should probably go with AP bio. I want to get as many college courses out of my way as possible, and unless there's a new AP forensics, it's not going to happen for me.”

I wrinkled my nose. “Harvey teaches AP bio. That's rough.” Mr. Harvey was older than the earth and yelled because he couldn't hear himself speaking.

“Harvey teaches all the AP science classes,” Jen corrected. “And yeah, it sucks. I would want Olson, too.”

We finished lunch under a steadily growing roar of sound, as we had all week. Students were restless during the last few days of school. I drilled the girls on our summer plans yet again. Selena had to go to cheer camp in August, but before that, planned to work all summer. Bean was visiting her aunt in California for a month. As for me and Jen, we had plans to travel to six states for riding competitions and then we were joining her parents for a cruise to the Bahamas.

“I know it's
ages
away,” Jen said, “but we can look at swimsuits tomorrow when we go shopping for outfits for the party.”

“Sounds good.” I gathered my things, draping my backpack over my shoulder. “I have to run. I'm going to see if I can get in with my counselor before the lunch bell rings and ask for her opinion on next year's science.”

The hallways were jammed with groups of people signing yearbooks. A few senior guys high-fived over something—probably a yearbook quote they thought was particularly funny. Three girls smiled at their photos as tears streamed down their faces. Hailey Patterson and her best friend, Ingrid, pointed at a spot on a page. Ingrid tipped her head to the side with a little smile, but Hailey frowned. Hailey looked up to see me staring and I looked away quickly. I wondered if what made her eyes narrow like that was the photo of her and Jay at last fall's powder-puff game, him raising her into the air in a victory move. I had done a double take when
I saw that photo for the first time, too.

I shouldered my way to the main office and checked my guidance counselor's sign-up sheet. She was booked for the next two hours, but I knew I could get a late slip from her for sixth period, so I picked up the pencil to add my name to the list. I'd written the first K when a loud “What!” made me look up.

Behind the secretaries' desks, four figures shadowed the frosted glass windows into the principal's office. Voices were raised inside, although now that I was paying closer attention, I could also make out another voice hissing at everyone to quiet down. For a moment, I thought someone would tell me to hurry up with my sign-up and get on my way, but the office secretaries' fingers were paused over phones and computer keyboards. Everyone wanted to hear what was being said.

“. . . cannot make that call . . . am the teacher?” It was a woman's voice.

“New . . . understand . . .” came Principal Brady's voice.

“Your incomplete syllabus . . . can't penalize a student . . . having responsibilities.”

“That syllabus was approved by
you
, Chuck,” the female said over the other voices, referring to Principal Brady. “And this has nothing to do with football! He's
failing
!”

The principal's door opened. I dropped my head quickly, taking a full minute to write the “a” on the end of my name.

“Steven has one more chance to pass, is that right, Ms. Olson?”

“He has to pass tomorrow's test with a ninety-five,” she said. Only her hand and the tip of her red pump were visible around the frame of the door. Principal Brady still hadn't looked up into the main office.

“Let me know when he does that,” a slick voice said. Coach Hillyer.

“If he does, I will be more than happy to,” Ms. Olson said. “I want my students to succeed.”

“Look,” the coach said. “I'm on your side. I don't want to fight. If he doesn't pass, I'll make him do some work around the locker rooms. We'll call it anatomy, you can give him extra credit for it, and it'll be sorted out.”

Finally, Ms. Olson came into full view. Her mouth was set in a thin line and her eyes blazed with anger. “I'm not passing him just because you tell me to. Anatomy has
nothing
to do with physics. Nor do you have any say in whether or not my students get extra credit. I have principles. I'll leave this school before I let you push me around.” She brushed by Principal Brady and slammed through the swing door past the secretaries' desks. She didn't look at me when she passed.

In the principal's office, the coach made some laughing comment about having all summer to find a replacement. Vice Principal Green slipped out between them, rubbing the
deep wrinkles in his forehead between his thumb and forefinger.

I looked down at my name on the sign-up sheet. I'd written it so slowly that the markings were thick and dark. With a sigh, I flipped the pencil over and erased my name. There would be no fun forensic science for anyone. Because I knew how it worked around here, even if Ms. Olson didn't. Unless she passed Steven, she and her principles weren't going to be back next year.

In the hallway, Jay Brewster lounged against a water fountain, waiting for Steven to finish his drink. He looked up at me and grinned.

“Hey, Kayla, I think you're off the hook for tutoring Steven. He's going to be doing some extra-credit stuff with Coach.”

Steven stood upright and wiped the back of his hand slowly across his mouth. When his eyes caught mine, I saw some mix of hard resilience and shame in them. Or maybe that was just my imagination. Maybe all that was really there was triumph. Or even nothing at all. It was just the way of things.

“Too bad,” I said. “I was saving cleaning my mom's chicken coop for you. Now I have to clean it myself.” I poked out my bottom lip.

Jay pushed off with his hip and crossed the hall. Someone had drawn hearts and flowers and peace signs on the back
of his left hand with a blue pen. A girl with a crush on him, probably. His abashed grin showed off his straight, white teeth.

“Sorry about that. Know what? We'll do it anyway. Won't we, Steve?” Jay nodded over his shoulder. “Coop's on the side of the house, right? Just leave the supplies out for us and we'll come after practice and get it cleaner than it's ever been. It's the least we can do since you were so cool about tutoring, right, man?”

“Absolutely.” Steven stuffed his hands in his jeans pockets and nodded.

I wanted to feel irritated. Most of the time, the football program's weight tossing around here didn't affect me. But I also really didn't want to muck out the coop.

As Jay snaked his arm across my shoulders and nodded at a couple of cheerleaders passing by, I debated. Did I want to make a point, say something that would piss Jay off, or did I want to let it go, knowing anything I said wouldn't matter anyway? I reached into my bag and fidgeted with the edge of a notebook. At least he'd offered to clean the coop.

I blew out a huff of air. “I'll leave the cleaning stuff out for you. I expect it to be sparkling, though.”

“You're a cool girl, Kayla. We'll dedicate next season to you or something.” Jay squeezed my shoulders.

I made a dismissive noise and went off to hang out on the hill.