Eleven Things I Promised (9 page)

I started to move, slowly, gingerly, then pictured music in my mind, and old routines from the Shooting Sparks Dance
Company. We'd been a good team, really good. I was rusty, but it was like riding a bike: you didn't forget. I knew I wouldn't be able to take a picture for Stella, but I would describe the feeling, the moves, the way that even though raindrops were pouring down my body, I was somehow graceful.

It wasn't bad being outside in the pouring rain. It wasn't bad dancing again, either.

Why did I have to give up dance? I wondered. Just because Margo had been difficult to share the stage with, and because I was turning thirteen and self-conscious and because my mom was unemployed and money was tight, I'd told my mom I was done with it. That was easier than trying to make it work. But it had been something I really loved. I closed my eyes and looked up, feeling the rain on my face, washing all the dirt and sweat of the day's ride off me.

A clap of thunder suddenly boomed overhead, and it felt like the ground underneath me shook.

“Get in here!” Cameron reached out, grabbed my arm, and pulled me back into the barn.

We watched each other for a reaction, and I felt a small smile forming at the corner of my mouth. Then I burst out laughing, and he did, too.

“You're like a crazy person outside of school, aren't you?” he said.

“Pretty much,” I said. Then I thought about it. “No, actually. The only person I act like this with is Stella. But I haven't even done that in front of her in a long time.” I paused, looking at Cameron. “You know what's weird? Why weren't you and I friends before now? We share some classes, we live in the same neighborhood, and we probably take the same bus—”

“I ride my bike,” Cameron interrupted me.

“All year? Even in the winter?”

He nodded.

“That sounds . . . painful. I'd never do that.”

“You work at McDonald's,” he said. “That sounds painful to me.”

I laughed. “One person's pain is another person's . . . how does that go?”

He stared at me. “Never heard of it.”

“Shut up, you have too,” I said. “Anyway, we just—we're not on the same . . .”

“Team?” Cameron asked.

“Yes we are,” I said.

“No, we're not,” he said.

“Oh?”

“For one thing, you like to dance too much. I never knew you were so into it,” he said.

“I wasn't. I mean, I'm not, but what can I say? This trip is
making me do weird things.”

“Yeah, well. For another, I'm pretty sure I'm gay. And that's not because of this trip, believe me.”

“Oh,” I said, finally getting it. “Wow. I'm sorry, I didn't know that.”

“Why would you know? And don't be sorry—I'm fine with it,” he said.

“No—I just meant I'm sorry that I was so clueless.”

“When I was joking about you making a move . . . I mean, I hope you weren't really interested in me . . . that way,” Cameron said. “I'd feel bad if I made you think something was, like, going on between us.”

“No, it's cool,” I said. “I actually need a friend right now more than anything else.”

“So, we're cool?” he asked.

“Definitely,” I said.

I was relieved. I liked Cameron and wanted to become better friends, but that was all. Over the past few days I'd begun to realize that I was thinking about Mason more and more. It seemed like wherever I went or whatever I did, there was something that made me think of him, and when I did, I'd have this mini-fantasy of seeing him when I got home, and of the two of us being together.

Fantasies are so unfair. It wasn't like he was going to be
interested in me. His little sister's best friend. The last time we'd talked, he'd called me selfish. That didn't bode well. The last time I'd seen him, he'd patted me on the head like I was a kindergartner.

“I don't mind if people know, but I'd rather tell them on my own. When I'm ready,” said Cameron. “So if you don't mind kind of . . .”

“Not gossiping about you? Don't worry,” I said. “I'm quite excellent at keeping things to myself.”

Cameron and I rode up to the finish line later that afternoon. I was partially dry, but the humidity had kept me from completely drying out. My clothes were still sticking to me way more than I was comfortable with.

We coasted onto the soccer field where bikes were being stored and found our group's spot. We weren't the last to get there, and we weren't the first, from what I could see. We must have taken a shortcut—there was no other explanation, unless other people waited out the storm longer than we had. I stashed my bike on the wet grass. I couldn't wait to grab my stuff and go take a hot shower. I felt like a walking representation of sweat. Sweat personified.

We headed for the section of the field where our bags were waiting for us. I tossed my duffel over my shoulder and
turned to head to the girls' showers while Cameron and Oxendale talked. I wandered toward the high school building and looked for the entrance so I could find the girls' locker room.

But there was someone leaning against a big sign by the school that said CCCR Riders—Locker Rooms Straight Ahead! and from a distance, I couldn't tell who. But as I got closer, I nearly keeled over, and not just from exhaustion.

“What are you doing here?” I asked Mason.

I walked over to him and dropped
my duffel. “Before you get all excited, I didn't bring you a new phone,” he said. “I can't afford that. But I did bring you something we forgot to pack in your emergency bag.” He held up a small square plastic box. “It's your patch kit.”

“I have one of those,” I said.

“I don't think so,” he said. “I was the one who packed your saddlebag. Should we check it?”

“Sure, I . . . I guess.” As I hoisted my duffel and led him over to the roped-off area where my bike was parked, I couldn't help wondering: did he really drive all the way for that? Seriously? After telling me off? Why didn't he just tell
me he forgot it and that I should pick one up at the store or from a fellow rider?

Unless maybe he wanted to see me as much as I wanted to see him. But that was not likely. He didn't even trust me enough to have a patch kit.

We walked over to the bikes together, passing Margo, who was going the other way. She gave us an extremely curious look. I couldn't blame her. It didn't make sense that Mason was suddenly here.

“Hold on a second,” Margo said, turning toward us. “Is Stella all right?”

“Oh, yeah, she's fine,” I said. “He's my, uh, mechanic.”

Mason waved the patch kit in the air as if it were important. Margo didn't look convinced, but we didn't stick around to chat any longer.

I found my bike and unzipped the small bag located under the seat. I rummaged inside and pulled out several things, but not a patch kit.

“See? I knew you needed one,” said Mason. “And, I brought you extra socks. Except I left them in the truck.”

“You brought me . . . socks,” I said.

“Last week on one of our training rides, you were complaining about the clip-on shoes and how they rubbed your
toes funny. So, these are made for biking. They have this material that resists sweat and improves your performance.”

“My feet do not sweat,” I said proudly. “And you're a cycling nerd.”

“You're the one doing a three-hundred-and-fifty-mile bike ride,” he replied, giving me a little push.

“Ouch. So, look, I really, really have to shower. Do you want to hang out for a while?”

“Sure, definitely,” he said.

“Listen, I didn't want to say this, but I need to go to a store and buy some . . .” I leaned closer, about to say something really personal so he'd
have
to take me, but I decided on second thought that I didn't want to make it that embarrassing. “Shampoo,” I said softly, instead. “My mom packed the worst kind for my hair.”

“I can go get some and bring it back. . . .” he offered.

“No. No, you can't. You'll get the boy kind.”

“There's a boy shampoo?”

“Shut up. Let me take a shower and then we'll go. As long as I'm back by dark, it'll be fine.” That wasn't the rule, but it wasn't the time to stick to the rules. Not if I wanted to keep working on Stella's list.

“I'll wait here,” Mason said. “Maybe you can borrow some
shampoo from someone, in the meantime?”

“You don't understand hair, do you? It's kind of tragic,” I said.

“You're the one who's having a bad hair day. Not me.” He pushed me toward the locker room.

Just before I went inside, I glanced back to see him sitting on a bench. Something was changing between us. But I was going to have to tell him about Stella's F-It List as soon as I washed my hair with crummy hair products and got dressed in clean clothes.

“We're not getting shampoo,” I said as Mason and I drove away from the school, back down the same road that I'd covered on my bike earlier. “I mean, we are. But I have to do something else, too.”

“Don't tell me. Conditioner.”

“Ha-ha,” I said. “No.”

“So where are we actually going?” Mason asked as we headed across town.

I'd done some last-minute research on his phone while he drove. Lucky for me, there were sites with recommendations for tattoo and piercing salons in the middle of sort-of-southern Maine. Since I wasn't totally clear on where we were, it was all thanks to his phone's GPS.

“So, you have to promise me that you won't tell Stella about this. But she had this list of stuff she wanted to do on this bike trip,” I said. “She talked about it all the time. She wanted us to do it together, but since she can't, I'm attempting to pull it off on my own. I'm doing it for her. Which means you have to take me to get a piercing.”

“A what?”

“She wants to get her navel pierced,” I said.

“She does?”

“She does, apparently. When she told me once, I thought she was joking. But see . . . she made this list. She talked about it a lot in the past couple of weeks—or, the weeks before the accident. Hold up—you can park here,” I said, pointing to the small shop where we were headed.

Before we got out of the truck, I handed him the small green piece of paper. It was becoming worn and sweat-stained, because I never let it out of my sight.

“You . . . you're going to do all this?” Mason asked.

“Why do you sound so skeptical?”

He laughed. “You're afraid of heights. And you're not the type to parade around in a swimsuit, never mind a bikini. Do you even
have
a bikini?”

I felt my face getting warm, then hot as he looked at me. “There's a first time for everything,” I said.

“Our old neighbors had a pool, and you wouldn't even go in without a T-shirt on,” he reminded me.

“That's not true,” I said. “Anyway, I'm trying to make a video or at least a photo book of everything I do for her.” I shrugged. “Maybe it will make her laugh?”

“Maybe. That'd be a miracle.” We paused outside the door of the Wing Nut Tattoo & Piercing Studio. “Maybe it will make
me
laugh.”

“I doubt it,” I said. “Since I'm the one getting it done, and you're the one with a phone, you have to take the video, and you hate needles.”

Inside, the air-conditioning was on high. Too high. Like the chill would kill off any germs they might miss in the sterilizing process.

I did not want to shiver or even look chilled when I pulled up my T-shirt to reveal my belly button. I felt like too much of me was going to be exposed.

This would have been one thing if it were Stella. She's so in shape that she has those “cut” abs, a six-pack, I guess you could say.

I'd had one back in the day . . . while I was still on the dance team.

Since then, it was mostly just a stomach that went from flat to poochy to flat again, depending on the season and on
whether I was exercising more than I was taking advantage of my meal discount at work. I have a weakness for Shamrock Shakes, and we were barely out of Shamrock Shake season.

But I didn't have time to worry about how I looked in front of a random tattoo artist or Mason. What was important was getting this done.

I'd made it through step one, which was getting my fake ID accepted. One night over Christmas break when Stella and I were bored and tired of not getting into R-rated movies, we'd attempted to create our own, but they looked truly amateur. They hadn't passed their first and only test at the Sparrowsdale Sixplex (which we were always calling the Sexplex). No, it wasn't that easy.

I'd ended up paying Liam Herzog-Williams fifty dollars for this one, which was a discounted rate that I'd negotiated only by swearing to recruit two more people who'd pay him for fake IDs over the summer. I was part of an evil, illegal pyramid scheme, basically. But it did the trick, and the fact that he'd given me a break on his usual price meant I still had a hundred dollars for the anonymous tip and enough money to pay for the actual piercing.

A woman with long black hair, 100 percent tattoo-covered arms and neck, and three piercings in her cheek, one through her nose, and two through her lip, sat down beside me. She
was scary, but at least she knew what it was going to feel like.

“I'm Rhonda, and I'll be taking care of your body art,” she said. “Can you verify your name and date of birth for me before I get started?”

“Sure.” I told her the date I'd used on the form when I first arrived.

Rhonda opened a packet of fresh instruments, sort of like the ones I'd seen at the dentist. “You nervous? Don't be nervous,” she told me, patting my arm. She looked over at Mason, who was standing off to the side. “You going to hold her hand?”

“Oh, uh, no.” Mason shook his head. “I mean, she's fine. Total pro at this kind of stuff.”

“Ha!” I laughed.

“Everything's sterile here, except maybe the language. Now, all I have to do is take this hollow needle here, and pull it through.”

“Right. I've seen it done,” I said. I'd Googled it. It was hard not to be nervous, though, with the sound of buzzing tattoo needles and the smell of singed flesh in the air.

Rhonda rubbed disinfectant on my navel. “Some people like to watch and some don't. I promise you, I'll be done as soon as I start. Now, you're going to have to take care of this when I'm done. I'll give you some ointment. You live
around here?” she asked.

“No, I'm passing through on a bike trip,” I said.

“A bike trip? You're kidding me. What kind of bike you have? Harley?”

“No, it's a . . . Trek,” I said.

“Oh. Never heard of it.”

“Bicycling,” I said. “That kind of bike.”

“No wonder!” She burst out laughing. “All done, Frances.”

I glanced down at my stomach to admire the small silver-stud navel post I'd selected. Then I turned to Mason to see what he thought.

He was sitting on the floor, facing the opposite direction. “Mason?”

He waved without turning around. The back of his T-shirt looked a little dusty. He'd slid to the floor. I should have known. He couldn't do things like this.

I slowly sat up and hopped off the table. “Hey.” I put my hand on his shoulder and tried not to acknowledge how different it felt to touch him this way instead of our usual fist bumps and playful shoves. “You going to be okay?”

He reached his hand up and covered mine with it. His touch made me shiver. It wasn't the extreme AC, either.

I crouched beside him, breaking our connection. “It's okay,” I said. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked.”

“Don't be sorry. I got to see the whole thing,” he said. “Well. Almost the whole thing.”

I slowly stood and held out my arms to help him up. As I pulled him to his feet, there was a moment where he bumped into me. We lost our balance and awkwardly caught each other. “You need anything else while we're here?” Mason asked.

“Like . . .”

“A bike tattoo?” he suggested.

“No, let's quit while we're ahead,” I said.

Then we strolled out of Wing Nut Tattoo & Piercing Studio, arm in arm, like it was something we did every day.