The Vow

Chapter 12

Mo

I’m not welcome here.

The cashier doesn’t say it, but her eyes follow me around the store like target-tracking laser beams. She’s dumpy and old and has a mustache, but that doesn’t make her any less scary. She’s a killer android, and I’m her prey. I can feel her stare narrow as I pick up a Snickers, intensify as I grab a box of Junior Mints for Annie. If I pick up one more thing, she’s going to burn a hole in my hand.

She sniffs.

I glance over. I think she’s actually waiting for me to slip the candy into my pocket, so I give her a polite smile. It doesn’t do much. She follows me to the back of the store to watch me pull two Cokes from the beverage case, even though I’m trying to make it easier on her by holding the candy out for her to see the entire time.

This doesn’t happen in E-town because everyone knows me, and it doesn’t happen in Louisville because there are plenty of Arabs walking around, daring to buy candy in broad daylight. But here in Shepherdsville, I’m halfway between civilization and home. No-man’s-land. It would be better if I looked vaguely Hispanic, but I don’t. Not at all.

She looks at my folded ten-dollar bill like it might be laced with anthrax or at the very least give her herpes, but she eventually takes it and pushes my change across the counter.

“Thank you, ma’am,” I say, and leave without giving her another look.

“That was fast,” Annie says as I climb in the driver side window and toss the Junior Mints in her lap. She’s got the same zombie glare she’s had all morning, eyes glazed, mouth set in a thin line, and she’s even paler than usual if that’s possible.

She doesn’t want to get married anymore. Neither of us has said a word about last night yet, but I can tell.

“Not fast enough,” I say. “The cashier would’ve pulled a gun on me if she wasn’t worried I’d detonate my suicide bomb.”

“I’m sure.”

“She’s probably calling Homeland Security right now, telling them she just had some kid in her 7-Eleven who looked like he was thinking about waging jihad in her store.”

I put the truck into reverse and back out. Annie’s still letting me drive, which is more evidence that she’s changed her mind. She’s saying it’s because she’d rather navigate than take directions from me because I get “loud and spazzy” when I’m holding the map, but I know it’s just because she feels guilty. She’s thought the whole crazy scheme through, and she’s realized what I knew the moment it came out of her mouth last night: She can’t do that to her parents.

But of course not being able to keep me here is already eating away at her because she’s Annie, and she feels guilty about the homeless and about owning real leather boots and about unpaid library fines and I swear some days about being alive. I’m not sure how letting me drive her truck is making her feel any less guilty about coming to the realization that she can’t marry me, but whatever.

She’s going to bring it up. I don’t want her to. We both feel it wedged between us, this huge balloon of awkward—and I know her, the way she has to talk through everything—and I can tell she wants to pop it. Me, I’d rather bite my tongue off. I’m not ready for that conversation yet. She’ll probably cry again, and who knows, she might cry all the way to wherever it is we’re going. I should’ve stayed home.

Actually no. Anything beats spending the day watching my mom and Sarina bubble-wrap vases and candlesticks, taking breaks to weep uncontrollably and drink tea.

So instead I’m running errands for a man who hates me, waiting for Annie to drop an anvil on my head. As Annie explained it, her dad wanted her to pick up a desk or an armoire from a furniture dealership on Sunday, but she has some work thing on Sunday, so he said to come today, and she said a bunch of other stuff I can’t remember because it was too boring and I tuned her out.

“That woman was such a cow,” I say, and sink my teeth into the Snickers.

“You know, other people get treated like that too. Teenagers, I mean. It’s not just because you’re . . . you know.”

“No offense, but how would you know what it’s like to be you know?”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m with you all the time.”

“Exactly—you’re with me. That changes everything. You have no idea how I get treated when I’m alone.”

“And you have no idea how everyone else gets treated when you’re not there,” she says. “You’re only ever you. I’m just saying maybe the whole world doesn’t hate you because you’re an Arab.”

“Seriously? Do you want to go back and ask her how she feels about Muslims in the American heartland?”

Annie puts a Junior Mint in her mouth and sucks on it. Arguing about my paranoia is a favorite pastime for both of us, but she’s backing down. More evidence of feeling guilty.

I push the gas pedal all the way down so I can merge onto the highway.

“How fast are you going?” she asks.

“For crying out loud!”

“Fine,” she says. “Go as fast as you want. I don’t even care.”

“Thank you,” I say, and point to the massive billboard floating above the trees on the left side of the freeway. JESUS LOVES YOU.

“What about it?” she asks.

I point to the next one, an ad for Richie’s Discount Firearms Warehouse. “Am I the only one who is disturbed by the juxtaposition?”

“No, I’m there with you.”

“Good.”

It begins to drizzle. We roll up the windows, and instantly the cab is muggier than death and smells like swamp. Or maybe it’s muggier than a swamp and smells like death. Why won’t her parents just recharge the AC?

“So are we going to talk about what we’re not talking about, or what?” she asks.

“Which exit do I take?”

“I don’t know. You’ve got a long time.”

“I know,” I say, “I just want to know now so it doesn’t sneak up on me.”

She sighs and pulls out the directions her dad printed. “You don’t trust me.”

“Not really.”

“Exit 27B. So, can we talk about it now?”

“About what?”

“What do you think?”

I pause, unsure how long to keep being an idiot. “I don’t know—the global warming hoax?”

“Yeah, the global warming hoax,” she says.

“So you admit it’s a hoax! It’s always felt like propaganda masquerading as science to me.”

“Getting married.”

I stare at the horizon. It’s murky, the rain up ahead starting to blur the line between road and sky. “I’m not seeing the connection to global warming.”

“I don’t understand why you aren’t, like . . . I don’t know, freaking-out happy about this idea. It’s the only possible way for you to stay here.”

I give her a quick glance. She doesn’t look like she’s screwing with me. “You haven’t changed your mind?”

“No.”

Sweet relief. Elation seeps through me—elation and maybe a little bit of terror, but whatever, she hasn’t changed her mind. She must be insane, but she hasn’t changed her mind, and I’m suddenly fighting the bizarre impulse to pull over and either shake the crazy out of her or hug her. I press the gas pedal down a little farther instead.

“Why aren’t you saying anything?” she demands. “It’s your parents. You don’t think they’ll agree to it.”

“That’s not it. And I only need one parent’s permission.”

“You sure?”

I shrug.

I spent the second half of last night—the half after Annie’s call destroyed any chance of sleep, possibly forever—reading everything I could find on immigration. My brain still aches from slogging through all the unintelligible legalese, and I’m not even sure of what I learned. I’m no lawyer, but I’m not an idiot either, and half of what I read contradicted the other half.

But info on marrying a minor in the state of Kentucky was much clearer. One parent. I only needed the consent of one parent.

Annie’s still staring at me. Apparently my shrug wasn’t convincing enough. “I’m sure.”

“Your mom?” she asks.

“Yeah. I should be able to guilt her into it.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

I shake my head. “You. Obviously, you.”

Rain pinging on the roof fills the silence between us. I glance at Annie. She looks like she’s been kicked in the stomach, so I shift my eyes back to the road.

“Me?” she says. “What don’t you get about this? I’m not asking you to be in love with me, jerk!”

“I never said you were. I’m saying you’re the one who’s not going to marry me. You’ll back out because it’s ridiculous and probably illegal and in the end, you don’t actually have to do it. Right now you’re freaked about losing me, but you’ll get used to it. Once I go, you’ll see. Life will go on.” I swallow hard, embarrassed that I’m so worked up, that she may have heard the emotion in my voice.

“Wrong. I’m doing it. We’re doing it.”

“Annie, we both know you can’t disobey your parents.”

“I won’t be disobeying them—they won’t find out!”

I blink. I think she knows those two statements don’t actually relate to each other, so I’ll skip the morality lecture. “But you’re a terrible liar.”

“Only to you.”

I glance away from the road to her face again. She’s got that look—the I don’t care if it’s bad for me, I’m drinking the poison look. “Listen,” I say. “I know you think you can go through with it right now, but once it really sets in, you’ll freak out and change your mind, and that’ll kill me. That’ll kill us. I just can’t get excited about lifesaving measures that aren’t going to happen. Not now.”

“I’m not fragile,” Annie says, her voice hard, “and I’m not crazy. My parents won’t find out, but even if they do it won’t matter, because I’m eighteen and I’m tired of . . .” She can’t finish it. Guilt has her by the throat, but I know. She’s tired of scaring them, of living under the heap of all their fears. They can’t even see that she’s suffocating.

“Don’t you even want to stay?” she asks.

I grip the rubber on the wheel even tighter. I want it so bad, every inch of my body hurts. “Of course.”

“Then don’t just take it lying down. This isn’t fair. You belong here. You shouldn’t have to leave your home.”

I stare out the window straight ahead until my eyes burn from not blinking. “Since when do you buy into fair?”

“I don’t. I don’t even know why I said that. Forget fair and just let me help you. I’m not going to back out. I promise.”

I don’t look at her. Hope is a bad, bad, bad idea. Hope is a flame and I’m a synthetic wig—a cheap Halloween Elvis wig just waiting to catch, burn, and melt into a deadly fireball. If I believe her and she changes her mind, it’ll be a million times worse than if she’d never suggested it. Then I’ll hate her for it, and I’ll hate myself for believing her. “If you’re not sure, now is the time to say. It’s okay. I’ll be okay. Don’t talk yourself into it.”

“I’m not talking myself into it. It’s what I want to do, and I’m not going to back out.”

“I believe that you don’t think you’re going to back out, but—”

“Mo!”

“Annie.”

“Seriously.”

“Seriously,” I say.

“Let’s get married.”

I take a huge breath and hold it. I’m tingling like my blood is carbonated, and even after I release the air, my whole body is still bubbling. “Okay. Let’s get married.”

She doesn’t squeal, but she’s not the squealing type. Instead she brings her clenched fists to her cheeks, holds them there, and whispers, “You’re staying.”

“Yeah,” I whisper back. “Why are we whispering? And where’s my ring?”

She laughs, drops her fists to her lap. “Your ring? Where’s my ring? And why aren’t you down on one knee?”

“Because I’m driving and because you’re the one who asked me. Everybody knows the asker supplies the jewelry.”

“Everybody knows? You just made that up—how would everybody know? The guy always buys the ring.”

“Money’s tight. How about Junior Mints and a Coke instead?”

“Deal,” she says. She can’t stop smiling. “Not the stuff you just bought me, though. I’m going to need more for the ride back.”

“Fine.” I stop trying not to smile and just give in to the idiot grin. None of this seems real.

“Actually make it a Cherry Coke, and switch the Junior Mints for Milk Duds. No, Whoppers. That’s my final: Cherry Coke and Whoppers.”

“Wait, but what are you bringing to the table?” I ask.

“What do you mean, like a dowry?”

“Yeah.”

She thinks for a moment, then leans forward and pats the dashboard affectionately. “The finest vehicle in Kentucky.”

I narrow my eyes. “Under normal circumstances there is no way a vehicle without AC would be considered an acceptable dowry, but since you’re also bringing an American passport to the table, I’ll overlook it.”

“So we have a deal,” she says.

“We have a deal.” I take my right hand off the steering wheel, spit in my palm, and hold it out. “Shake on it.”

The smile disappears, and she shrinks back toward the window. “Absolutely not.”

“Don’t be a wuss. Just spit in your hand and shake.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“It’s like signing a contract. We made a deal; now we swap spit.”

“It’s nothing like signing a contract.”

“There are other ways to swap spit. Do you want me to pull over so we can make out instead?”

She spits in her hand, takes mine, and shakes it firmly.

“Note to self,” I mutter. “Threatening to kiss the fiancée yields immediate submission to my will.”

“Ha,” she says, and wipes our spit on my shorts. “Gross. Turn off the wipers.”

Then I hear it: the strangled moan of rubber on dry glass. I didn’t even notice the rain stop, but it has. I turn off the wipers. Annie rolls down her window, so I do the same, and the wind roars in and fills my ears, clears my mind. For just this second, I’m flying. I’m staying.

I’m staying.

It’s hard to say who starts screaming first, but it’s one of those roller-coaster screams—high-pitched for her, closer to a yell for me—where exhilaration meets pure terror.

We scream until we’re hoarse; then I make Annie get out the directions again.

“We missed the exit,” she says, squinting at the piece of paper.

“That’s a surprise. Maybe if you hadn’t started screaming.” Normally I’d be annoyed, but I don’t actually care.

“You started the screaming. Why are you still smiling?” she asks. “This feels weird—not getting yelled at for screwing up the navigating.”

“Whatever.”

“Get off at this next exit.”

It takes us a while to find our way back, and traffic is bad so it takes even longer, but it isn’t until we pull into the parking lot destination that the grins fade.

It is not a furniture store.

Annie holds up the map. “I should’ve given this to you. I don’t even know where I screwed up.”

“You didn’t screw up,” I say.

“Unless Oxmoor Ford is selling armoires, yes, I did.”

“Look.” I point across the parking lot to where the Mr. Bernier is standing with his hand on the hood of a ribbon-tied Ford Explorer.

It’s a mirage. Or it’s not, it’s real, but it’s got the sparkle of an illusion, like it might twinkle and disappear at any second. The body of the car is obsidian black, and the grille glistens like bared teeth, muzzled with a fat red bow. Mr. Bernier looks, as always, like a professional wrestler. He’s as shiny as the truck with his Hollywood grin and glossy bald head. And in front of the Explorer, he’s never looked scarier, which is saying something.

Annie says nothing.

I drive the truck across the lot, bouncing over potholes, unprepared for the pangs of nostalgia that ring through me with each lurch. Poor truck. It’s about to be abandoned and doesn’t even know it. I should’ve whined way less about the AC.

Beside me, Annie looks like a compressed spring ready to release, practically vibrating with happiness and hysteria as she leans forward, both hands on the windshield. “Can you believe this?” she finally yells in my face.

“No. Maybe you should get off the dashboard, though.”

She’s out of the old truck before we’ve even rolled to a stop. Running, jumping, hugging her dad, jumping again. Squealing.

So I guess she does squeal.

Mr. Bernier chuckles and hands her keys. “Don’t go anywhere yet,” he says.

I watch as she opens the door and hops in.

“Mo,” Mr. Bernier says, and motions for me to get out.

I turn off the truck and climb out the window, probably for the last time.

“I didn’t realize you’d be coming along,” he says, holding out his hand for me to shake. The gesture is polite; the smile is huge. He hates me.

I shake his hand. He doesn’t know it has the dried remnants of his daughter’s spit mixed with mine on it. “Nice to see you, sir,” I say.

“Likewise.”

The after-rain sun is blazing orange behind him, so I use my hand as a shield and squint, and together we watch Annie freak out over the size of the cup holders and the dual-side seat warmers. We’re both thinking it. I’m horning in on his big family moment, the All-American I love you so much; here’s a brand new truck surprise. He’s the hero. I’m the intruder.

“So, nice day,” he says.

“Yeah. It was raining before, though.” When all else fails, go with the weather and state the obvious.

He nods.

I take a small step away from him, which he mistakes for a step toward his daughter and the Explorer.

“Let’s give her a minute,” he says. “How’s basketball going? Are you doing the summer session at U of L again?”

“Not sure.”

“Oh, that’s right. I forgot. Annie told me your family is moving back to Jordan.” His voice is soaked with just the right amount of sympathy. It’s both nearly believable and insulting.

I nod, my mind whirling through lies that will still make sense in ten days, when my family is gone and I’m still here. Here. Here. I’m staying, but I don’t even know where here is—where I’ll live. Why didn’t I think about that? Maybe Bryce’s? I can’t imagine eating my Frosted Flakes with Mr. Bernier every morning, so definitely not Annie’s.

“Are y’all looking forward to that?” he asks.

“I may be staying, actually. My dad’s attorney is working on getting me some kind of student visa or something.”

He folds his arms over his tanklike body. The Hollywood smile widens. “Well, that’s good news, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.” The glare from the sun is too much, so I turn away.

“Mo, did you know about this?” Annie calls from the driver’s seat, where she’s adjusting mirrors.

“No,” Mr. Bernier says before I can answer, and looks at me. For a brief moment he lets his guard down and gives me a hard look—the I know you want to screw my daughter look—then it’s back to the chummy grin. It doesn’t even matter that I don’t actually want to screw his daughter. I still shrivel. No wonder Annie would rather have anesthetic-free root canals than introduce guys to her dad.

He walks over to her and I look at my feet. If he knew what Annie and I are planning, he’d kill me.

“Do you want to hop in?” Mr. Bernier asks me, motioning to the backseat. He’s walking around the front to ride shotgun.

“Sure.”

I climb in and sink into the seat. It’s like my dad’s car on the inside—sexy console, smooth leather seats, and the sweet artificial smell is so heavy I might choke on it.

“This is awesome,” Annie whispers.

“Start it,” Mr. Bernier instructs.

The Explorer’s engine roars to life, and Annie lets out another squeal.

“It’s beautiful! Thank you!” More hugs for Mr. Bernier. More squeals.

“We should’ve bought it sooner,” he says. “It took a while to get your mom on board, but we both knew you needed something safer than that old thing.” He doesn’t even look back at the truck (that is not unsafe or even that old) that Annie and I have practically lived in for the past two years. I wonder if he’s leaving it here to be sold, but I don’t want to ask. I don’t want to know.

I need to chill out. I feel like throwing up or possibly even punching something, but leaving the truck shouldn’t be such a big deal. Why won’t Annie even look at it, though? It’s like she’s completely forgotten how she got here or that it exists.

I need her to look at me so my eyes can ask her all the questions tearing around inside of me. Are we still getting married? If he finds out, will he take this away? What then? Would you rather have this car than me?

But she doesn’t look at me.