The Hard Kind of Promise (9 page)

Sarah hesitated. She wanted to tell someone that she might like Robert Whitchurch, that she didn't want a boyfriend or anything, but she might like him, maybe. It would be a relief to say it out loud. But telling someone seemed a little dangerous, like going through a door with a
NO ENTRANCE
sign.

"No," she said. "I mean, I like him. But I don't
like
him."

"You like him," Carly said. "I can tell."

"No, I don't."

"Then why are you blushing?" she asked.

"Because I'm hot," Sarah said. "Quit it."

"Come on," Lizzie said. She took one of Carly's crackers. "Just because you like someone doesn't mean you
like
him."

"Stop stealing my food," Carly said. She took another look at her nails. "I don't like anyone. Even Steve Birgantee. I mean, he's really cute and really nice, but he's not really my type."

"How can someone cute and nice not be your type?" Lizzie asked.

It was a relief to hear them chatter, to listen and not have to say anything. To not be missing Marjorie anymore. To think, in the privacy of her own head, about how Robert might like her.

In chorus, Mr. Roche handed out updated rehearsal schedules.

"After school every day until six," he said. "And every weekend. Ten to three, Saturdays and Sundays."

"That's like two extra days of school!" Nina French wailed. "I have to go to church!"

"There will be exceptions for religious services," Mr. Roche said. "But not for anything else. This is serious, people. Commitment!"

"How are we even supposed to do homework?" Robert Whitchurch whispered to Sarah.

"Or do anything?" Sarah whispered back.

That was when she remembered Marjorie's movie.

"We have two and a half weeks. Two and a half weeks!" Mr. Roche said. "We have to use all the time we have left to prepare."

Sarah raised her hand. "But Mr. Roche—"

"No buts!" he boomed. "I told you all that this was how it had to be if you want to win the competition. Chorus comes first."

"But—"

He glared at her.

"No exceptions," he said.

Sarah lowered her hand. She knew it was pointless to argue. She sagged in her seat, washed over by foreboding, knowing what she was going to have to do.

"I can't believe I have to miss basketball tryouts," Robert said.

"That's too bad," she said, trying not to notice Lizzie making faces at her, which was just Lizzie's way of saying how cool it was that Robert was talking to her.

"What do you have to miss?" he asked.

"Nothing as big as that," she said.

She told Marjorie that afternoon in the parking lot while Marjorie waited to be picked up.

"I can do it after three o'clock on weekends," she
said, shouting a little to be heard over all the kids who were waiting for rides home.

"That won't work," Marjorie said. "I need daylight. It's almost dark by four now. We won't have enough time."

"We could do it in the morning. I could get up early."

"There still wouldn't be enough time," Marjorie said, pushing her glasses up her nose.

It was cold and windy; overhead, smoke-colored clouds raced across the last of the blue sky. Sarah wore a hoodie and a sweatshirt, but she shivered anyway.

"It's probably going to be raining anyway. Maybe we could film it inside."

Marjorie smiled. "It's okay," she said. "I'll just get someone else to do it."

"Who?"

Marjorie pushed at her glasses again. Sarah realized that even though she was still smiling, she was looking away.

"Joey, or maybe Bea, if she's around. Don't worry about it. I'll find someone."

"Marjorie," Sarah said, "I'm really sorry."

"Don't worry about it." She was looking out over the parking lot.

"I don't want to mess up your project."

Marjorie looked right at her. She wasn't smiling anymore. "It's not a big deal," she said.

"Marjorie—"

"I
said
don't worry about it!" she yelled, pushing past her.

"Marjorie!" Sarah tried to grab her backpack, but Marjorie had already stepped up to the curb. She looked left and right, as though maybe if she just looked harder, her dad's car would magically appear.

Sarah thought about following her and apologizing some more. But she didn't. She just watched as Marjorie stood there, hair blowing messily around her head, a too-small orange ski jacket pulled off her shoulders by her heavy backpack. Her flared jeans were too short, and she was wearing white gym socks with her black suede clogs.

Next to Sarah, two eighth grade boys were laughing.

"Is that the one?" the shorter one asked.

"Yeah. She went to Cotillion in a
wedding
dress," the other one answered. "My brother said."

"Dude! It's the bride of Frankenstein!" The short boy stuck his arms straight out and walked in place without bending his knees. "Dance with me! Dance with me!" he said in a jerky voice that sounded a lot like Marjorie being a robot.

It
wasn't
a wedding dress! Sarah yelled in her head. But she didn't say a word.

That afternoon, Mr. Roche was cranky. They sang "Sing for Joy" for an hour and a half, and he still wasn't satisfied.

"Pretend Handel is in the room listening," he said, blotting his sweaty forehead with his arm. "Would you try harder if Handel was standing here instead of me?"

"Isn't Handel dead?" Jason Webb called out.

"Stop trying to be funny, Jason," Mr. Roche said sternly. "This is serious business."

Lizzie raised her hand. "Mr. Roche, can we please have a break?" she asked. "My throat is getting sore."

Mr. Roche glanced up at the clock. "Ten minutes," he said, slamming his baton onto his music stand.

Lizzie and Sarah ducked into the covered outdoor hallway and ran for the bathroom. Rain was pouring from the sky, dripping from the gutters, puddling on the pavement. The schoolyard was deserted except for a grown-up man jogging around the soccer field in a sodden tracksuit. It was hard even to imagine it on a sunny day, filled with kids.

"I am so sick of singing," Lizzie said as she looked at herself in the mirror.

"Me, too," Sarah said from the stall. "I'm not so sure I even like singing anymore."

"The competition will be cool," Lizzie said. "I heard that afterward there's a party with all the schools. Maybe there will be some cute boys there."

"Where did you hear that?"

"From Nina French's older sister. She went two years ago. Mr. Roche doesn't tell us, because he wants us to think it's all serious work and not any fun."

"I guess that'll be okay," Sarah said, emerging from the stall and turning on the water to wash her hands.

Lizzie pulled her hair off her neck, then let it loose.

"Hey, what's wrong with you?" she asked. "You're acting different."

"No, I'm not." Sarah rubbed her hands together, watching the pink soap powder turn into flimsy, foamy bubbles. "I'm just so mad at Marjorie."

Until the words were out of her mouth, she had thought she was just feeling guilty.

"How come?"

"I'm supposed to be in this movie she's making for video production." She held her hands under the water and watched as the bubbles slid down the drain. "This stupid movie. It's about a space alien."

Lizzie laughed. "That sounds like a movie Marjorie would make," she said.

"I told her I would be free all day this weekend and
the next to film it, and now I can't because of rehearsal. And when I told her, she was nasty about it."

"That's so heinous," Lizzie said.

"I mean, I apologized. I said I would get up early or meet her after rehearsal. I tried to make it right." Sarah pulled a paper towel from the dispenser. She could feel a few granules of soap, gritty like sand, stuck to her skin. "I said I was sorry."

But she knew that she was still breaking a promise and saying she was sorry didn't fix it.

"She should be nice about it," Lizzie said. "It's not your fault."

Sarah threw the paper towel away. "She should be grateful I'd even think about doing it," she said. "It's a
blue
space alien."

"Uh-oh," Lizzie said. "Bad wardrobe alert."

"You should see the stupid costume I was supposed to wear."

"Maybe it's just as well," Lizzie said, giving herself one more look in the mirror.

Sarah flicked off the overhead light.

"I
said
I was sorry," she said.

MARJORIE HAD TO WORK on her movie during lunch every day that week. On Friday, Sarah didn't even go to the video production classroom to see if Marjorie wanted to eat with them. She figured Marjorie knew where to find them.

On Saturday morning, Sarah woke up early. At first she thought it was just a regular Saturday, lazy and long, with nothing to do. Just thinking that made her stretch with happiness. But in the middle of stretching, she remembered.

Mom drove her to school. The sidewalks were wet and the sky was gray, but a few blue patches were showing.

"Is it supposed to rain today?" Sarah asked as they turned into the parking lot.

"Not today," Mom said. "The paper said we're getting a break."

Sarah gazed up at the dark clouds. "Well, it
could
rain," she said.

"Anything's possible," Mom said. "You should have brought an umbrella."

Sarah didn't feel like explaining for the fortieth time that you weren't supposed to carry an umbrella in middle school.

Mom pulled up to the curb. "Everything all right?" she asked.

"Yeah," Sarah said, unbuckling her seat belt. "Don't forget to tell me if Marjorie calls."

"I won't," Mom said, "but isn't that Marjorie over there?"

Sarah looked to where she pointed. Marjorie stood with a much younger boy in the middle of the soccer field. The boy looked as though he was maybe in fourth grade. He was holding a video camera and listening to Marjorie, who was talking loudly and excitedly. She was covered head to toe in the blue space-alien costume. Louellen had sewn an elastic drawstring through the bottom hem so that it was gently cinched. The costume was short enough to walk around in, but long enough to cover Marjorie's shoes. With the hood, she looked like a giant blue hot dog. Except for the eyestalks, which bobbed up and down as she spoke.

"How could you tell it was Marjorie?" Sarah asked.

"Who else would it be?" Mom said.

It was true. "She's being a space alien," Sarah explained.

"Well," Mom said, "as long as she's having a good time."

"It's for a movie. For her video production class. "Sarah watched as the little boy nodded at everything Marjorie said. "I was supposed to be the alien."

"What happened?"

"Chorus rehearsals."

They watched in silence.

"Hmm," Mom said. "Maybe she'll direct another movie and let you be in it. Maybe something with better costumes. "She paused. "A Civil War drama, maybe."

"I don't think so," Sarah said.

Mom turned around. "Really?" She peered at Sarah intently. "Have you two had a fight?"

"Not exactly."

"What's up?"

Sarah didn't want to tell her. Mom would only say that she had made a promise to Marjorie that she hadn't kept, that she never kept her promises, that it was just like saying she would dust her room.

"Nothing. Everything's fine." She opened the door and got out of the car. "Just tell me if she calls."

She slammed the door harder than she meant to, but she could still hear Mom inside the car saying, "Just go talk to her."

No way, Sarah thought. No way am I talking to her.

But she found herself walking out to the soccer field anyway. It was too weird to pretend Marjorie wasn't there.

The closer she got, the more she could hear.

"We should leave tape space between the scenes," Marjorie was saying.

"Should I turn the camera off?" the little boy asked.

"No, just fade in and out. And use the pause button. It looks unprofessional to have a blank screen," Marjorie said. Her glasses had slid halfway down her nose. Sarah knew she would have pushed them up if her hands weren't stuck inside her costume. "You'll see when we get to the editing room."

Then she noticed Sarah and stopped talking.

"Hi," Sarah said.

"Hi."

They just stood there. It was weird, feeling so awkward. Sarah couldn't think of anything to say. The little boy watched them.

Finally Sarah said, "The costume looks great."

"Yeah," Marjorie said. "It's a good thing you're only a little bit shorter than I am. Louellen just had to fix the hem."

"It looks great," Sarah said. "Really great."

She knew she sounded like an idiot. But it was as though her head were full of mud and the gears in her brain just wouldn't turn.

"Are you Sarah?" the little boy asked.

"Oh, sorry," Marjorie said. "Joey, this is Sarah Franklin. Sarah, this is Joey Hooper."

Sarah was shocked. Joey came up to her shoulder. His voice was still high, and his hair was cut in a bowl shape with bangs, like a little kid's. Most seventh grade boys had shaggy hair or buzzcuts.

"Hi," Joey said. "Sorry you couldn't be in the movie."

"Me, too," she said.

Sarah looked at Marjorie, who was hopping around, trying to bend forward to push at her glasses with her arm, and didn't seem to hear what was being said.

"It would have been better with all three of us," Joey said. "This way we can only have one character in the shot at a time."

"I'm really sorry," Sarah said. "I already told Marjorie I was really sorry."

Marjorie didn't say anything.

"And it would be nice," Sarah said, surprised to hear the beginning of yelling in her voice, "if she could say it was okay."

Marjorie looked up. "I
did
say it was okay," she said.

"And mean it!" Sarah shouted. "Not just say it and act like you're being all forgiving, when really, you're mad."

"I'm not mad! Don't say I'm mad! You don't know how I feel!" Marjorie yelled back. Her eyestalks were bobbing like crazy. "I
said
it was okay!"