Eleven Things I Promised (15 page)

“The grateful speech? Please, no,” he said. “We've already been over this. We're not in the same sector, and it wouldn't work out.” He smiled at me. “I do know one thing for sure.”

“What?” I was kind of dreading his answer.

“I don't think we can sleep under the stars tonight.”

“No? Why?”

“All this food on the ground. It's going to attract a whole lot of raccoons, squirrels, mice. . . .” His phone rang and he slipped it out of his pocket, then stepped aside to answer. After a minute he handed the phone to me. “Some guy named Mason wants to talk to you. Wait—is he the one who almost got us kicked off the trip?”

“It wasn't his fault,” I said. “It was mine.” I took the phone and wandered off to get a little bit of privacy. “Hey.”

“Hey, you okay?”

“Uh. Mostly.”

“You're almost done. I was thinking maybe Stella and I could come see you at the finish. Would that be okay?” asked Mason.

“With me? Sure. Okay with Stella? No.” I shook my head. “Probably not.”

“Why not?”

“She hates me.”

“She does not.”

“Trust me. She does. I cracked under pressure last night. I got lost, I got a flat tire, I was run off the road by a car, and I started feeling really guilty for not being there with
Stella. And then everyone was mad at me and telling me how I shouldn't be on the ride and I just—I needed to tell them. I needed to talk about it with someone other than the inside of my brain.”

“So . . . how did they react?” Mason asked. “Were they shocked?”

“They were really upset. They felt kind of blindsided. But . . . it was a good thing, I think. People had been wondering why they hadn't seen her and what was going on. They really care about her. And people want to help, you know?”

“Sounds positive,” said Mason. “I guess.”

“Right. But then Margo had the idea to call Stella and be extra sympathetic, and immediately Stella knew that I'd spilled. When I called, she hung up on me.”

“Oh. Not good.”

“Right. I told her I only did it because I—I couldn't keep it to myself anymore. The pressure and the lies and—people are going to find out. She can't hide forever.”

“She just wanted you to buy her some more time. She's doing better, I promise,” Mason said, sounding upbeat. “This therapist she's been meeting with has been helping her a lot.”

“Enough that she'll come to see us at the finish?” I asked.

“Sure. Why not?”

“Because she's stubborn and she's mad at me,” I reminded him.

“Maybe you don't understand her as well as you think you do,” said Mason.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Half the time she's mad at me, and I don't even do anything. You've just been spared that side of her until now.”

“Mason . . . this is a little more serious than dumb sibling fights,” I said. “It's okay if she's mad at me because I'm in the world and she's mad at the world.”

“I think I know what you're saying. Granted, this is like way outside anything we've ever experienced. But I'll ask her again.” Mason sighed. “I can't guarantee anything. But I'll mention I talked to you.”

“Have you . . . you know,” I stammered. “Or are you going to . . . mention anything else? About us?”

“Like what?”

He sounded completely clueless, like our night together wasn't on his radar at all. “The fact that you and I . . . you know,” I insisted.

“No, I really don't. You and I what?” he asked in a teasing voice. “Tell me about it. Especially the good parts.”

“Mason.” I felt my face getting hot. I remembered the way he'd touched my face, how it felt to be close to him.

“Anything good? Refresh my memory,” he said. “Did it have something to do with your navel, or did I dream that part?”

I laughed. Maybe I didn't have to worry about whether we'd only had a one-night thing.

Friday night we camped near
Marblehead and had a big celebration, with Heather going over everything we'd accomplished and giving out awards for dollars raised, sprints won. Our team had gotten more contributions as the days went along, and I learned there had been a recent hundred-dollar gift made specifically with my name on it. When I pressed the woman in charge of finances for details, she said it was made by a donor who wanted to be listed as anonymous, but there was a message attached to it: “Frances, if you ever feel lost again, you know where to find me—Miranda.”

She'd taken the hundred dollars I'd given her and turned it into a contribution to the cause.

As a reward for being nearly done, and for raising so much money, Phantom Park gave our whole group free admission for the night and unlimited rides.

That was the part I was dreading. I'd been hoping that they'd canceled their offer, or that it would pour rain, or lightning would force them to close the park. No such luck.

I wanted
limited
rides. Carousels and bumper cars. The things that stayed on the ground.

We walked in groups to the amusement park, about a mile away. As we got closer, I saw the lighted outlines of roller coasters as they raced up and down, the Ferris wheel spinning slowly in the night sky.

Then I saw the Devil's Drop of Doom.

Cameron and I had checked out some YouTube videos of the ride so I could get a better idea of what I was in for. The problem was, I couldn't watch the videos without feeling dizzy.

There was a gleaming red “devil” train (complete with fire images and horns) that went up. And up. And up.

When it reached the top, the train leveled off briefly and paused for a second.

Then it barreled straight down toward the ground at a hundred miles an hour.

Until the bottom, when it once again leveled out and
pulled up to the Ride End sign.

I'd watched videos of people screaming, laughing, and shouting on the ride. But I could not imagine myself on that train, for the life of me.

It was going to be like one of those breathtaking death drops you see at airshows, when you think the plane might be about to crash, only it's pulled up at the last second by a daredevil pilot. Usually. And everyone oohs and aahs and admires the thrill. Everyone except me, because I can't even
watch
that kind of thing.

Any positive energy I'd felt from being surrounded by my team was starting to disappear. The last hundred yards of walking into the park, getting wristbands, and finding which way to go seemed to take hours instead of minutes.

Stella no doubt wanted to do this ride because she loved adventure. She was brave and fearless. Up until now, next to her I'd been her wimpy sidekick. I didn't do the hard stuff.

As we stood in the long line, I listened to people screaming on the ride. I closed my eyes, not wanting to watch. That made me queasy, so I opened them and started reading all the warning signs that were posted along the line. They weren't exactly reassuring. I didn't want to experience zero gravity. The line was moving forward—too quickly.

“I'm sorry,” I said to Margo, who was beside me, “but I can't.”

“You can do it,” she said. “You'll be fine.”

“Okay, then. I
won't
,” I said.

“You will,” she said. “Don't think about what bothers you. Think about how cool it's going to be when you're done.”

“It'll be over before you know it,” said Cameron, standing behind me. “And we're all going to sit with you, so it's not like you're going to fall out.”

I shook my head back and forth. “I can't, I can't!”

“Yes, you can,” said Margo. “Take a few deep breaths. Nothing bad is going to happen. This place has an A-plus-plus safety rating.”

“I'm not worried about that,” I said. “I'm worried I'll freak.”

“Hate to tell you this,” said Autumn, “but you're already freaking out. So you can quit worrying about it. Try to relax.”

RELAX?!
I almost shouted. This ride was about to crush me. Not literally, of course, just . . . psychologically. I'd be a babbling idiot who'd need to be carted away to the hospital if and when I ever got the strength to buckle up in one of the seats.

A minute later Max was pushing his way through the line behind us. “Look who I found,” he said.

“Frances!” Scully cried. “Long time no see. Where've you been?”

“Oh . . . pretty much everywhere,” I said.

“Thought you could use some moral support,” Max said in my ear.

Margo and Autumn looked at me, and then at each other.

“How do you . . . know him?” asked Elsa.

“Oh, I've met a lot of people on this trip. You have no idea.” I stepped aside with Scully, ducking under the back half of the awning where ride cars would pull up. Scully had a bike bottle in his hand, and I had a feeling I knew what was inside it.

“Max said you need some liquid courage. So come on, take a sip. It'll help.” He passed me the bottle.

I held it in my hand a few seconds. It was tempting. I could crush my fear with a few slugs of this stuff, if I wanted to. Actually, I didn't know if it would work that way at all. It could be the opposite. “Thanks, but no, I don't think so. I mean . . . I could get sick on the ride. I'm keeping my food and bevs to a minimum.”

“Come on. You don't even have to do this ride. We're going to check out the castle soon. Remember? We can hang out in the mansion, sipping cocktails?”

“I can't. I have to do this. And I think this is something I have to get the guts for on my own,” I said, “or else it
won't count.” I handed the bottle back to him. “Thanks, though.”

“If you don't have a sip, then I will,” said Scully. “Would that help?” He smiled.

“Sure. You do that. I'll live vicariously. You're cool with that, right?”

“Be my guest. See you on the flip side. Literally.”

My stomach lurched a bit as I found Margo in line. We were near the front now. In fact, people were getting out of the car that we were supposed to get into.

“I used to be afraid of these kinds of rides too,” Margo said as we waited for it to pull up beside us. “Then I figured out how not to be scared. You have to get mad.”

The car stopped in front of us. It seated eight, and we were eight. Margo gently pushed me into the front row. “Mad at what? Oh my God, oh my God. I can't get onto this.”

“You're on it,” said Margo. “Accept it. Sit down.”

I took short, panicky breaths as I fastened the safety belts around my shoulders, my waist.

“What are you mad at right now?” asked Margo. “Besides me for making you do this and for all the other things you're mad at me about. Besides this ride, because I know you hate this, I know you hate heights, and you probably are going to hate the person running the ride.”

There was a loud
ka-chunk
sound as bars lowered in front of us. “Is there a panic button?” I asked, looking over my shoulder. “So they can stop the ride?”

“No. Once it starts—look, once it starts, it's practically over. The anticipation is the worst part.”

My palms were sweating. I felt my stomach churn. I'd rather have died. Almost.

“So come on,” Margo urged. “What are you mad at?”

Myself, for being such a wimp,
I thought.

“Talk to me.”

I'm mad because I'm here. I'm mad at what happened to Stella, and I'm mad at Stella because it's been weeks now and I've been doing this ride as well as her F-It List, which includes things that terrify me. I'm doing it all for Stella, and Stella won't even talk to me long enough for me to tell her what I'm up to and why.

The ride started moving and I gripped my seat, and then Margo's hand as we shot forward.

But more than that, I was angry because a split second changed everything.

I didn't know that was a thing, not really, before now.

Now I would have to live knowing that everything could be gone in a second. I didn't want to think like that. I was only just figuring how to do this thing that was life.

We went up. And up. And up.

“If you don't want to talk, let out a primal scream!” Margo yelled to me as we ascended the towering track.

We were at the top all of a sudden. The moment I dreaded more than anything. The train stopped and I looked out at the horizon, at the ocean in the distance, at our little blue tent city in a clearing, at all the people milling around below us.

Then there was another
ka-chunk!
and we plummeted.

I screamed. Like I'd never screamed in my life. My hair went straight up, and Margo's whipped me in the face as we zoomed to the ground. “Pull up!” I yelled. “Pull
up
!”

Afterward, I borrowed Margo's phone and called Stella. I didn't want to tell her about the ride or the stars or the list or anything else. I needed to tell her something else.

“Please, promise me you'll come tomorrow,” I said, “to the finish. Mason will drive you. Please?”

“I don't know. I don't think I'm ready,” she said. “Besides. You
told
people.”

“I broke down, okay? I'm not you,” I said. “I'm not strong.”

She was quiet for a minute. “Yes, you are,” she said.

“Sorry, this isn't about me. I got sidetracked. Please try to come,” I said. “Everyone really wants to see you. And since, unfortunately, they do know what really happened to you,
you have no reason to hide anymore. I mean, I'd think it'd be freeing, in a way.”

“Well, it's not,” said Stella, “in another way. Sorry, but I have to go.”

“Okay, but before you do—look, there's something I have to say. You can't hold it against me anymore.”

“What?”

“The accident. It wasn't my fault.”

“I never said it was,” Stella replied.

“But I
feel
like it was. It was a horrible, awful, tragic thing, and I'm sorry I wasn't there. I'm sorry I was at Flanberger's trying on stupid dresses, instead of riding with you like I should have been,” I said. “Maybe I could have gotten hit instead of you, or maybe we wouldn't have been at that curve at that time because I'd have slowed you down. But I wasn't there. I'll be sorry about it for as long as you want me to be, but I can't change what happened.”

She didn't respond for a few seconds. Then she said, “Neither can I.”

Later that night, instead of climbing into our tents as usual, we quietly took them down, leaving our sleeping bags and everything else about us open to the sky, and to the rest of the riders. Luckily, it was a clear night, with a half-moon—there
were plenty of stars to see.

“Why aren't you guys using your tent?” asked a girl next to us, coming back with her toothbrush.

“We're just not, tonight. We want the fresh air,” I said.

“We want to sleep under the stars,” added Margo. “Just once on this trip, you know?”

“Okay. Maybe we won't keep our tent up, either,” the girl said.

I wasn't sure who was passing the word around but slowly, gradually, tents across the field went down, rolled up and set aside, almost like a coordinated display at a football game. I stood up and looked and almost every tent was down, and the field was filled with people just sitting on sleeping bags, talking, or lying down and gazing upward. I didn't know if this was what Stella wanted, but it was an incredible feeling of community, of the power of all of us to do one important thing. Like this ride.

“Pass the bug spray,” said Margo.

“Did you have to ruin the moment?” I asked.

“I didn't know we were having a moment,” she said.

“Well, yeah. Isn't this cool? I mean, look.
All
these people are doing Stella's F-It List now. Can anyone get a video of this?” I asked.

“I'll do it,” said Elsa softly.

“Or you could.” Max held out a phone to me. As I took it from him, I felt the familiar rubber case, the grooves in the checkered pattern.

My phone! “Where was it?”

“It was in the bottom of the tent bag. It must have gotten wrapped up in the tent,” Max said. “There's this little flap of fabric at the bottom of the tent sleeve, and it was underneath that. I'm sure it's dead, but . . .”

“No, this is wonderful. Thank you!” I leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek.

“Oh, uh, sure.” Max's face turned beet red. For someone who always acted a little bit older and more knowing than the rest of us, Max suddenly looked like an embarrassed eighth grader.

Max was right. The phone was dead. I tucked it into my pocket. Then I climbed up onto a rock beside Elsa and we both looked down at the sea of people sleeping under the stars as she recorded a few minutes' worth of footage.

This was it. The end of the list. The end of this impossibly long journey. But maybe the beginning of another one.