The Vow

Chapter 3

Annie

Smile for me,” I say.

“What makes you think I’m not smiling?”

He’s not. I can hear it through the phone. “Come on, Mo.”

“And why should I smile?” he asks. “It’s not funny.”

“It’s kind of funny. I mean, can you picture Bryce in some Grecian steam bath with a bunch of naked old men? Come on. That’s funny.”

“Not when he’s supposed to be at basketball camp with me. We’ve been planning this since last summer. Now I’m going to have to room with some loser who couldn’t manage to get a roommate.”

“Like yourself ?”

“I had a roommate. And if Bryce’s grandpa wasn’t such a manipulative old fart, I’d still have a roommate.”

“Spending a month in Greece is sort of a once-in-a-lifetime thing,” I say, not sure why I’m defending Bryce. He’s such an oaf. Harmless, but embarrassing, the way he keeps making me reject him and then coming back for more. It makes me feel like a jerk.

“Yeah, but he’s already spending July in Argentina at polo camp. How many once-in-a-lifetime things can a rich kid really enjoy in one summer? Never mind. I don’t care.”

He sounds very much like he cares. It’s been a full week since school let out, and Mo is still caring way too much about everything. The keyboard clicks in the background. “Are you on Facebook right now?” I ask.

“No.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not. I’m cycling the Danube.”

I pause. “I don’t even know what that means.”

“Nationalgeographic.com. They strap a camera onto a bike and ride it down the Danube.”

“Oh, so you feel like you’re really there.”

“I am really there.”

“Of course.” National Geographic is Mo’s internet addiction of choice. It feeds his inner know-it-all.

“Pop quiz,” he says. “Name one of the four European capitals that the Danube passes through.”

“Lima.”

“Not funny.”

“Paris?”

“Annie, you’ve got to know this stuff if we’re going to win.”

Mo thinks we’re in training for The Amazing Race. His optimism would be sweet if it didn’t come along with pop quizzes on Asian currencies and African flags and other stuff I have no idea about. I’ve been informed we’re making our audition tape in February, as soon as he’s eighteen.

“You memorize the European capitals,” I say. “I’ll mentally prepare to eat the camel testicles.”

“Deal. You should check this Danube thing out, though. It’s kind of amazing.”

“I’m sure it is. Too bad I’m not in front of a computer, or I’d be all over that.”

“Where are you?”

“Driving. My mom sent me to the plant nursery, and now I’ve got a truckful of baby trees and cow crap.”

“Tasty.”

“Yeah. Oh, and I also stopped at Myrna’s to pick up paint. I’m starting the coral this afternoon.”

“Cool,” Mo says, sounding bored.

I pretend not to hear it and launch into an explanation of how Myrna’s Country Craft had the exact shades I need for my ocean mural—seaweed lime, midnight magenta, burnt tangerine. Deep down he cares.

And it doesn’t matter if it doesn’t thrill Mo, because it thrills me. It took a year of begging before my parents finally agreed to let me paint my bedroom walls, and now the ocean is seeping its way in, one drop at a time. I work slowly. Two whole months ago I pried the lid off the first can of paint, and I’ve only just finished the background. But rushing through—what would be the point in that?

The water was tricky, but I think it’s nearly perfect now. I’ve got ribbons of nine different blues, each about six inches thick, weaving in and out of each other but never ending, so they’re flowing continuously around the entire room. I wanted the shades to be separate but twisted, distinct, like strips of fabric swirled into one fluid whole. And they are. Standing in the center of the room and turning a slow circle feels like being caught in a whirlpool.

“So after the coral I’ll do anemones and then start the fish,” I say. “The library book I found has over two hundred different species, and at first I was just going to pick a dozen or so, but don’t you think it’d be cool if I had one of every single kind? Mo?”

I fiddle with the Bluetooth in my ear. First Mom insists no cell while I’m driving, then Dad goes and buys me the earpiece—it’s schizophrenic parenting at its worst. Or best.

“I don’t know. When do I get to see it?”

“Nobody sees it until it’s done.”

“Nobody? Not even your parents?”

“They respect my need for artistic privacy.”

He snorts.

“And maybe they don’t care,” I add. “So I’m torn, because if I draw fish in schools like they are in the ocean, I’m limited to fewer species, but if I make every fish different, it isn’t accurate.”

“Since when does art have to be accurate?”

“Exactly,” I say. “Occasionally you say the right thing, and then everything makes sense.”

“Occasionally? I always say the right thing.” His keyboard clicks in the background again. “And I say screw accuracy and go for a million different species.”

“Two hundred, and I think I will. Hey, how was the lab?”

“I’m filing. It’s so boring, I spent most of the day wondering if I could slit my wrists with paper.”

“I don’t know,” I say. “That might be classified as a call for help, as opposed to a genuine suicide attempt.”

“Maybe. So are you ready to kill yourself over at Herr Twister’s yet?”

“No.”

“Maybe I should get a job there too.”

“Ha.”

“We could wear frilly aprons together,” he says, “and have minimarshmallow fights and drink free bubble-gum-flavored milk shakes.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think they’d hire me?” he asks.

“I don’t think you can be nice to people all day long.”

“I can be nice.”

“All day, Mo. Think about it. Even when a customer asks to sample every single flavor and then gets the first one. Or just uses the bathroom and leaves without getting anything.”

“You’re right. I can’t do that.”

“I know,” I say.

“I’m kind of stressing out here as it is.”

“About Bryce bailing on you?”

“No. My dad is acting weird.”

“What does acting weird mean?”

“I don’t know. Tense. Distracted.”

I swallow. The Husseins make me nervous.

Mrs. Hussein wears heels to the grocery store and carries a slim alligator-skin clutch. Her moisturizer is French and comes in an exotic gold tube the size of my thumb (so maybe I’ve done a little bathroom snooping), and I can’t even pronounce the name, but it smells expensive. Like spicy flowers.

She doesn’t try to fit in. She must see that the other women here wear heels to church and church only. And they carry purses big enough to hold an umbrella, a can of Mace, and a Bible. It’s economy-size Lubriderm for all their moisturizing needs, and when they go to Applebee’s for girls’ night out, they don’t invite women who smell like France.

As for Mr. Hussein, the man is granite. I’d be surprised if he’s had a feeling in the last decade. I don’t even think he knows my name, but I’m pretty sure he hates me.

“What do you think he’s worried about?” I ask.

“No clue. It’s weird. We talk all the time, but it’s only about school and next year and college, and he’s the only one who gets to ask questions. Forget it. So, is your boss nice?”

I readjust my bracelets, and they jangle against the steering wheel. “Yeah. His name’s Phil, but everyone calls him Soup.”

“As in chicken noodle?”

“Yes.”

“That’s weird.”

“I know. But he’s nice. I dripped butterscotch all over the floor today, and he didn’t get mad at me.”

“Did he recognize your last name?”

The question startles me, and it takes me a second to realize I’m supposed to answer it. I have to release my breath to speak. “No. He hasn’t been managing the place for very long, though. He’s only lived in E-town a couple of years, I think. Whatever. Hey, question for you: Is it weird to friend someone on Facebook that you barely know? Like someone you just met and see all the time, but don’t actually know?”

Mo is silent, and I hear more clicking computer keys. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“A guy at work. I don’t want him to think I like him or anything. And it’s not like we’re friends or like he even actually talks to me, but—”

“So then why do you want to friend him?”

I hesitate. “I don’t know. I guess I just . . .”

“Got it. Summer. Custard. Love is in the air.”

“It’s not like that.”

He laughs. “Sure it isn’t.”

“Never mind,” I mutter.

“Now I want to see this guy. What did you say his name was? Chicken Noodle?”

“No, Soup is the manager, and he’s like thirty and married and balding. It’s just another employee.”

“Name?”

I pause. “Reed.”

“Reed? Like the plant? What’s his last name?”

“Why?”

“Because I’m logging into your Facebook right now so I can friend him for you.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Last name?”

“Mo, no.”

“Because you don’t know his last name, or you don’t want me knowing his last name?”

“Because I don’t want you making fun of him before I decide you’re allowed to make fun of him.”

Mo groans. “But how are we going to gush about how cute Reed is if I’m not allowed to check out his shirtless so-plastered-over-the-weekend pics?”

“He’s not even cute. Forget this conversation ever happened. And log out of my Facebook now.”

“Fine. Whatever. Back to the Danube. Did you know it touches ten countries? Ten. That’s like all of Eastern Europe.”

“Ten. Wow.” I brake for a red light ahead.

I’m not lying to Mo. Cute is the wrong word for Reed. Rugged. That’s a better one. Like that hint of gold stubble on his cheeks that makes me think of camping and autumn. And there’s a thickness to him. I’m pretty sure I could run into him and he wouldn’t budge, like he’s all muscle and bone and density. His hair hangs in his eyes and it’s that same buttery color as the caramel sauce: blond and brown and red all mixed together. If warm was a color, it would be that.

The heavy black-framed glasses—those aren’t rugged—but even the strangeness of that is intriguing. One mismatched piece of him. They make me wonder.

Not cute, though. Cute is boy-band shine and skinny jeans and varsity swim team with a gleaming smile and greedy hands. Chris Dorsey was cute.

Reed is either shy or he dislikes everyone. We’ve worked the same shift every day this week, and he has spent most of the time avoiding eye contact. During his break he sits in the back room and reads a cookbook (which seemed a little weird until I found out he’s in between years at culinary school) and drinks his complimentary iced tea, rather than smoking with Flora and the college girls.

I’ve sat out there with them once or twice just to be social, inhaling their secondhand tar fumes and listening to their charming sorority stories about getting wasted in their dorms and getting wasted at football games and getting wasted at every possible place between the two. But they aren’t my friends. They know who I am, whose sister I am.

People at art school will be different. More interesting. They have to be.

Mo is nattering about Budapest now (calling it Budapesht like he’s Polish or whatever), but I’m trying to remember the exact expression on Reed’s face when Soup asked him to give me the Twisty Tower tutorial. Annoyance? Not really. But he wasn’t jumping at it either. It was like he was being asked to babysit. The look lasted for only half a second but long enough to make me feel dumb.

But after, there was that feeling like he was looking at me. Just once, but when I looked up, he wasn’t.

“You have no idea what I just said,” Mo says.

“You were talking about the Danube.”

“Five minutes ago.”

“Sorry.”

“Apology not accepted. This guy’s melted your brain already. Where’s he from? I don’t know any Reeds.”

“Nashville, I think. He goes to culinary school there. His grandma lives next door to the Cleets—you know, on Newberry. He’s helping her out with some painting and stuff for the summer.”

“Wow, older. Way to go. More mature.”

I shudder. “Please stop trying to girl-talk before you sprain something. Just go back to rambling about European capitals.”

I don’t point out that at nineteen, Reed is only a year older than me. Sometimes Mo forgets about my lost year.

“Fine,” Mo says. “But if you aren’t going to tell me anything about him, why did you bring him up?”

“Temporary insanity. I’m better now.”

“Good. You want to come get me for a 7-Eleven run? I am in dire need of high-fructose corn syrup. The higher the better. I’m thinking Sour Patch Kids and cream soda.”

“I’m just pulling into my driveway,” I lie. “Mom is waiting for me to help her mulch stuff.” I’m still a good ten minutes from home, and my mom wants my gardening help even less than I want to give it. I’d screw something up.

“You’re lying.”

I sigh. He can always tell. He says it’s because I’m crappy at it, but I lie to other people just fine. “Okay fine. I’m ten minutes from home, and my mom won’t let me near her garden. I’m just dying to crack open these cans of paint and start on the coral.”

“Lame. Fine, work on your mural. I’ll go suck on a Froot Loop or something. Or maybe I’ll just eat straight sugar. Yeah, I’ll do that.”

“Good-bye, Mo.”

“A raisin. We probably have raisins. I’m sure nature’s candy will hit the spot.”

“Good-bye.”

“Bye.”

I drive the rest of the way home listening-but-not-listening to the radio. Out my window, sunlight rolls over the bluegrass hills of horse farms. It’s distractingly pretty, with velvet green slopes and regal white fences. Before I’d started the mural, maybe I’d have pulled over and taken a few pictures to work from later.

But it’s different now. I’ve got winding ocean currents waiting at home and fresh paint begging to be used. I’ve never even dipped a toe in the real ocean, but I can almost sense waves pulsing when I stand in the center of my room.

That makes me sound crazy.

There’s no reason I shouldn’t want to tell Mo about Reed. Mo’s been my best friend before, during, and after both of my boyfriends (if we’re counting that three weeks of holding Jordan Mailer’s sweaty hand in ninth grade) and all the insignificant crushes in between. Sure, he mocks—he’s Mo—but I’ve never had a problem shrugging it off before. I shouldn’t be embarrassed just to admit that I think someone is interesting.

Interesting. Another good word for Reed.

He makes me want to know things. I want to know what his favorite song is, and if he’s ever been in a fight, and what kind of movies he likes, and why he isn’t friendly with the college girls at Mr. Twister. I want to know if he’s ever had his heart broken.

He has no idea that every time he walks by, my spine tingles and my stomach drops, or that I’m trying not to stare at his hands and wondering if his neck smells like what I’m imagining it might. Interesting is indefinable, but it’s what keeps me imagining what it would feel like if he touched my cheek. Or the insides of my arms, the ticklish side. Or my back.

I should stop myself. I have jingling bracelets that are supposed to remind me why. Maybe I’m ignoring them because I really could feel him looking at me, and it felt kind of sweet.

By the time I pull into the driveway, I’m certain. I’m never letting Mo at Reed. He’s a genius at finding faults, and if he rips Reed apart, that sweet feeling might turn sour. It didn’t matter so much with the other guys—I already knew they were all cocky idiots—but Reed just might be different.

I’m not going to feel guilty about it either. Just because Mo’s my best friend doesn’t mean he has to know all my secrets.