The Vow

Chapter 10

Mo

It’s all I can do not to let Annie have it, and it’s not even her fault. No, it is her fault. Her smile when she came out that door is a slap in the face. Last night she was sobbing because life without me was going to be unadulterated misery, but today she’s got a grin to rival the Mr. Twister Hitler mascot. That’s not supposed to sting?

No, that smile doesn’t sting. A bee stings. A slap stings. This burns. It’s betrayal.

I don’t know what I expected. If the roles were reversed, I probably wouldn’t be any better at sharing the grief. Acknowledging it doesn’t make me any less pissed at her, but I get that sympathy can only take you so far. She can feel sorry for me, but at the end of the day I’m the one who’s irreversibly screwed. Not her. She’ll recover. She’ll make new friends, or she’ll hook up with whoever it is in there who’s making her smile, and she’ll go on to art school, and she might even get the guts to walk away from her parents’ misery and step out from her sister’s shadow. She’ll be happy, like she deserves to be.

I won’t. I just have to keep reminding myself that it’s not her fault.

It almost works—I almost don’t feel so betrayed, but then she has to get in the car and put on that face, her tragedy face, like she’s trying to convince me she’s as miserable as she’s supposed to be, like that’s going to make me feel better, and I just want to drive the truck through the Mr. Twister sign. My parting gift to E-town. I’m sure at least a handful of people would thank me.

But I can’t yell at Annie, and I’m not going to wreck her truck by destroying public property either. Instead I bottle it. I drive too fast and ignore the way she’s gripping the seat belt because it feels manipulative—her fear—like it’s another emotional show she’s putting on for me. Maybe she thinks if I feel sorry for her I’ll stop feeling sorry for myself.

I glance at her. She’s doing that thing where she double blinks right as we pass each telephone pole. It’s some kind of counting mind game she plays. I asked her about it once and she totally denied it.

I should talk to her, ask her how her day went, let her ask me all the touchy-feely questions she’s been saving up. It’s what she wants, but she doesn’t understand that it won’t help. Nothing will help. There is no last-minute stay of execution coming my way, so it doesn’t matter if we talk, or if Annie is smiling or crying, or if I decapitate Mr. Twister.

“Slow down,” she says quietly.

I press the gas pedal down a little farther.

“I’m not kidding. Slow down.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why? Because it’s against the law to go fifteen over the speed limit, that’s why.”

“What are they going to do, deport me?”

“Fine, then, because it’s unsafe and I don’t want to die.”

I snort. “You know I’m a good driver.”

She swallows and stares out the windshield at the trees flying past on either side. “You can’t see around any of these bends. What if someone is weaving into your lane right around the next corner?”

“Then we’re dead whether I’m going fifty or sixty-five.”

“Then do it because it’s my car and I said so! Mo, you know I don’t like going this fast!”

I don’t hear the waver in her voice until it’s too late. I take my foot off the gas, guilt radiating through me. What am I doing? Why am I messing with her like this? “Sorry,” I mutter.

Normal Annie would now punch me in the arm and chew me out the rest of the way home, but this isn’t normal Annie. She’s silent, sitting beside me, still clutching the seat belt for dear life even though I’m going five miles below the speed limit like a good boy.

“Why do you want to waste time fighting?” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

Waste time. Savor time. I’m not sure which will be more painful. Wait, yes I am. Getting sentimental will make the next two weeks sheer hell, and everything following even worse than it’s already going to be. If that’s my only alternative, please, let’s waste time.

“Fine,” I say. “Let’s do something fun.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Something we’ve never done before, like break into McLeary’s barn and steal a goat.”

“What are we going to do with a goat?”

“I don’t know. Put it on a leash and tie it to Chase Dunkirk’s front door.”

“Mo, goats are crazy. We can’t just go haul one into—”

“Okay, no goat.” I cut her off before she can crush the fun category entirely. “We just steal goat crap or some kind of animal crap and put it on his porch.”

“Is this about Maya?”

“What? No. I just want to do something crazy. What’s that look for? You said don’t waste the time, and I’ve been wanting to screw with Chase for years. Everybody’s so afraid of him—it seems like a good time to seize the day.”

Annie lets go of the seat belt and folds her arms. “Forget Chase. Go find Maya. Tell her you’ve been in love with her since eighth grade.”

I squint at the point where the dotted yellow line first appears in the darkness, refusing to look at her. But for once I don’t deny it. The I’m not hot for Maya line is old, and at this point pretending with Annie is about as useless as driving over to Maya’s house to profess my undying love. Sure, I could throw rocks at her window until she appears wearing just a tank top and panties (it’s my dream; I’ll choose the attire), but I’m not a total idiot. I know it won’t really end the way I want it to.

Whereas focusing my energy on making Chase’s life hell—that could yield two weeks of satisfaction and maybe even enough distraction from my life sentence that I won’t kill myself or turn on Annie. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner.

“We need to get something to put the goat crap in,” I say.

“You can put it in a golden suitcase, I’m still not letting it in the back of my truck.”

“What? Last week you had bags of fertilizer back there. What’s the difference?”

She puts her feet on the dash, then tips her head to her knees and sighs. She looks small and tired, all bent like that, like a crunched question mark. “The difference is it’s almost ten after. If I’m not home in the next ten minutes, there will be a police car in the driveway when I do get home.”

That’s not a difference, but the Berniers’ post-Lena issues aren’t exactly an appropriate topic for arguing semantics. “Fine. New plan. We go to your house, but I stay in the car while you go inside and go up to bed. Then you sneak out with a six-pack and we get drunk.”

“You don’t drink.”

“Not with that attitude, I don’t. This is my one and only opportunity to be a part of the American underage binge-drinking epidemic—do you really want to take that away from me?”

“You and me splitting a six-pack is not binge drinking. And I don’t want you breaking your Muslim commandments or whatever on my watch.”

“Since when are you an expert on Islam?”

“I’m just trying to be a good friend. You don’t want to get drunk.”

“I think I do.” Maybe I was half-kidding when I suggested it, but I’m serious now. I want to know what it feels like to get plastered. Mom’s wrapped up in misery, and Dad’s brain is already halfway across the world. I bet neither of them would even notice.

Annie sighs. “I’m tired.”

If Annie isn’t on board, I’m screwed. I’m getting dropped off at my home, where the only alcohol is in Nyquil, and I have no car. The whole world hates me.

We drive the rest of the way without speaking, and I get out at my house with a simple “Later.” She slides over into the driver’s seat, waves without looking at me, and backs out, giving the dented mailbox a good six-foot clearance. I watch her drive away. It’s thirty seconds at least until I can’t hear the labored chug of the truck’s engine.

Behind me the house is waiting. I turn and take note: The kitchen and living room are dark, but the bedrooms and Dad’s office are lit. The animals have already retreated to their caves.

I can’t make myself go inside. The stars are pulsing in tandem with the blood in my fingertips, and the post-rain air is cool. I can’t go lie in bed and spend another night thinking miserable thoughts.

I dial the code into the garage keypad, find my basketball, and start dribbling. That sound—the ball smacking the pavement—is so hard and bright, like the crack of a fist colliding with a jaw. I love it. It’s the same sound Bryce’s knuckles made when he hit that kid from Taylorsville for calling me a towelhead.

I should’ve been the one to hit him.

I find the free throw line (measured and marked with a dot of gray paint two years ago, small enough that my dad still hasn’t noticed it) and hold the ball up to shoot. I force myself to relax as my elbow sinks, then let my muscles contract to shoot the ball. It rolls off the pads of my fingertips, spinning backward but flying forward in a perfect arc. I wait for the sound—the gasp of the ball sliding through the net—and let every thought wash away with it, leaving nothing but the feel of the pebbled leather in my hands.

I do it again and again. Then layups. Jump shots. By the time I decide to find my three-point-line gray dot farther down the driveway, I’m drenched with sweat and my pulse is thundering in my ears. I sink the first one. And the second. But there’s too much force behind the third one, and the ball ricochets off the rim, careens left, and smashes the light on the side of the garage door.

I look up to the house and wait, but nobody comes rushing to a window.

Glass crunches beneath my feet as I make my way over, and all my thoughts come rushing back for me.

What am I even practicing for? Basketball is over.

I find a broom in the garage, pull a box from the recycling bin for the shards. My heart is still pounding, but I’m soaked through with sweat and shivering as I crouch over the glass. I watch my fingers pick glittering chunks off the pavement like they belong to somebody else, while thoughts scream through my brain in a mixed-up order: Dad will kill me if he gets a flat tire. Basketball is over. I hope he does get a flat. I’m losing Annie. Maya Lawless never even happened. We’re leaving. We’re leaving. We’re leaving. We’re leaving. We’re leaving. We’re leaving.

“What happened?”

Sarina’s voice startles me, and I drop the box. Luckily it doesn’t spill. She’s standing on the porch in her pajamas and monkey slippers. Glasses again.

“I broke the light.”

“You need help?”

“No.” I want to be alone.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Go inside.”

She hesitates, shifts her weight from leg to leg. I can tell she wants to talk again, but I’m done, all talked out after last night. I keep my head down, and eventually she goes back inside.

I sweep up the shards that are too tiny to pick up and survey the area. It’s hard to tell, but I think I got it all.

I’m a lousy brother. And I was a jerk to Annie tonight too. I should just lock myself in a room for the next two weeks.

My hands are still shaking a little, but I don’t even know why. It’s just a broken lightbulb. Except with the thousands of hours I’ve spent shooting hoops out here, how has it never happened before? And why tonight, when the only thing I have left to want is basketball? Annie believes in a random, unfeeling universe, but that’s crap. Everything means something.

It takes a bowl of reheated lamb stew from last night and ten minutes in a scalding shower before I’m calm. No, more than calm. I’m so exhausted I’m not sure I can get myself dried and dressed. Last night’s sleeplessness, then today’s anger and worry and fear—it feels vaguely like the week after I got my wisdom teeth pulled and was allowed to dabble in the world of heavy pain meds.

I manage to drag myself into bed where my thoughts become blurrier and blurrier until I lose myself to dreams of driving Annie’s truck. At first I’m speeding down the road from Mr. Twister, but then I come around a bend and suddenly I’m in Jordan, outside of Amman, where the landscape is dusty orange and wide open. I panic because I’m actually there, but for just a moment, because I hear Annie laugh and realize she’s beside me in the truck. I laugh too, out of relief because she’s there, even if I kind of still know it’s a dream. But then she holds up her arm and I see the blood trickling down her finger, down her forearm, over her knobby elbow, and I stop laughing. She points to her lap. It’s glittering. I feel sick because I knew and I didn’t tell her and it’s my fault—there are shards of glass everywhere. Her fingers are full of them, and now she’s trying to pull them out, but there’s too much blood. She turns and stares at me with her huge, sad eyes, and I’m suddenly drowning in guilt. It is my fault. It’s my dream. I should have warned her it was full of broken glass.