Every Last Promise (10 page)

“She does. Or . . . she did. One time, at least. I don't know if it's more than that. I was dropping my mom off at church for her weekly coffee social awhile ago and Selena came out of the confessional right when I walked in. I don't think she saw me. I guess she could have just been taking a nap in there or something,” he says.

“Why?” I wonder aloud.

“I don't know. I see her, but I don't talk to her.”

“You don't really talk to anyone.”

“I talk to you.”

“Why?”

“Because no one else does.”

I squeeze my eyelids shut. Open them and take a bite of candy. “Do you like going to church?”

“Yeah.”

“You believe in all of it?” If he notices the flutter in my voice, he doesn't mention it.

“There's a difference between going to church because it's a place I belong and going to church because I believe in it.” He shrugs and takes a nibble off the end of his Twix.

I fidget, running a fingernail over my upper arm, scratching a phantom itch. “Don't you believe any of it?”

“I believe enough.”

I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn't. He shifts uncomfortably and I know it's time to talk about something else. It's not like I can give him a hard time for not explaining everything about himself. We both keep some things to ourselves. In another life, that would have bothered me, but now I don't have a leg to stand on.

“How's Steven McInnis's family been holding up after everything?” I say.

“I don't know. What would you expect?”

“I don't know.” I blink. My forehead wrinkles. How would I feel if Caleb was killed? “It's probably awful.”

Steven had been sitting behind Jay, the worst place possible, when I turned the car into the ditch. When I saw, too
late, the truck cresting the hill and I tried to spin away from it. That truck demolished the passenger side of the car, the heaviest impact in the rear. Steven wasn't wearing a seat belt. The doors on my side flew open on collision, throwing both me and Steven from the car. Feet away, a mile away. It didn't matter. The newspaper said he'd died instantly. It was a dead body flung from the car.

Noah must see the blame that weighs down my shoulders because he reaches his hand out to me, letting it drop before his fingers quite reach mine. “It was an accident, Kayla.”

“How do you know?”

“It was a dark night on a freshly oiled road, and I don't know, the truck's lights were probably too high. Blinding. What else could it have been?”

The paint is peeling on the ceiling. Fat half curls of it. I count each curl until I lose the temptation to confess everything to Noah. It would feel so good to come clean. But telling him what I know would test this . . . whatever we are right now. Friends? People Who Talk? I don't know who we would be on the other side of my admission. Only that it would probably be bad. My ankle unexpectedly seizes into a spasm of pain and I pull my leg toward my stomach then stretch it out again. I can manage the throb. I can manage this.

“I don't care what they say or think. If they forgive you or not. Do you ever think you don't need it? Forgiveness.
From anyone. That an accident is just that? Something awful that happened. Not anyone's fault.” It's a whisper, gentle and inexplicably caring, and I want to enfold myself in the comfort of it.

“It's my fault if people say it is.”

I get to my feet and walk to the tall, rectangular windows along the walls, the metal frames weathered and weakened. The school sits on a hill and from here I can look out over this town, this state, a sky that runs from city to village, civilization to wilds, dust to river here.

“I want to be able to go home.”

He watches me for a silent moment, his eyes perusing the planes of my face. “You are home.”

I spin. Rest my palm on the windowsill. Catch and hold his gaze. “Can I ask you a favor, Noah?”

“Depends on what it is.”

“Will you drive me out to the McInnises'?”

“Now?”

I nod. He stands and stuffs his hands in his pockets, watching me for a moment. His jaw works twice. Then he pulls his keys out and motions for me to follow him.

We cross Third Street and keep going. In the distance, the river snakes to the edges of town, an area that's come to be known as the back side. Where we're headed. The houses out here face the industrial parks where grain is stored and the
huge freezers where pork is frozen before being loaded on the trains running through, sparingly at some points in the year, twice daily during harvests. Homes look like they've been rattled one too many times by those trains. Paint chips are missing off porches, and roofs are uneven where tiles have gone lost. The houses lean, all in the same direction, as though the wind has pushed at their walls one too many times and they're too tired anymore to fight back and stand upright.

I know Steven McInnis lived out here, but I don't know which house.

“You don't have to do this,” Noah says, creeping down a gravel road, navigating potholes.

“I have to do this.”

“You don't have to do this
right now
,” he amends.

“I don't know which house is the McInnises'.” I blink away from the look Noah gives me and read the numbers on the mailboxes. Hoping for a clue. Or maybe hoping I'll never figure it out and can leave with a clearer conscience for having at least tried.

Noah stops the truck and nods at the house across the street. I don't ask him how he knows which house it is because my tongue has stopped working. I can't form a single thought, remember the reasons I thought it would be good to come here, convince my throat to relax enough to swallow. I reach a shaking hand for the car door handle but
can't convince myself to open it.

Warmth covers my other hand.

“There isn't a right or wrong amount of time,” Noah says.

I turn back to him and his face is closer than I thought it would be. He can see the way my chest rises and falls with irregular rhythm. The way my eyes are shining.

“You'll be ready when you're ready.”

“But—” My voice cracks. I clear my throat and try again. “What if they . . . his family . . .
Steven's
family . . . needs this now? And I'm being selfish and cowardly by not doing it?”

“What if,” Noah says, pulling my hand closer to him, pulling all of me away from the door, “you're being selfish by doing this in the first place? What if you're doing this because you need to, not because they need anything from you?”

My chest chills. “Is that what you think?”

“It's just something to consider.”

I search his face for something to rail against. Judgment. Disapproval. Superiority. But I can't find what I'm looking for. The set of his mouth is gentle. His eyes are soft. Like he cares how this is affecting me more than anything else.

So I say, “What would
you
do?”

He lets go of my hand and sighs. Takes hold of the steering wheel again. “Probably the same thing you're doing.”

I unbuckle my seat belt and open the door.

The fence around the McInnis house is rusted in places,
but the small yard is tidy. The screen door wails when I open it to knock on the wood door behind and I cringe. I can feel Noah's eyes on me. The longer I stand here with no one answering, the more my shoulders tremble.

Run, Kayla
.

Don't run
.

Finally, I hear footsteps inside and the door cracks open an inch. The woman with the long nose behind it must be Steven's mom.

“I saw you at the hospital,” she says before I can open my mouth. “They said you were going to make it and I wondered how that was fair, seeing's how you were the one driving.”

My hands want to wrap around my body to defend myself, but I force them to stay at my sides.

“I'm sorry,” I say. “I didn't mean for it to happen.” It's the truth. Even in the haziness of panic, I didn't really want anyone dead. Not really.

Not
really
.

“Well, it did,” she says before closing the door on me.

I stand there, still, on the porch a moment longer, wondering.

And when I turn back to Noah's truck, I still don't know who I did this for.

I FINGERED THE PURPLE
sequined top, checked the price tag, sucked in a breath through my teeth, and turned away. Then turned back and impulsively pulled the hanger off the rack and pressed the halter against my chest.

“What do you think?” I asked Jen, who flipped through long summer dresses a few feet away. “It'll mean pretty much no spending money for the next two weeks, but . . .”

“But it's amazing and makes your hair freaking glow and would be totally worth it because this is the biggest party of the year?”

“Pretty much exactly that, yeah.”

“Do it. Oh! You know it would be cute with those rolled-cuff black shorts you wore in Florida.”

I pulled the top away and looked at it critically, imagining the satin-trimmed shorts with it. “Yeah. And that would save me some money. Plus my black heels with the ankle straps.”

“Big gold hoops.”

“Perfect.” I draped the top over my forearm and helped Jen look through dresses. I pulled out a couple, but she shook her head each time. “Stop being difficult,” I told her.

“Ugh. I don't know what I want. Just what I don't want.”
She held up a cotton dress with an oversized Hawaiian flower print.

I shook my head.

“It swallows me, right?”

“You know what your problem is? You're trying to hide your legs.”

“I don't want to look like I'm trying too hard. Like Selena sometimes.”

“Ouch, that's cold.” I laughed. “But since we're comparing ourselves to our best friends who don't deserve our cattiness, those long dresses are Bean, not you.”

“Right. Okay, so new plan. Jen is nicer and she wears . . . this short, fitted silver one?” The dress she held up was little more than a scrap of fabric, one-shouldered with a pattern of metallic-threaded feathers.

“Looks promising. Put it on.”

We headed to the fitting rooms and I flopped in a purple faux-leather chair, flipping through an out-of-date fashion magazine while Jen tried the dress on.

“Speaking of feathers.” Her disembodied voice drifted over the top of the fitting-room door and I waited for her to go on, but she followed that up with a swear word and I figured she'd caught her earring in her shirt or something. While I waited, I found the quiz in the magazine. It wanted me to know which Disney villain I was. I dug a pen from my purse and started circling my answers. Jen continued, “Jay
tracked home a million of them after cleaning your chicken coop last night. Mom was pissed.”

“Pissed about the feathers or pissed about cleaning the coop?”

“Both, probably. Her sweet Jaykins wasn't meant for menial labor.”

“You can let her know Jay didn't really do anything. He brought eight guys from the team over. All he did was stomp around and give orders like some sort of military commander. They finished in about fifteen minutes.”

Your alter ego is: A) A fairy godmother—you have an old soul, B) A dragon—you're ferocious! C) A god—you rule! even if only the underworld, or D) A wealthy eccentric—glam was meant for you.

I tapped the pen against the page a couple of times. “Hey, am I a dragon or a god?”

“What?”

“Never mind.” I circled B then added up my points and checked the answer key. “I'm Maleficent.” The door to Jen's changing room opened and she stepped out, looking like she would have answered D for that question, all skintight clothing and sparkles and sweeping curls down her back.

I nodded my approval. “Love it.”

“Me too.” She looked down and read the quiz title. Flopped in my lap. “No, you're definitely not a ruler of the underworld. Besides, I love Maleficent. She's my favorite
villain. All morally ambiguous. I mean, her friends didn't invite her to their party. That's just wrong. I'd have been pissed, too.”

“No one would dare keep you from their parties. But do I seem morally ambiguous to you?”

She cocked her head to the side and looked at me through the tall mirror in front of her. “No. You're like the opposite of that.
Wholesome
. God, that word was made for you. But there's a first time for everything, right?”

I laughed and shoved Jen off me, then stood and went to pay for my new top.

I SPEND FRIDAY AFTERNOON
in the kitchen with my mom, kneading bread before tackling my homework. Working beside my mom always grants a measure of peace. There is something about her steadiness that calms me, like a gentle springtime sunrise over the land: I know the light's coming and I know it'll warm my bones just as it has every morning of my life.

As I fold and press the dough for Mom's poppy seed rolls, I can't stop thinking about what Noah said about how I might be doing the selfish thing. About how everyone needs a different amount of time to heal. There's a part of me that understands that. But there's more of me—a lot more—that desperately wants to be allowed to be happy. How long do I have to wait to get my life back?

I brush dough off my hands and begin on the dishes, scrubbing fiercely at egg yolk stuck on a plate, trying to release a tightness of anticipation. The pancake breakfast is tomorrow morning. I wonder what Greg Hudson at the real estate office on Third thought when Mom bought three tickets from him last Monday afternoon.

Mom clears her throat at my dishwashing mania, asks how my day was, then reminds me she bought me new jeans.
She pauses and gives the knee-holes in the ones I'm wearing a look.

“But these are so comfy,” I tell her sheepishly, rinsing the plate and setting it in the drainer. I wipe my hands on the dish towel. Stuff my hands in my pockets. The ticket is there, bent and fraying around the edges. I've carried it with me since Monday. “Mom, are you disappointed?”

“In the state of the world? It's a messy place nowadays.”

I look at her. “In me.”

She takes the towel from the counter and starts drying dishes. “When the report came back and I knew you weren't being irresponsible, no.”

That report had already come back by the time I'd woken up in the hospital. Blood tests authorized by a mother who was completely sure her daughter hadn't done anything wrong. A surprise welling of tears in the corners of my eyes makes me lower my head. “No. I wasn't.”

But then, what
am
I responsible for, really? Seeing what I saw? Allowing myself to be forced into the car? The choice to stop them at any cost?
Any
cost?

I wish the cost hadn't been so high. I wish there had never been a need to pay it at all.

Mom nods and stacks glasses in a cupboard. “It was an accident. A terrible, life-changing accident that will take you a long time to wade through but still an accident.”

Sometimes I wonder who it's hardest to lie to. Jen. My mom. Myself.

“What about Dad?”

“What about Dad?” she repeats.

“He's like . . .” I wave a hand around. The faded red roosters on the wallpaper trim stare at me disapprovingly. I'd never noticed before how pissed off those birds look. “Weird. We don't talk like we used to. It's awkward. I feel like he couldn't wait to get me out of here after the accident. I understand why he was ashamed of me. Why people would give him a hard time for being related to the girl who . . .” I swallow.

Mom looks at me around the open cupboard door. “Do you think you're being a little dramatic? He's on your side before anyone else's. We both are. Kayla, we are thrilled to have you home. You can't see that?”

“I guess . . . It's just he was so quick to want me to go to Aunt Bea's. He couldn't wait to get rid—”

“To protect you,” she says softly. “Do you think we don't know what people are saying? That we couldn't guess how they would treat you?”

I reach into the fridge for the butter so that Mom can't see the way her words make my chin tremble. Somehow, facing everyone else in this town feels easier than accepting that my parents sent me away for my own good, not because they
were embarrassed by me. I don't feel deserving of their good intentions.

When I turn back, Mom gives me an encouraging smile and says, “Okay?” and I half nod. I begin the crust for the lemon meringue pie I'm making for tomorrow's pancake breakfast bake sale table. Mom rolls the lemons across the kitchen counter, laughing when one topples off and bounces off my shoe. A giggle fights its way through my melancholy, and for a moment, I feel like a different person. A little more like the Kayla I used to be. I don't know where or how Mom learned to say the right things at the right time, but I'd be lost without her belief in me.

I pull on jeans, a short-sleeve lace tee, and my black leather flats, pull my hair into a messy bun and stare at myself in the mirror. My eyes look too wide; my cheeks, too pink.

“You look nice,” Mom says from the doorway. Her short hair is pulled back with clips, curling around her ears. She has on slacks and a button-up blouse with pictures of dancing vegetables. I'm not sure she ever got over loving to wear cartoon-character nurse's scrubs. “Dad's in the car. I grabbed the pie. Are you ready to go?”

“Yeah.” I sweep the ticket off my dresser and close my palm around it.

There is already a line outside Mackleby's Diner when we get there. Dad finds a parking spot a couple of blocks over
and we cross the streets in silence. Dad strides ahead of me and Mom, and when he spots Mike Larson, he abandons us to talk about the weather report. Mom and I add ourselves to the rear of the line.

I don't know the people we're standing behind and it's a small blessing.

“Getting warmer,” Mom says, as though I want to talk about the weather, too.

I love that this town is so small that sometimes there is nothing else to say.

But when we step inside the diner, I'm reminded how much people in small towns talk about one another. The din of conversation grows softer. The clatter of forks pauses. Selena and some other girls I used to call friends sit at a booth in the back. Selena raises her glass of orange juice as though it's easier to look at me over the top of it than full-on.

Bean is absent. Her parents are here. Her brother is here. The girls I've seen her with since I came back are here. If we're going to pretend nothing happened, where is she?

Mom prods me with the plate she's been holding for a minute already. She knows I need something else to hold, something to balance out the weight of the pie. A task to take my focus from the people watching me.

She's so smart.

I shift the lemon meringue pie to my left hand and take the plate with my right. Along the buffet table, scrambled
eggs and bacon rest in heated pans. Behind the pans are members of Mackleby's staff and the homecoming court.

I force myself to look into Jen Brewster's eyes.

“I brought a pie,” I say.

She reaches for it from behind the bake sale table and I prepare for our fingers to touch. I crave some connection. A whisper-sweep of our skin, an accidental scratch of her nail on my palm, even. The last time she touched me was to deck me. But she carefully takes the pie plate around the edges, avoiding my hand.

“Thank you.” Jen's hair curls around her shoulders and the lace collar on her dress makes her look sweet. But her words are clipped and edged.

My plate nearly slips out of my hand as I fish in my pocket for a dollar bill. I shove it across the table. “I'll buy one of those brownies.”

She rolls her eyes and indicates with her hand that I should get one myself.

“Thanks.” I bite the inside of my mouth to keep my jaw from shaking. This person I've known and loved my whole life stands across from me as though I'm a stranger.

Someone makes an impatient sound behind me. A gap has opened between me and my mom and I'm holding up the line. I scurry past the bacon and eggs and find myself in front of the griddle.

Four or five guys from the football team are here
pouring batter from pitchers onto the hot surface, flipping cakes, laughing at a joke one of them made. In the far corner, a framed photo of Steven McInnis presides over the breakfast, his round face in a perpetual frown. I turn my shoulder to him.

The boys quiet down when I hold my plate out.

Jeremy North leans over a batch of pancakes with his lips pursed. For a second, I think he's about to spit on my plate—

But a strong arm holds him back.

“Chill,” Jay Brewster warns him.

Jay's eyes are bright blue over his sharply defined cheeks. Blond hair is slicked back from his forehead. He looks . . . cautious. Over Jay's shoulder, T. J. folds his arms across his chest.

I clear my throat as quietly as possible. It's still too loud.

“Hi, Jay.”

It's strange to say his name, the syllables tripping over my tongue. Neither of us is really sure what the other knows, except for the most important thing: neither of us will tell. Somewhere in the lights flickering off our pupils, we communicate.

Keep your mouth shut, Kayla.

Haven't I, Jay?

The diner is quiet. We're all waiting. For something. The tick of the second hand of a clock. The blow of a game-over whistle. A cough, a shattered glass of orange juice.

For a final understanding.

“Welcome home, Kayla,” Jay finally says. He breaks out his wide, white smile. “You look amazing. Kansas City agreed with you.”

I drop my plate. It hits the ground thickly but doesn't break, bouncing to land right-side up. I mutter a swear word and bend to retrieve it. When I stand again, Jay's still waiting there with that grin and it feels, impossibly, like everything is going to be okay.

But then, why wouldn't it be? I've been back for weeks and I haven't said a thing. It's enough time, apparently, for him to feel confident that I never will tell.

I smile slowly. “Maybe coming home agrees with me.”

It's the first thing I can think to say. Something old Kayla would have said. A friendly parry. It feels both natural and completely out of place. Like me in this town.

T. J. nods over Jay's head. “What's up, Kayla?”

My brain filters through every possible response.

Jay must see it: the confusion, the hope. The way his words have nearly knocked me on the floor the way T. J. did the other day in the hall.

Jay chuckles. “Haven't talked for a long time, have we? Not since just after the accident.” He shakes his head, looks down, and flips a few pancakes. “What a . . . crazy time that was.”

“Yeah.” I swallow. “I'm so . . .”
Sorry
seems such an
inadequate thing to say for a life lost, even for a boy who deserved some kind of justice. But not the kind of justice he got.

I know it now. But that night. That night dying meant something different. I even thought, in the wildness of that panic, that Jay and Steven would have killed
me
to ensure I kept quiet.

“It's a tragedy,” Jay fills in for me. “The same age as us. Too young.”

“I'm sorry,” I finally manage, quietly.

“I know. His family knows. It was an accident.” He turns slightly. “Jeremy, get Kayla something to drink.”

I watch Jeremy pick a clean glass from a stack, lift the lever on the jug next to him, and pass it to me. We all watch. Me and Jay and T. J. and those other boys from the team. From school. And everyone in the diner. From my life before.

“Thanks,” I tell Jeremy.

I look back at Jay. He called it an accident. He's smiling at me. Sliding pancakes from the griddle to my plate with a right arm that led our team to the championship last year.

“Jay . . .”

He shakes his head. “It was a long time ago. We need to move on. We can't stop living, you know. People have been incredible. Look around.”

I don't look around, but I know the diner's so full people are sitting in chairs against the wall with their plates
in their laps. The biggest turnout for the homecoming pancake breakfast fundraiser I've ever seen.

Jay points his spatula into the crowd. “I wouldn't be doing their kindness justice if I stayed angry at you, would I? And my dad's said it a hundred times: forgiveness. So Kayla, I forgive you. I mean, you said before you can't even remember that night. You'll never get that back. That's worse than what I've had to deal with. A hole like that in your memory.”

My eyes slide over to Jen. She's waiting, looking at me blankly.

“I don't know what to say,” I say.

“Say those are the best pancakes you've ever had and . . .” He shrugs. “We'll call it even.”

I look back down the line. The Thompsons, behind me, wait patiently, smiling. The whole diner waits, like they've been waiting their whole lives to hear Jay Brewster confer his grace upon Kayla Martin.

“They look really good.” I feel brave enough to give him a tiny laugh.

As I pass near the bake sale table on my way to join my parents, Jen catches my eye.

“Hey, Kayla.” She pauses, looking around the diner, reading an invisible script made of smiles, gestures, ebbing tension in the air. “We already sold your pie.”

I look at the table, and sure enough, the lemon meringue pie is gone.

The breeze feels like a baptism.

“It's been so hot,” Jen complains, coming up beside me on Spark, one of the new horses at her family's therapy facility. She pulls off her hoodie and throws it on the ground.

Just when we thought autumn had sunk its claws in completely, summer swooped in for one last, desperate week.

“Stop complaining. It'll be freezing again too soon. Ugh. Do not want.” I shield my eyes with my hand and look at my best friend.

My best friend.

I've repeated the phrase in my head a million times since the pancake breakfast. Since the few moments before the first bell rang at school the next Monday, when Jen came up to me, gathered me in a hug in front of everyone and said, “I'm so glad you're back.” When Selena followed, knowing a hug would erase the cruel things she said to me, the way she pushed me at Toffey's and at the powder-puff game. We all knew I wanted my old life back badly enough to forget everything.