The Hard Kind of Promise (16 page)

"Seems like more time than it was," he said.

At the table, she told them about the plane rides and the motel, the rehearsals, the competition itself. How exciting it was to win.

"Of course it was!" Grandpa said.

"I thought the
singing
would be fun. But winning—"

"Winning just means other people thought you did a good job," Grandpa said.

"It always feels like it's about beating someone. If you win, then someone else has to lose."

"Well, whoever it is you beat will win the next time. Or the time after that," Mom said. "Everyone knows a little of both, eventually."

Sarah considered this. It struck her as extraordinarily comforting.

"You want to help me train Henry for the All Good Dogs competition?" Grandpa asked. "Get him ready to beat the pants off those damn German shepherds?"

"What's wrong with German shepherds?" Mom asked.

"They think they're so smart," Grandpa said.

Mom and Sarah laughed.

"Yeah," Sarah said. "Yeah. That sounds like fun."

Henry, stationed beside Grandpa's chair, cocked his head at her. He seemed proud of himself, ready for whatever would come next. She pulled a corner off her strip of bacon, saving it for him for later.

She told them about playing poker.

"Hah! Texas Hold'em! Haven't played in years!" Grandpa pushed his chair away from the table to give his middle more room. "Did you win?"

"I came in second," Sarah said.

"I don't want you betting," Mom said.

"Oh, relax!" Grandpa said. "It's part of the fun. You gotta bet. You gotta know what's at stake."

"I don't want her getting in over her head," Mom said.

"It was just a few cents," Sarah said, but she knew that her mother wouldn't be appeased, that there was something in the very nature of betting that made her anxious and apprehensive.

"Second's not bad, for the first time," Grandpa said, giving Sarah a sly wink.

"Don't encourage her, Dad," Mom said.

"Mom, it's okay," Sarah said, but tenderly, feeling protective of her, understanding that her caution was
just her way of showing love, and also that it was warranted, that the world was full of real danger and heartbreak.

"She just needs to be smart. Keep her cards close," Grandpa said, which Sarah thought sounded like real wisdom, the truest thing she'd ever heard.

Tuesday, at Cotillion, she noticed that everyone was dancing better. No one stepped on her feet. No one's hands were slimy with sweat. It was easier to relax in a strange boy's arms, to tell herself that making a mistake wasn't so terrible, that it was just dancing.

She danced the polka with Dylan Dewitt, who was thrilled to take advantage of what he deemed permission to leap around the room.

"It's not even dancing!" he yelled happily over the accordion music, thundering forward, not appearing to notice whether Sarah could follow him or not. "It's like pole-vaulting or something!"

"It's supposed to be dancing!" she yelled back crabbily. "That's why there's music!"

Immediately he slowed his pace.

"Sorry," he said, breathing heavily. "I guess I got carried away."

"It's okay," she said, relieved to hear that the song was coming to an end. Across the room, she saw Robert
trying to catch her eye, signaling that he would make sure they were partners for the fox trot.

Over Dylan's shoulder, she caught sight of Marjorie and Joey Hooper. Marjorie wore a floor-length black skirt and a starched white blouse. The top of Joey's head came only to Marjorie's collarbone, but he held her firmly in his arms. Their steps were careful, almost sedate. They looked as though they were trying to polka with dignity, something Sarah realized was almost impossible to do. She thought of Edna and Frank at the Southland Motel: the way Edna overlooked Frank's surliness, the way she explained everything that people said. The way she was patient. Sarah wondered if Joey Hooper even noticed the oddities and quirks that were so much a part of Marjorie. She hoped that he was patient with her.

"Thanks for the dance," she said to Dylan when the music ended. It was what Mrs. Gretch had told them to say, but she meant it. Jumping around the room hadn't felt like dancing, but it was fun.

"No problem," Dylan said, forgetting that "You're welcome" was the proper response. His huge front teeth gleamed under the fluorescent gym lights.

Behind him, Joey Hooper put one hand before him and one hand behind and bowed from the waist. Marjorie made a little curtsy. Clearly she had choreographed this: curtsying was such a Marjorie thing to do.

The ache in Sarah's heart was so piercing that it might have been caused by a dagger. She actually looked down at herself, not really surprised at being intact, but surprised by the fierceness of her longing, by the way missing someone could hurt so much.

She thought about calling, but decided against it. It seemed cowardly. But as she approached Marjorie and Joey on the far side of the soccer field the next day at lunch, she wondered if twelve-year-old girls ever had heart attacks. If your heart could pound so hard that it left bruises on the inside of your chest. If what felt like fear was really just weeks and weeks of not watching old movies, not laughing at old jokes, not remembering things that had happened in second grade.

Marjorie and Joey were sitting on a bare patch of dirt, their backs against the chainlink fence that marked the most distant edge of the field. Marjorie was holding half of an oversize sandwich in one hand. Sarah imagined that barbecue potato chips made the bread look lumpy.

The two were talking and laughing, but as Sarah came nearer, she could tell that Marjorie was aware of her, that her speech became less animated. Finally she looked up. With her free hand, she pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. Sarah tried to read the expression on her face and couldn't. Was she angry, upset? She looked unbothered, but something in the emptiness behind her eyes let Sarah know that she was masquerading, only pretending to appear serene.

Sarah slowed her pace but forced herself to come close. Be brave, she had said to Lizzie at the choir party. She tried to say it to herself. Was it working? She didn't know: her heart still banged uncomfortably against her ribs. But she went on, her sneakers squeaking a little in the damp grass, her fists clenching and unclenching in the front pocket of her hoodie.

"Hi," she said, coming to a stop before them.

"Hi," Marjorie and Joey said together. Joey looked from her to Marjorie, then back at her again, as though he thought Marjorie might lunge at her and try to wrestle her to the ground.

"Can I talk to you alone?" Sarah asked.

"Sure," Marjorie said. She took an enormous bite of her sandwich, then set it on top of the plastic grocery bag that contained, Sarah knew, the rest of her lunch. She rose from the ground. "Tell everyone to wait," she said to Joey through a mouthful of sandwich. "I'll be back in a minute."

Sarah steered them several yards away, toward two metal garbage cans locked to the fence with metal chains looped through their handles. She tried to think of something to say as they walked, but found herself tongue-tied. How many times had she and Marjorie walked and chatted effortlessly? Thinking of something to say had never been a problem. In the old days, the problem had been not enough time to get all the talking done.

They came to a stop in front of the garbage cans, over which two bees buzzed lazily back and forth.

"So who's 'everyone'?" Sarah asked, surprised at herself, feeling jealousy like a vise around her lungs.

"Some kids Joey knows. Davis Lindemood. Peter Hurley." Marjorie wiped potato chip crumbs from her mouth with her bare arm. "We're starting an anime club," she said, smiling a little, as though she couldn't resist telling.

"I miss you," Sarah blurted out. It sounded so full of ache and wanting that she added immediately, "I miss how it used to be."

"I know," Marjorie said. "Me, too."

For a moment Sarah felt hope shimmer around them, fragile and iridescent, a giant, wobbly soap bubble that would keep them safe, would shut out everything.

"Me, too," she said, echoing Marjorie, not wanting to say anything else, wanting to live in the bubble just a moment longer.

"You can be in the club, if you want," Marjorie said.

The way Sarah had known that she would.

"I don't really get anime," she said.

"You could if you tried," Marjorie said. "If you read enough graphic novels. Watched movies."

"What I mean, I guess, is that I don't really
like
anime," Sarah said. "I mean, it's okay. And it's fine that
you
like it—"

"Don't," Marjorie said. "It's okay."

Sarah could hear the faintest tinge of irritation in her voice. For some reason, it made her feel better.

"Why can't we go back to the way it was?" she asked. "When we had lunch together every day and watched old movies and laughed all the time?"

The bees were buzzing too close; reflexively, the girls began to walk again, hugging the edge of the field, taking slow steps, as though by slowing down, they might put off some sort of ending.

"I like eating with Joey and Davis and Peter. I have fun with them. We like the same things. We laugh at the same things," Marjorie said. "The way you like eating with Lizzie and Carly."

"Not Carly anymore."

"Well, Lizzie, then."

"Lizzie's really nice, Marjorie," Sarah said.

"I know. But—"

"But what?"

"Nothing." Marjorie shook her head and pushed at her glasses. "Nothing."

They walked on. Marjorie swatted at something to the side of her head, as though one of the bees were following her.

"We can still be friends," Sarah said. "We can still have sleepovers and watch old movies and talk on the phone."

Like hedging a bet, she thought.

"Yeah," Marjorie said uncertainly after a moment. "We can still do those things."

It sounded awful, much worse than yelling at each other, saying they hated each other, crying, calling each other names. Sarah knew how awful it was because it was a lie to try to pretend that nothing was different, nothing had changed. Sarah knew it, and she knew that Marjorie knew it, too.

Marjorie always knew.

"I don't get why this happened," Sarah whispered. It felt as though it was her fault, as though she hadn't paid enough attention. Another promise broken, she thought.

"Maybe it's just
supposed
to happen. Like getting taller," Marjorie said. "Only no one told us."

Sarah nodded, afraid to agree out loud, too close to crying.

"I have to go back," Marjorie said, half pointing to where Joey sat with Davis and Peter. "They're waiting for me."

"Okay," Sarah said. "I have to find Lizzie, anyway."

They shared a long look. Sarah forced herself not to try to pretend anything. Be brave, she said in her head. The truth of what was happening ached in her heart, in her bones. But she didn't turn away.

Heading back toward the schoolyard, she couldn't resist taking one more look. Marjorie was trudging toward the small knot of boys at the back fence. Sarah could hear their distant, gleeful shouts as she rejoined them.

Making her way through the hallways, she saw Lizzie and Robert and Jason crowded together. For a moment she pretended that she had made a different choice. But when Lizzie glanced up and, catching sight of her, called out, "
There
she is!" as though everyone had been wondering, she knew that she had done what she had to do. She smiled at her friends and felt true pleasure at the sight of them, despite the fierce and terrible hurt still lodging in her chest.

"You almost missed lunch," Lizzie said. "Where were you?"

She mumbled something, not quite answering, and let herself be lulled by the others' conversation, which
had something to do with ants. Robert insisted that they were impervious to all insecticides, which led Jason to wonder how many he could swallow at one time.

"You're crazy!" Lizzie cried.

"They're just protein," he said, pretending not to understand her shrieked distress as he knelt down and began to inspect the hallway.

When Mr. Mayberry came out of his room and said wearily, "There will be no eating of insects, Mr. Webb," they all laughed, even Sarah, who knew that they would laugh about it for a long time, that it would become a well-loved memory, like so many others, good and bad: an inextricable part of who she was.