Eleven Things I Promised (5 page)

Elsa looked up from her e-reader. “That's rude,” she commented.

“Especially when you find out about it from other people,” I said.

Autumn chugged water from her bike bottle. “Most guys are complete dogs. I mean, if you want to know why I'm with
Alex, it's because he'd never, ever cheat. We made a pact. I even have a promise ring. I didn't wear it on this trip because I didn't want to lose it.”

“Promising . . . what?” I asked her.

“Don't you even know what a promise ring is?” Autumn asked.

“A place where everyone sits in a circle and promises stuff? Sounds cultish,” I joked.

Stella would have laughed. Stella would have taken my idea and run with it. If she were here, the conversation wouldn't be awkward, wouldn't be a stretch. I wouldn't be answering these awful, embarrassing questions or getting to know way more about Autumn and Alex's commitment than I ever wanted to.

But instead, three blank faces looked at me.

“Okay, I know what a promise ring is,” I said. “Good for you. I guess.”

“So getting back to tonight,” Autumn pressed. “You and Oxendale. Or do you call him Will?”

“There's no ‘me and Oxendale,'” I whispered harshly, knowing the guys' tent was close by. “Can we talk about someone else now?”

“Sure. What about Stella? How's she doing? Is she going to be able to come see the finish, at least?” asked Margo.

“I hope so,” I said. “I mean, she plans on it. Her parents are being really protective, though. They're worried about infection and stuff.”

“I bet mine would be, too,” said Autumn. “When I took a bad fall off the uneven bars in a meet, they made me quit gymnastics. Just
quit
.”

“What if Stella has to quit cycling?” Elsa asked in her soft, quiet voice.

“Why would she quit?” asked Margo.

“Her parents could make her, just like mine made me. I mean, it's not the safest sport in the world,” Autumn added.

Nobody said anything for a minute. I had this harsh image of Stella's crumpled bike in my head. I picked up my water bottle, which was half-full. “Oh, wow. I'm out of water. Be right back.”

I slipped out of the tent. I needed air, not water. I headed for the refill station, enjoying the feel of the cool night air on my skin. I couldn't sit there while people asked prying questions about Stella. I just couldn't do it anymore. I was sick of lying.

“Hey,” Cameron said. He was filling up a large Nalgene bottle. “Everything all right?”

“Pretty much,” I said.
Or maybe, not so much,
I thought.

“One day down, six to go,” he said.

“I wish you hadn't put it like that.”

“You know what? I'm not sure I actually
like
camping all that much.”

“At least you don't have to share a tent with Margo,” I said. “She's calculated how many feet and inches we each get for our stuff. If your sleeping bag crosses the line, you're in trouble.”

“That's the thing about camping. When it gets dark,” Cameron said, “you can't go anywhere or do anything. You're kind of imprisoned.”

“What about the fresh air and the great outdoors?” I asked.

He raised an eyebrow.

“It's a thing people say.” I laughed. “I don't know.”

“I like electricity. I like my bed. I like going to the electric fridge, in the middle of the night, and then going back to my bed.”

“One day down, six to go?” I offered.

“That's lousy advice,” he said.

Fred, one of the ride organizers, walked up to us as we stood there, sipping water. “Hey, how are you guys doing? Time to turn in, okay?”

We started walking back toward the Sparrowsdale sign by our tents. “Why does our team name have to be the Mighty
Sparrows?” asked Cameron. “How redundant.”

“Hey, I wasn't even involved,” I said. “I would have gone with the Golden Eagles or the Fighting Ospreys.”

“Let's do that in yearbook. We'll change the name.”

“It'll never fly,” I said.

He groaned. “Good night already.”

I went back into the tent. “Took you long enough,” Margo commented.

“There was a line,” I said, and slipped into my sleeping bag. Beside me, Autumn was texting, and Elsa was still reading. Across from me, Margo had put a sleep mask on and her sleeping bag was pulled up to her ears.

This was weird. Like a sleepover I'd never, ever have.

Like the one we did back in fifth grade, when we all camped as part of our elementary school graduation celebration. It rained and we huddled in leaky tents for two days, worrying about lightning.

Same as then, I knew that I was never going to fall asleep. I'd listen to the black flies buzzing outside and the coughs and conversations from other tents.

I was going to lie here all night and worry. About the ride. About how and when I'd get a pierced belly button. About Stella.

The next time someone said “gentle,
rolling hills,” I'd know what they meant.

Hills.

Big, steep, horrible hills.

Lots of them.

My thigh muscles were burning as I started the last climb before our lunch break on Monday. Halfway up, since I was barely even moving, I got off the bike and started walking up it. While I was walking, other riders went past me, most of them standing up, pumping their legs.

Then other people who were walking their bikes, like me, started to pass me.

I was going to die on this hill, apparently. We'd turned
away from the coast and headed inland, which was not a good thing. It felt hotter and it was definitely steeper and buggier.

“Almost there!” a volunteer at the top of the hill shouted. “Keep it going!”

Keep what going?
I wanted to respond.
My straggling pace, or the sweat that's rolling down the center of my back, like a mountain stream in spring?

Behind me I heard a car engine and glanced over my shoulder to make sure I was far enough over on the side of the road. When we were riding in large groups I never worried, but now that I was almost all by myself out here, I had to check.

It wasn't a car. Well, it was, but it had a sign on the front: Official Support Vehicle For CCCR.

The so-called sag wagon was following me. That could only mean one thing. I was the last rider out here. If I slowed down any more, they'd sweep me up and toss me into the Subaru, no questions asked.

That did it. I was
not
showing up for lunch in the sag wagon. If I did, I'd never hear the end of it from Margo—and probably everyone else on the team. They'd long since abandoned me and left me to do this morning's ride on my own. As much as it hurt to ride, I was going to finish on the bike.

I got back on and forced myself to pedal the last quarter
mile. When I rode up to the finish line, there wasn't a cheer, or an announcement, or anything. There was one woman sitting at a table with a checklist. “Frances Marlotte?” she asked as I climbed off my bike.

“That's me.”

“Nice going.” She smiled at me. “It's not always easy, but it's always important. Now go on over and get yourself some lunch.”

My mouth was already watering as I walked toward the large pavilion, where there were large pans of barbecued chicken, roasted vegetables, fresh watermelon, and carrot sticks. Everything was a little ransacked, but there was still plenty for me.

I was filling my plate when Cameron jogged up. “Where've you been? I was worried about you.”

“I wasn't really into the rolling hills concept,” I said. “It's more like steep hills with steep drops and then more hills.”

“Don't worry, not every day will be like this,” said Cameron.

“Nah, just
most
of 'em,” said the woman who was dishing out cornbread. “Take my advice, hon. Go slow, enjoy the views, and eat lots of cornbread.” She put another piece on my plate.

“You've done this ride?” I asked her.

“Oh, sure,” she said. “With my bike club.” Then she burst out laughing. “What are you, crazy? I couldn't finish this ride if my life depended on it.”

Was she trying to make me feel better, or worse? It was hard to tell. I walked over toward a circle of rocks to sit down. I was halfway there when my right leg tightened. Then it seized. It felt like someone was squeezing on my calf muscle, or like it was caught in some sort of cruel industrial machine. I wanted to scream, and I couldn't walk.

I crouched down on one knee, wincing in pain, and some of my lunch fell onto the ground.

“What's up?” asked Cameron, taking my arm and helping me sit down.

“Leg . . . cramp,” I gasped.

“Try to stretch it out,” he said. He took my plate and picked up the food from the ground, shaking off the pine needles and dirt. “Three-second rule. You can eat this in a moment. First, extend your toes, then pull them back.”

I tried pushing my toes forward, but they seemed stuck. “It's not working.” I grimaced.

“Lie on your stomach for a sec. I'll rub it,” he said.

I wanted more than anything to just eat my lunch, but it was kind of hard to do anything with my leg seizing up. When Cameron touched my calf, I nearly exploded from the
sharpness of the sensation. He gently pushed on the muscle, forcing it to relax.

“So I've been thinking about our team,” he said. “It's kind of like a microcosm of school.”

I was too busy gritting my teeth to say anything. Or ask exactly what a microcosm was. It wasn't a word I actually used all that often.

“So there's the jock, Alex,” he said, “and the jock's girlfriend, Autumn, who's an overachiever. We have the foreign transfer student, my pal Oxo. There's Elsa, the silent type, marches to the beat of her own drummer. Margo, well, not sure what category she would go in, honor society I guess.” While he was talking, Cameron just kept massaging my calf. “There's the stoner burner guy who's super laid-back except for the fact he constantly chases girls. And then there's me and you. What categories do we go in?”

“Um . . . that makes it sound like a game show answer. I'll take: Names beginning with
F
,” I said. “I'm not into cliques. I like to be friends with people from all different groups, you know?”

“Yeah, me too. But if you
had
to pick one group, because we're filling out our microcosm checklist, which would it be?” asked Cameron.

“Artists?” I mumbled into the ground. “Yearbook nerds?
People who work a lot at bad jobs? Wait. Do you have a job?”

“Summers only. I work at Cumberland Farms, which is neither a farm nor in Cumberland. But I think if I
had
to choose a group, I'd say techies. Coders.”

“Stella's into coding,” I said. “She wants to build apps. I mean, she's working on one.”

“Oh, yeah? What will it do?”

“Something linking biking and restaurants,” I said. “It could come in handy on something like this. If we ever got to stop.”

“No doubt.” Cameron nodded. “So how's she doing?”

“She's getting better,” I said. “But she has a ways to go, still.” Keep it vague, I reminded myself. “She messed up her pelvis. Which is such an embarrassing word.”

“An unfortunate word,” Cameron agreed. “Nothing makes me madder than drivers who don't look out for people who are biking. Have you ever seen those ghost bikes? They have them in bigger cities. They put white painted bikes where someone got hit—I mean, killed—by a car. Pretty creepy, but it has a really big impact on people. Maybe we should put one out by the scene—you know?”

I sat up abruptly and turned to look at him. “She didn't die,” I said.

He was still holding on to my calf a little, and I pulled
away. Suddenly I felt like he could see right through me, like he knew everything. I almost shivered.

Right at that moment Margo walked by. She stopped and gave us a withering glance, holding an empty cup. “What happened to you? You fell down on the way to eat?”

“I just got a cramp, that's all.” I stretched my leg, flexing my foot a little. Cameron gave my calf one last rub.

“Really, like, get a room!” Autumn laughed as she and Alex walked past.

“Did she really just say that?” I asked Cameron. “Of all people? They haven't been separated for two seconds since we started this trip.”

“They should get a tandem bike,” Margo agreed, arching one eyebrow. “Then they'd never have to be apart.” She walked off, and I found myself smiling at her comment. She could have a sense of humor when she wanted to. As long as it wasn't about me, it was funny.

“Ooh, brownies—I'll grab us some.” Cameron jumped up and walked over to the pavilion.

If I could have moved, I would have followed him. Instead, I ate my lunch quickly so I could check in with Stella. I'd told her I would call from the road on Monday.

“Hey! How are you doing?” I asked when she answered.

She kind of laughed, which was nice to hear. “I saw you
Saturday night. It's only been two days. I'm the same,” she said.

“The exact same?” I asked. “Or kind of better or . . .”

“The same. What do you think? You think I'm going to jump out of bed and start running or something?” she snapped.

I didn't know exactly what I'd said to spoil her good mood. It had been happening a lot lately. I couldn't seem to say anything right anymore. “I didn't mean to imply anything,” I said, trying to be patient. “I was just asking. I know—”

“You
don't
know, actually.”

How could she say that to me? I was her closest friend. I'd done everything I could to understand what she was going through. I'd given her all the time and devotion I could, and I'd keep doing that forever. I was here for her, but she couldn't acknowledge it.

I stretched my legs, and immediately my calf started cramping again. I pressed my lips together, trying not to cry. The physical pain of my leg, plus the cold anger coming from Stella, was making my head spin.

“Frances?” she asked when I didn't say anything for a minute. “Are you still there?”

“I'm here,” I said.
Are you?
I wanted to add.
Because it sure doesn't sound like you.
I was killing time, waiting for her to
feel better. Whatever she wanted to take out on me, I had to accept. But our friendship wasn't the same, and I didn't know when it would be again.

When I got off the phone a minute later, Margo was standing beside me, staring at me, looking as critically at me as she always did. “What now?” I asked. “Am I late or something?”

“No.” She shook her head. “I was just wondering something. How did you and Stella get to be friends? It's weird, because you're so different. She's such an amazing athlete and she's on the debate team and . . .”

And what? I'm nothing?
I wanted to say. “You don't have to be the exact same as your friends. You know that, right?”

“I know. I know that,” she said, sounding defensive.

“I'm friends with Stella because she's kind, and accepting, and she is more fun than anyone else I know,” I said. “Being different . . . believe it or not? Some people think being different is actually a good thing.”

She frowned at me. “You're not
that
different. You give yourself too much credit,” she said.

“Whatever. You want to know how we became such good friends? I took a risk.”

Sure, I was only nine at the time.

But my parents were in the middle of getting divorced,
and neither one of them had a lot of time for me. I had a couple of good friends, but not exactly a “best” friend, and when they were busy with ballet or piano—my parents didn't believe in spending money on lessons—I'd hang out by the baseball field that I passed on my way home from school.

There was this girls' softball team, fast pitch, ten and under.

I didn't know anything about softball, not really, other than when my dad pitched a ball, I could hit it. I was a good hitter, though I had no idea why—probably something genetic, because it wasn't like I worked on it all that much. It was just something my dad and I did.

About my fifth afternoon walking by, I stopped and asked the coach if I could be on the team. “We have a hole at second,” she said. “Can you play second?”

Stella was the shortstop, and she quickly realized I didn't know much about the actual game, like rules, and she spent the first few days coaching me. I don't know to this day whether it helped when I joined the team or not. Stella was probably covering second and shortstop just fine on her own that day. But she never acted like I was hurting the team, and we had so much fun that spring that we'd been friends ever since.

Softball. It was something else she might not be able to do for a while.

“You don't strike me as a risk taker,” Margo said.

“I'm here, aren't I?” I said.

“Yes, but you're only doing this out of guilt. That doesn't count.”

“You don't know what you're talking about,” I said. “I signed up for this long before Stella's accident. Stella and I are friends for a hundred reasons, but maybe mostly because we understand and support each other.”
Something you've never tried to do,
I almost added.

Before we left for the afternoon's ride, I found Max making some adjustments to his bike. “Hey, uh, Max. You know that guy Scully you mentioned? Do you know what he looks like?” I asked.

Max looked up at me and then stood. “All right, all right. Now things are getting interesting.”

“No, it's not, um, like that,” I said.

“Sure it isn't.” He smiled.

“Stella wanted me to say hi for her. Since you mentioned him, I thought maybe you could point him out to me?”

“Sure, come on,” Max said. “I saw him grabbing some energy bars a minute ago when I was over there. His first name's Earl or Stanley or something. That's why he goes by Scully,” he explained.

I followed Max over to the table labeled Provisions, where various sponsors had donated snacks to help us. I would not be taking any protein cubes. I was stuffed from lunch, besides.

A tall, broad-shouldered guy who looked more like a football player than a cyclist was standing in a group of people wearing matching Salisbury High jerseys. Max wasn't shy. He barged right in and pulled Scully aside.

“Scully, this is Frances. She's good friends with Stella. Who for some reason told her to look you up . . .”

“Your reputation precedes you, is what he's trying to say,” I told him.

“Stella?” he asked.

“Dark-brown hair, about five-ten, long legs, wears black a lot, and rides a super-expensive silver bike—some Italian brand I can never remember.”