Jessica Martinez - The Vow

“Interviewing.”

“In there?”

“No, at your proctologist’s.”

“I don’t know what a proctologist is.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I say. “Yeah, she’s in there.”

“Seriously? Mr. Twister? Why would anyone do that to their summer?”

I shrug. Bryce is from tobacco. Every year he watches the Derby from the shaded seats at Churchill Downs. I’ve seen him on TV, positioned between his mother (wearing an acid-trip-inspired hat) and his father (red-faced and drinking mint juleps until they become jint muleps). If Bryce doesn’t understand the economics behind employment—as in, people have to work to eat—it’s because his parents can pay for the horse, the stable, the riding lessons, and the summer polo camp in Argentina, which is what he’s doing for the entire month of July.

“Hey, didn’t Annie work in your dad’s lab last summer?”

I clear my throat. “Yeah, he’s working on a different project this summer.” In reality, my dad’s prosthetics research company has taken an economic kidney shot and is barely solvent. Not worth explaining to Bryce. “Are you finished with finals?”

“Yeah. I just took precalc.”

“How’d it go?”

He chews his lip. “I’m still not exactly sure what precalc is, so . . .”

“Hmm.”

“Hey, where’s your sister?” he asks.

“My sister? Poach elsewhere, idiot.”

“Chill out. Yesterday she told Natalie she’d bring some old ballet shoes for her to see, and now Natalie won’t stop bugging me about them. And if you haven’t noticed, Sarina’s not exactly my type. A little too ethnic. No offense.”

No offense. I hide the wince. It’s just Bryce. 180-pound Bryce, who’s afraid of spiders. Bryce, who brings his sister Natalie, who has Down syndrome, along on 7-Eleven runs and to the movies. Yes, he’s undeniably stupid, but he isn’t a bigot, even if he does open his fat mouth and insert his size-thirteen foot all the time, without even knowing it.

“None taken,” I say.

Bryce has his qualities. He’s loyal. He punched that Taylorsville dropout who called me a towelhead. And he’s the best alibi in the world when I’m hanging out with Annie, who my parents are convinced is plotting to trick me into getting her pregnant. It’s typical Muslim-American paranoia, and even though they’re barely practicing (as in the last religious thing they did was name me Mohammed), the thought of a baby out of wedlock with a white girl makes them physically ill.

Bryce, however, they love because he’s rich and there’s very little chance I’m going to get him pregnant. He doesn’t mind lying to them, and he does a pretty convincing job of it too, except when he forgets that he’s supposed to be covering. But even then he just comes across as stupid. It’s very believable.

“Maybe you’re right,” he says. “Maybe I am getting a sunburn. Let’s go in.”

I slide the textbook into my backpack. A little AC would be nice. “I don’t know if Annie wants me in there. It might make her nervous.”

“We’ll sit in a corner. She won’t even see us.”

I get out of the truck. Sunlight hits my eyes, and I force myself to squint through the glare, following Bryce through the lawn crowd. He says over his shoulder, “I just realized how much this summer is gonna rule with Annie working here. Unlimited free custard.”

“What, like you can’t afford to buy it?”

He shrugs. “Free is free. You don’t think she’ll hook us up?”

“No offense, but Annie’s not going to give you anything. Ever. Just in case you get the wrong idea. Again.”

He shrugs.

Bryce has made horrifically genuine passes at Annie at least once a year since seventh grade, but the rejection hasn’t seemed to damage his self-esteem. One attempt included plagiarized poetry on cologne-drenched paper.

He takes the steps two at a time. “But she’ll give you free custard, right? You can just ask for two spoons.”

“Wrong.”

He goes in. I follow and let the smell of waffle cone swallow me whole. It’s Mr. Twister’s sole redeeming quality.

A couple of months after we moved to the States, my parents took Sarina and me to Disney World. We ended up spending half the day doing It’s a Small World over and over—Sarina’s choice. She was mesmerized, but the eerie mechanical smiles and robotic swiveling heads screwed with my ten-year-old brain. I had nightmares for longer than I care to admit. I only have to walk into Mr. Twister, and it’s like I’m sitting in that mint-green boat staring into the eyes of creepy motorized marionettes all over again.

I don’t see Annie, which is good. I don’t want her to think I’m checking up on her—she hates that her parents are always doing that. She must be in the back, so we stand in line and make it to the front before I realize I’m screwed in the usual way. “I don’t have money,” I mumble but check my pockets anyway. Nothing. Clearly, I’m the one who should be getting a job, not Annie. If only my dad didn’t have other plans for my summer. Plans involving scientific slavery at his lab. Unpaid plans.

“No worries,” Bryce says.

My parents aren’t poor; in fact, my grandparents in Jordan are stinking rich, but there is no trickle-down effect in the Hussein financial plan, so I have no discretionary funds. Ironically, my parents fear what terrible shame I might bring on them if I had an extra twenty bucks every once in a while. But what they should fear is the terrible shame I might bring on them for shoplifting or selling drugs or plasma or semen or whatever else I have that can be traded for enough cash to buy a measly cup of frozen custard once in a while.

Bryce hands me five bucks.

“Thanks,” I say. “I’m not putting out at the end of this.”

“Don’t worry, you’re not my type either.”

I get a cone, and Bryce gets a Peanut Butter Hurricane. It’s bigger than his head. “Coach said more protein,” he says.

“Yeah, I’m sure that’s what he had in mind.”

We find a booth in the corner and watch the staff try to appease the never-ending line.

“How long has she been in there?” he asks, tunneling into the Hurricane with his plastic spoon.

“A while. I’m sure it’s a very thorough process. They’ve probably finished the obstacle course and are administering the polygraph right now.”

“Or one of those inkblot tests to weed out the crazies,” he says.

“Rorschach.”

“Ro-what? I don’t even know what language you’re speaking.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Oh, there she is,” he says, pointing his spoon over my shoulder.

I turn, and at first I don’t see her, but then I do. She’s coming out of the back room behind some schmuck wearing the peach apron. Poor guy. No ruffles like the ones the girls have to wear, but still.

She’s smiling.

Then she looks at me, and I have to smile too. Because even though it’s still catastrophically stupid for her to walk in here and apply for her dead sister’s old job, I can’t not smile back at Annie.

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?”