Eleven Things I Promised (14 page)

“So, I'll do it instead of you,” Elsa said. “I tried it once last summer when it opened. It was fine.”

“I can do it for you—for her—too,” said Margo.

“But you guys can't . . . I mean, I have to do it,” I said. “I'm the one who's doing the list.”

“Frances, you can't do all this by yourself. I mean, look what it's done to you,” said Cameron.

“What? I'm fine. Basically.”

“Your wrist is screwed up. You're sunburned.” Cameron counted off the various issues on his fingers. “You're exhausted from riding more than two hundred miles during the past four days—I mean, you're doing this with a lot less training than we've had.”

“Which is all my own fault,” I reminded him.

“
And
you're riding with the whole weight of worrying about Stella.
We
haven't had that. Not until now,” Cameron added.

“I appreciate the offer, but I have to do it because—look, I just do,” I said.

“We'll do it together, then. There's no law against that,” said Margo. “The seats are two across. I went last summer. I'll go with you.”

“I'll sit behind you and get it on video,” Elsa said.

“I'll cheer?” said Autumn.

“I'll buy cotton candy or whatever you want after you're done,” Alex said.

“I guess there's only one job left for us. That means the three of us have to catch her when she falls,” Max joked to Cameron and Oxendale.

I pushed him in the chest. “Not funny.”

I stared into the fire, watching the coals break apart. I felt so relieved to have the truth out in the open. I felt equally guilty, though.

I have to call Stella and be honest,
I thought.
I have to tell her that I broke my promise to keep her real condition a secret.

“Can I borrow someone's phone for a minute?” I asked.

“Sure, take mine,” said Elsa.

I found a private spot and dialed the familiar number. For once, she answered.

“Hey, it's me. I borrowed Elsa's phone. How's it going?” I asked.

She cleared her throat. “My phone rang ten minutes ago and I thought it was you,” she said. “But it was Margo.”

“Why would she . . . call?” I asked, glancing across the campfire at Margo.

“She wanted to know how I was. She wanted to know how my
recovery
was going. Margo. Of all people.”

“She's not awful,” I said. “She probably genuinely wanted to know—”

“Why would she do that? I can't imagine why she'd be so concerned about me, unless of course . . . you told her.”

Right. That was why I was calling her. To tell her the truth. “Listen, it wasn't something I wanted to do—”

“I can't believe you. You promised you wouldn't tell,” she said angrily.

“I—I tried not to. I didn't do it deliberately, but—”

Click.
She ended the call.

As exhausted as I felt, I didn't get
much sleep Wednesday night.

It was like once I began remembering that day, that horrible, upsetting day when Stella talked to me as if I were nothing and no one, as if I were the one who'd let it happen to her, I couldn't stop thinking about it.

How awful the accident must have been for Stella.

How downright gory. Nightmarish.

How it all happened in the blink of an eye.

I tossed and turned, each time wincing because my wrist would shift position or the sleeping bag would rub my sunburn the wrong way. Then there were the three times I had to get up in the middle of the night because I'd had so
much water and Gatorade. My piercing was the least of my problems—I'd been cleaning it religiously, determined not to let it get infected. That happened when I finally got my ears pierced at thirteen, and it wasn't pretty.

Thursday morning's ride to Newburyport, in Massachusetts, was hilly, but nothing approaching the Mount Washington–style peaks of the day before. I had a brand-new tube in my front tire, and the rim had been straightened by one of the mechanics. I also got to wear comfy clothes again. And best of all, I always had someone from my team riding beside me, and every once in a while one of the riders in the front would ride back to check in on me, and switch places. I liked the variety, getting to hang out with someone different—although of course when it was Alex and Autumn, they'd had to both come back and ride with me, one on each side. That could be considered progress, though. At least they weren't
right
next to each other.

Just before lunch, around one, we reached the ocean. We stopped at a scenic overlook.

Stella loved the ocean. So much. I thought about the times in junior high we'd begged and begged our parents to take us to the beach and how they always insisted it was “too far,” because they had to work, or we had to go visit someone, or my mom didn't want to get sand in the house because we
were having people over. Now I'd gotten here on a bike—not all the way from home, but pretty close.

When I turned around from looking out at the water, our whole team was standing behind me. “You okay?” asked Cameron.

“Um, of course I'm okay,” I said. I brushed past them and walked over to the large metal-and-stone sculpture of a boat that marked the spot as a memorial to a lost ship. The sign below a large boat said:

The John Q. Chambers Memorial Lobster Boat—Wrecked in 1879 Near This Spot

Three Lives Were Lost as the Mighty Sea Raged

Surrounding the boat were bronzed sailors in hats, slickers, and boots, clinging to the sides. The sculpture looked a bit neglected, but still had freshly painted signs on it that said:

DO NOT CLIMB OR MOUNT!

PLEASE STAY OFF—THIS MEANS YOU!

Another sign was covered by graffiti: a face with googly eyes, a flourish of a nose, buck teeth, and a tongue sticking out.

As I walked around to check out the other side, a voice called from above me.

“Come on up!” said Max. I looked up and saw him sitting atop the boat. “Come on, guys. If we're going to break some rules, we've got to start somewhere.”

I took a tentative step toward the sculpture. Cameron, Oxendale, and Margo scaled the small ship, while Elsa, Autumn, Alex, and I watched.

“Excuse me—A.J.? Would you mind taking our picture?” Max called to another rider standing nearby. “Autumn, you have your phone on you? Come on, everyone, crowd around. Let's all get in the shot. Frances, don't be last—come on, statues don't bite.”

I stepped up between one of the sailors and the boat in a little toehold. One of the sailor's arms was broken off at the elbow. The feeling of the jagged edge made me shiver as I leaned against it; I hated rough surfaces.

Everyone was laughing and leaning in for the photo. This wasn't on the F-It List, but I still felt as though this was for Stella. I craned my neck forward and yelled, “Everyone say ‘Stella,' okay? One, two, three, Stella!”

“Stella!”
Max cried at the top of his lungs, imitating Marlon Brando from an old movie that Stella kind of hates because it makes everyone scream her name like that.

Just like that, everyone started yelling her name, louder and louder, making dramatic poses, flinging our arms out as if we were all onstage in
A Streetcar Named Desire
.

“Hey! You kids!” A gruff-sounding man was walking toward us. “Get down from there! Show a little respect!”

Our lunch stop was at a park on the water, and our bikes filled an entire parking lot, along with long tables covered with bag lunches. I grabbed one that said
Turkey/Swiss
and headed for a shady section in the dunes, where I wouldn't get more sun. I ate the way I'd been doing all week—quickly, downing my sandwich, chips, fruit, and a cookie in record time. I'd probably lost ten pounds on this trip already, just by exercising, not that I cared.

“Hey, Frances!” Cameron called to me as I was dropping things in the recycling bin. “Time to cross off something else.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked with a laugh. “Did you have a food fight without me?”

“Never,” said Max.

“Listen,” Oxendale said. “Stella did say to ride in a bikini and swim in bike clothes, right?”

“Sure,” I said slowly.

“Well? What are you waiting for? You think we'll get a
better chance than right now?” Oxendale threw out his arms. “There's the Atlantic, baby!” He started to take off his cycling jersey, and I cringed. I did not need to see Oxendale's skinny white belly.

“That's not on the list!” Margo called to him as I walked beside her toward the water's edge. “It's swim
in
your bike clothes.”

I'd never been more grateful to her. “Thank you,” I said, taking off my bike shoes before I stepped onto the sand.

“Oh, yeah, sure.” She placed her shoes carefully under the boardwalk. “There's no way I'm taking off my clothes, either—and you know that would be the next thing they'd ask if they took off theirs.”

I ran into the surf and almost got knocked out by the coldness of the water. I went out as far as I dared, closed my eyes, and dunked my head underwater. Then I dove all the way in, pushing off the sand with my feet, enjoying the rush of cold water surrounding my body. Swimming. It was another thing that Stella would have to adjust to. Swimming in the ocean. One of her favorite places, one of her favorite things. I stayed underwater, holding my breath, trying to imagine how that would feel.

My bike clothes were sopping wet as I strode out of the surf. We all looked a bit like drowned rats, to be honest.

Heather was standing on the shore, waiting for us. “I'm
pretty
sure that swimming after lunch wasn't on the itinerary.”

“Nope,” said Cameron.

She shrugged. “I guess I can count it as a triathlon move. It'll have to be okay. Come on, everyone's getting ready to go. I suddenly realized the Sparrowsdale team was missing. I had a feeling you'd be down here somewhere, but swimming? At this temperature?”

“Aw, the water's perfect,” said Cameron. “You should try it. Come on.”

“No, I couldn't,” she said. “We have to get—”

“Come on,” Cameron urged again. “It's just water. And it does feel surprisingly good.”

“Why are you all doing this? I feel like there must be some ulterior motive, since you're the only group down here crazy enough to do this.”

“It's for Stella,” I said.

“Oh.” She smiled at me. “Well, in that case. Somebody get
this
on video.” Heather slipped off her flip-flops and dove in.

It might sound horrible, but none of us showered before dinner that night. We'd already gone swimming, and besides, we knew what was in store. I didn't have enough clean outfits left
to spare, but I was hoping other people did—the idea wasn't for people to hate us, just to have fun. With only two nights left to this trip, now was the time.

“I absolutely love food fights,” said Oxendale. “They're just brilliant.”

“How can we have a decent food fight outdoors, though? Everyone can just run away.”

“There are ways. And I bet other people have some steam to let off. If we get everyone in on it, then nobody will get in trouble—what are they going to do, kick us all off?” said Max.

“It's like you've done this before,” Autumn said. “Were you behind that horrible shepherd's pie incident sophomore year? Oh my gosh. That
was
you.”

Max grinned, leaning back with his hands behind his head.

“I have a suede jacket that still smells like ground beef and corn after three cleanings. It's disgusting,” said Autumn. “You should have to buy me a new one.”

“I accept no responsibility for that,” said Max. “In fact it's pretty much my life goal to not take responsibility for much. Except this ride. This thing matters to me.”

“Me too,” said Oxendale.

On a signal from Max, who was watching Heather and
the other adults' table to make sure they weren't paying attention, I launched a grape tomato with my spoon, sending it flying through the air, across our picnic table, the next one, and then bouncing off a girl's head at the next table.

She rubbed her head and looked around, but didn't seem to think anything of it.

I had to up my game.

I'd loaded my plate with items from the salad containers: baby carrots, cucumber slices, grape tomatoes, purple onion, and best of all, cottage cheese.

I took a glob of the cottage cheese and slung it across the table, over Max's shoulder, square on the boy sitting behind him.

As soon as it landed on his back, he jumped up. “What the—”

That's when Margo flung a forkful of pasta—with tomato sauce—in the air, just as Max pitched a handful of spaghetti, Oxendale tossed two meatballs, rapid-fire, and Autumn lobbed a dinner roll across three tables.

“Food fight!” somebody yelled—even before I had a chance to say it.

“Food fight!” everyone started screaming, or else they were screaming from being smacked in the face with pasta, salad, or maybe pasta salad.

I emptied my plate, tossing things in every direction, while being pelted with all the same foods. I couldn't stop laughing as I fired carrots into the air like little missiles. A shower of food was literally falling from the sky, while Heather and the other people in charge hid under their table, grabbing the megaphone now and then to call for us to stop.

When it was finally, mercifully over, I wiped apple pie and whipped cream and a baby carrot off my face, pulled spaghetti out of my hair, and peeled the cucumber slice off my arm, where it was stuck with ranch salad dressing that was acting like glue.

“You—you—have—” Cameron was pointing at me and stammering, laughing so hard he couldn't get the words out.

“What?” I said, and the more he laughed, the more I couldn't stop laughing, either. My stomach hurt, I was laughing so hard, and when I bent over in pain, something slid off my head onto the ground.

“You have—you had—a brownie on your head,” he finally said. “Can I have it?”

We both lunged for the brownie at the same time, bumping into each other. We collapsed on the ground, still laughing, rolling in cottage cheese and spaghetti sauce and who knew what else. Like we would even eat that brownie or anything that had been thrown by someone else. Of course,
what
were
we going to eat now?

“Jell-O wrestling? Get a room,” Autumn said.

“We don't
need
a room!” I shouted at her. Then I turned to Cameron. “God. The two of them. They're so clueless sometimes. It's like they only recognize people as parts of couples, like it's the only way to be.”

“That's because they haven't been apart since—since—the invention of stuffed pizza crust,” he said.

“You know when that
was
?” I asked.

“Sure, it was when Autumn and Alex saw each other across seventh-grade homeroom and fell madly in love,” Cameron said.

“This is too fun,” I said. I started to cry, the salt running down my face and mixing with my sweat-salt, all Salt Lake City on me.

“Too fun? That's a thing?” Cameron asked, wiping a green glob off his neck and shivering when he looked at it. “No, you're right. This is sad. Someone just wasted an avocado.” He held it out to show me, but I wouldn't look at him. I couldn't. I was still crying a little bit.

“You have whipped cream on your eyebrows,” he said.

“Yeah, well.” I looked up from under the tangle of curls that was my hair at the moment. “You have a spaghetti-sauce Mohawk.”

“If I could get the meatballs and make them earrings, this would be a look,” he said.

I laughed, despite myself. “A crazy look. A look that would make people never sit next to you on the bus.”

“People never do sit next to me. That's why I ride my bike. You dig?”

“No,” I said. “And that's not true. You're totally popular. You have plenty of friends.”

“Sure, but not on our bus route,” he said, laughing.

We both stood up and started hunting for some paper towels, napkins, anything we could use to wash up with. People were starting to clean up, using plastic gloves and trash cans. The gloves seemed pointless considering we were all mostly covered in food, anyway.

“But you know what? Despite the royal couple being on this trip, and Margo lecturing us right and left—it's been fun. I didn't really know you before. Now I've, like, bared my soul to you, and meanwhile, you've hated being here—”

“No, I haven't,” I said. “Only—the first day. Maybe the second. But you—you were the one who made it okay. I'm really grateful.”