Eleven Things I Promised (16 page)

Saturday morning, we all took off
our ride name and number bibs and turned them over to the blank side. Then, using a Sharpie, we wrote Stella's name, letter by letter, so when we rode in a line we spelled her name. Autumn drew a giant red heart on her race bib, while Elsa put an exclamation point on hers, which was ironic, since she hardly ever said anything above a whisper.

We rode together all morning, staying eight across whenever we could, spelling out different words when we got bored: LATE. SEAT. SLATE. LAST. We were a moving Boggle game.

The roads got busier and narrower as we reached the city, all three hundred eighty-plus of us. They'd closed a couple of
streets to traffic as we neared the finish line, right in the heart of Boston at Faneuil Hall—one of the oldest marketplaces in the city.

The plan was for the entire group to finish all together, in a show of solidarity. I'd never ridden in such a huge bunch before, and I had to admit that it felt pretty cool to be one of the pack.

There were people holding signs, cheering for us, applauding in appreciation. They couldn't all be family members or friends . . . so were these just random people? Everyone was so enthusiastic for us. I felt like I might start crying. I glanced over at Elsa, the exclamation point to my
A
, and she already was.

When she caught me looking at her, she said “Allergies,” and brushed the moisture off her face.

“Elsa? You keep saying that,” I said. “But I'm worried about you. What's going on?” She never gave out any details about what was going on with her, and since our paths rarely crossed at school, I really didn't know.

“Nothing,” she said.

“But it's not allergies, is it?” I asked.

“No.” She shook her head. “I cry when I'm happy,” she said. “And riding makes me happy. My mom keeps telling me I have to express myself, so I do it while I'm riding, when
nobody sees. Which also makes me happy.” She laughed. “I'm pretty sure my mom spends too much time reading books about grief.”

Margo and Max urged us to ride faster when we saw the One Mile Left sign, so we picked up the pace. I couldn't believe there was only one mile to go, out of three hundred fifty. I'd never have made it without this team, without Mason helping me train, without the F-It List to keep me focused on something other than the pain in my legs every day from riding.

“Half mile left!” Cameron yelled, and we pumped even harder, sprinting, all the time being encouraged and cheered for like we were Olympians instead of some high school students from northern New Hampshire.

I hoped Stella was here to see our shirts. We had to weave around a few slower riders to stick together, eight across. She'd probably be embarrassed, but secretly she would love it.

We cleared the finish line to a chorus of shouts of “Go Stella!” and I figured everyone thought she was suffering from childhood cancer, and I felt bad if we were misleading them on that.

We coasted to a stop on the plaza and climbed off our bikes. I searched the crowd frantically for Stella and Mason. The place was too mobbed to see anyone, really. Mason and I had agreed to meet by the Sparrowsdale pickup spot, and
each team had a little sign tied to a chair where they should meet up. Our bags and other gear had already been dropped and were waiting for us there.

I knew it would take a few minutes for Mason and Stella to make their way over to us—if she wasn't feeling well, she'd probably be in a wheelchair, rather than on crutches.

I leaned my bike against the sign and switched from cycling clip-on shoes to my flip-flops, which looked funny with my neon-orange socks. Mason socks, as I called them. I looked around, hoping to see him or Stella coming toward me.

The minutes dragged on.

I watched other riders connecting with their families, and looked around for Rocco, our driver, or my mother, in case she'd ignored all my advice and come to meet me anyway. But I didn't see anybody I knew.

“Any sign of Stella?” asked Cameron, walking back from the water dispenser.

“Nope.” I grabbed my bike bottle and drank some water. “I guess they didn't make it after all.”

“Too bad, I really wanted to see her,” said Autumn.

“Come on, guys—time to go get our group photo taken,” said Margo. “We have to check in and then we get a pizza lunch. I think we even get ice cream.”

“I will kill for ice cream,” I said, and we headed over to
the pavilion, where Heather and Fred were checking in and congratulating all the groups. We each got a T-shirt that said I Helped Cure Cancer with the name and dates of the ride on the front, and Official Rider on the back. They were bright orange, like my Mason socks.

It was a look. Not a good one, but I loved it anyway.

Heather gave us an extra shirt to give to Stella and made us promise to deliver her best wishes.

We had our official picture taken, arms draped over one another's shoulders, Oxendale in the middle like the peak of a mountain range.

There we were, eight strong, spelling out
♥
STELLA!

Maybe it didn't matter to Stella—at all. But it mattered.

When we were nearly home early that evening, after spending a few hours in Boston just hanging out, and then making the three-hour drive home, Elsa suddenly announced from the back seat, “We need to sign each other's shirts!”

“You're right—we should,” said Margo.

We passed the shirts around, trading them back and forth, signing and writing funny or inspiring messages with the small set of Sharpies I'd brought just in case I wanted to draw. I drew pictures of people on bikes going up hills; of the Devil's Drop; and a portrait of Scully on Max's. The last hour
or so of the trip went so quickly that I was surprised when the van pulled up in front of my house.

I almost thought Stella would be waiting there. But she wasn't. I got out as if I were in a daze. I was actually home. I tossed my autographed T-shirt on top of my bike helmet and duffel.

“See you around, Blondie,” said Max as he wheeled my bike over to the garage. “Don't be a stranger.”

“I won't. Besides, we'll always have that night with Scully,” I said.

“What?” He laughed.

“Never mind,” I said, and he gave me a big hug, nearly lifting me off the ground.

“Group hug!” Oxendale shouted, and everyone clambered out of the van and surrounded us.

Well, everyone except Max's uncle Rocco, our driver. That would have been weird. “I
hate
group hugs,” said Cameron.

“You're not the only one,” Margo added, reluctantly joining the huddle in our driveway.

“I'm going to see you guys at school on Monday,” I said, laughing.

“So? It won't be the same,” said Elsa. “We all know it.”

As soon as we released the hug, Cameron hauled his bike out of the trailer, too. He slung his duffel over his shoulder. “I
can take it from here,” he said. “I don't live far. Just . . . over there. See you!” he called, and he started walking away as everyone else boarded the van.

Rocco beeped the horn a few times as they drove away, and I waved at the van, as if I needed to say good-bye to it, too.

“Hey, Cameron. Don't run off like that,” I said, following him.

“I couldn't risk another group hug,” he said. “You understand.”

I nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

“See you on the road.” Cameron swung his leg over the bike and rode off, wobbling under the weight of his stuff.

When my mother got home from
the supermarket fifteen minutes later, she was disappointed to have missed my official return. But she gave me a giant hug and declared it “Your Favorite Dinner” night. While I took a shower, she made everything that I loved, things I'd missed during the trip. She kept commenting on how I looked healthy and athletic, but inside I felt terrible. I knew I was breaking her heart by not eating everything she made, but the truth was, I couldn't. I was just too exhausted. I had zero appetite, but I kept moving the fork to my mouth as if it would help.

“You seem preoccupied,” Mom commented after a while.
“Did you see Stella today, or have you talked to her since you got back?”

I shook my head.

“Do you want to take the car and run over to her house? It's okay with me,” she said. “I can imagine you don't want to ride your bike for a few days.”

“Yeah. I don't know. Maybe the opposite,” I said. “The bike and I got pretty attached.”

“Well, how do you think she's doing? I haven't heard from her parents, which is odd,” she said. “We're usually in touch about anything regarding you two.”

I bit my lip. “I don't know how she is, not really. Every time I try to talk to her, she doesn't want to talk.”

“She needs time. It's understandable. And you—look at what you just accomplished. You're exhausted right now. It's making it harder to deal with,” Mom said. “But trust me, you guys will be fine.”

“Oh, so when I'm all rested up, it's going to be easy?” I snapped. “Sorry, Mom. I—I need to be by myself right now.”

I was home, and nothing had changed—yet at the same time, everything had changed.

I unpacked my duffel bag, dumping all the dirty clothes into the laundry basket, one by one, and then in bunches.
The bikini top fell out of one clump of clothes and dropped to the floor. I picked it up and slammed it into the wastebasket. I wouldn't be wearing that again. It reminded me of pain.

I reached into the bag to see what was left. A random half-eaten Luna bar and a packet of Gatorade powder. Another Sharpie pen. My phone charger.

There was one more thing I needed to do: clean out the bike's saddlebag, so I could be officially done with this trip. I went downstairs and out to the garage. Seeing the bike already made me feel emotional. Now what? It was a hand-me-down from Stella, something to make it possible for me to do the ride. Now I felt really attached to it. Would I have to give it back to Stella, or . . .

It's just a bike, a thing,
I told myself.
Don't let it get to you.

I walked over and unclipped the small saddlebag, which was heavy with tools. As I tilted it to one side to pull out the patch kit that Mason and his dad had made for me, my phone tumbled out and hit the cement floor—facedown. I'd forgotten it was in there.

Something else fluttered to the floor. A folded-up green piece of paper that was well worn and creased.

I picked both up. I was dreading seeing a cracked screen, but when I finally braved a look, my phone was fine. I unfolded the list. I wanted to take joy from accomplishing it.
I wanted to feel proud. But I didn't, because it wasn't mine to begin with.

I sat on the garage stoop and broke down crying, clutching the list and wishing, more than anything, that the last month hadn't happened.

I heard the door from the kitchen open, and my mom sat down on the step just below me, reaching up to hug me so that I could lean on her and collapse. We must have sat like that for five minutes. I was gasping and sobbing, my gut aching with exhaustion, relief, and sorrow for Stella.

When I stopped crying, my mom let go of me and told me to go upstairs and get ready for bed. “Give yourself a break. You've been doing everything lately, and you need some time.”

I went back upstairs and took another long, warm shower. All I wanted was to sink into my bed and sleep. I'd figure out a better way to deal with all this tomorrow, I'd reach out to Stella again first thing in the morning, but right now, my body craved sleep more than anything.

I had dozed off when my phone rang. I reached up to grab it, nearly knocking it onto the floor. Stella's ringtone. I hadn't heard it in a long time. I managed a quick, desperate “Hello?” as I struggled to sit up in bed. I glanced at my alarm clock. It wasn't even nine yet. I was beat.

“Hey. It's me,” Stella said.

“I know,” I said. I grabbed the water bottle beside my bed and took a quick sip.

“I'm sorry I didn't come to see you finish.”

“That's okay,” I said. “I probably shouldn't have asked.”

“No. It's
not
okay, actually. As you would say.”

I waited for her to keep going. Lately, whenever I tried to talk to her, I only upset her by saying the wrong things.

“I've been acting horribly toward you. I know that, and I'm sorry,” she said. “It wasn't fair of me to demand that you keep my situation a secret. I wanted more time, but you know, there isn't going to be a perfect time to tell people. I need to do it and move on. I realized that when I was sitting home wishing I'd gone to see you guys.”

“All the same, I didn't plan to tell anyone your secret. I just kind of broke down,” I said. “Which probably comes as no surprise to you, but I was really being as tough as I possibly could. I didn't say a thing to anyone for the longest time. It got harder and harder.”

“You know what? I wish it could have been different. I wish I could have gone with you,” she said. “The fact that I couldn't—the reason I couldn't—it just made me resent you. Constantly.”

“I went because I thought you'd want that,” I said. “You'd hate it if I gave up or gave in because of something that happened to you. Wouldn't you? You kept insisting I do the ride in the first place. And I even . . . I don't know if you're going to like this, but I have to tell you. I even did your F-It List. I wanted to surprise you. I wanted to give you something fun to think about or possibly even get you to laugh again.”

She didn't say anything at first, and I started to panic.
Don't say so much, Frances. Let her talk,
I told myself.

“The thing about laughing is that . . . it's hard to do when you're alone,” she said slowly. “When you feel all alone. Like there's nobody else in the world going through what you are. Like nobody else will ever get it. But I know—logically—that's not true. I don't have things that bad. There are lots of people suffering even more. Way more. You know? So then I get down on myself for being so self-centered and whiny. I don't—that's not normal for me.”

“Yeah, but . . . nothing's normal right now.”

“Except the
new
normal,” Stella said. “Don't forget about that.”

We had a history teacher who, whenever she was summing up a major historic event, would say, “And over time, the people learned to adjust to . . . the new normal.” Stella and
I both recited it now, from memory, then started laughing.

“So, um . . . are we okay?” I asked. “Can I come visit you tomorrow?”

“Actually, I need you to pick me up, in the morning. Can you get your mom's car?”

“I'll try. What are we—where do you want to go?”

“You'll see. Good night, Franny.”

“Good night, Stells. What time should I be—”

She hung up before I had a chance to press further. But that was okay. We'd made a start.