The Vow

For Mark, Samuel, Suzanna, and Holly

Chapter 1

Annie

Mo tosses a stick of gum into my lap.

No, thanks.

You need it, he says.

I put it in my mouth. It tastes like dust and mint and aspartame. You don’t think chewing gum is unprofessional?

You’re interviewing at Mr. Twister. Unprofessional would be refusing to flirt with the customers.

Right. I crumple the foil wrapper and throw it at his face.

He ignores me. He’s too busy squinting out the windshield at the towering Mr. Twister sign. It’s a ten-foot grinning tornado-in-a-cone. With a mustache. Unprofessional would be telling them your GPA is over 2.0.

It might not be.

That’s the depressing truth. Less than an hour ago I was sweating under a strip of fluorescent lights, scratching nonsense formulas and equations onto a test thicker than my arm. By halfway through, my eraser had crumbled into little rubbery bits. Not that it mattered. I can guess wrong on the first try just as well as the second or third.

So it didn’t go well, Mo says.

It did not.

Maybe chem’s just not your sport.

I’m over it.

Mo says nothing. He should be mad about the hours he’s wasted tutoring me, but he isn’t, or at least he’s pretending well.

It doesn’t matter. Chemistry is not important.

This is important.

The mint flavor is gone, already leached from the gum, so I spit the lump into Mo’s empty Taco Bell cup and begin finger-combing my hair. It takes a while. My truck’s AC died three weeks ago, so I’ve been driving with the windows down and looking like a stray Yorkie ever since. A few good yanks and I give up, twisting my hair into a clip instead.

Mo jacks up the fan and angles the vents toward himself, grumbling something I can’t hear.

Still broken, I remind him.

A drop of sweat rolls over his temple, down his cheek. Unprofessional, he pushes on, would be telling them you aren’t racist.

I’ll keep that to myself then. Is the horse dead yet or are we going to keep beating it for a while?

Mo’s conspiracy theory du jour is that Mr. Twister is a white-supremacy cell. He thinks a quaint frozen custard joint is the perfect front for stockpiling weapons and racist propaganda. His only evidence: blond staff and the occasional confederate flag license plate in the parking lot. Like now, for example, there are three, all of which he made sure to point out as we pulled in. I argued that there are at least three confederate flags in every parking lot from Florida to Kentucky to Texas, not to mention that I’m the blondest person he knows and not a Nazi. He ignored that.

That’s not really why he hates it, though. Mr. Twister is all about the easy smile, and Mo can’t stand that. The colors are too Easter egg, the music is too snappy, and last time we were in there the girl working the soft serve couldn’t verify that the dairy was grass-fed. I’m not sure she even knew cows were involved in the product.

Unprofessional, he mutters, would be walking in there with your Iraqi boyfriend.

Dead. Horse. Mo. Is the crankiness here for the whole summer or something that might go away?

Not sure. I’ll let you know.

I rub gloss over my lips.

Mo is not Iraqi, and Mo is not my boyfriend. If I could just convince the God-fearing Christians of Elizabethtown of these two facts, I really think he’d be less paranoid about things in general. But people believe what people want to believe.

Seven years ago, when Mo moved here, it was hard enough for people to wrap their minds around the fact that a coffee-skinned, black-haired boy could be named Mohammed Ibrahim Hussein and not be Saddam’s secret grandson. Now, well now, everyone knows Mo. And despite what he likes to pretend to believe, they don’t think he’s a terrorist, and some of them do make an effort to remember he’s from Jordan and not Iraq. I wonder though, if he hadn’t spent the last seven years trying to prove the two points, maybe the chip on his shoulder wouldn’t be the size of, I don’t know, the Middle East.

It’s true though, that at the end of the day he’s still the nice Arab boy or that Iraqi kid, and no amount of time here will change that. We’re Hardin County, Kentucky. We specialize in Southern hospitality, bourbon, tobacco, and horse farms. Not political correctness.

As for Mo being my boyfriend, there are so many reasons that Mo and I will never be together, I don’t even know where to start.

Are you going in or what? he asks.

Yes. I take a big dramatic breath. Yes, I am. I don’t have chocolate on my face or anything, do I?

I’d have already told you. Quit stalling. He pulls his European History textbook out of his backpack and starts flipping through the pages, whistling a tune through his front teeth: The Battle Hymn of the Republic.

You don’t have to stay in the truck, you know, I say.

What, and prove how overprotective the Iraqi boyfriend is?

Really? This cranky all summer?

Not if you get your AC fixed, he says. And I wouldn’t be cranky at all if I didn’t still have to study.

I never question that line of crap. Mo is one final exam away from finishing his junior year with a zillion AP credits, but it’s never enough. It’s the great paradox: He does not have to study, and yet he is always studying. Like my Aunt Helen with the Botox.

Do you want me to leave the car on? I ask.

No. I’ll take my chances with the windows down. Maybe I’ll get some cross-breeze.

Okay, I’m going then. I kick my legs up and out the open window, hoisting myself through as gracefully as possible in a jean skirt.

The door hasn’t worked since the winter before last. But that and the recent AC issues aside, it’s a lovable machine—dark-blue exterior, soft tan leather seats, never needed a single repair. Mo can complain, but he knows she’s my baby. And it’s not like he has his own ride.

I tug my skirt down so it covers enough thigh. Mo’s mostly wrong about Mr. Twister, but they do hire a certain type of girl—the cute but wholesome type. Sweet but not slutty. Aren’t you going to wish me luck?

He glances up at me, then back to his textbook. Sure, but don’t come crying to me when you realize it sucks taking orders from your intellectual inferiors.

I’m dumber than you think. I’ll be just fine.

I still say you should be applying at Myrna’s so you can get a discount on paints. That at least makes sense.

I shake my head. He knows this isn’t about sense. This is about her, and there’s nothing of her at Myrna’s. If my truck is gone when I come back out, I’m calling the police.

Are you ignoring my good advice? he asks.

Yes.

I’m not going to steal your truck. Your dad would totally press charges.

Maybe, but you could use your time in juvie on an application essay. Just think of the sympathy points.

He smiles. Finally. He has good teeth, straight and even like piano keys. Other things are crooked—his nose, the thin white scar that breaks his left eyebrow in half, the weird way he half shuts his right eye when he reads. But he’s got perfect teeth, and a nice smile when I can force it out of him.

Why are you staring at me? Aren’t you late?

If I can just get him through finals without the stomach acid climbing up and eating a hole in his brain, we’ll be good.

Stop stalling, he says. Go.

So I go, the stack of silver bangles on my wrist jingling with every step. Chris Dorsey brought them back from Mexico for me. That was last fall, two weeks before I broke up with him, which seemed like long enough not to have to return them. Mo thinks I’m heartless for wearing them, but I like the sound they make.

Besides, Mo doesn’t know why I broke up with Chris. I tell Mo almost everything, but he wouldn’t understand that. He doesn’t know what it’s like to be talked into doing something you don’t want to do. Mo never does anything he doesn’t want to do.

It took me a long time to be able to wear the bracelets. But I can do it now.

I look up. Mr. Twister has movie-set charm, a quaint yellow cottage-converted-to-custard-shop shaded by ­colossal white oaks. Ivy covers the entire west-facing wall, and there’s something shimmery and fairy-tale-like about the way light slices through the canopy of leaves. It makes me want to paint.

There are people on the lawn, on the steps, on the wide veranda that wraps around the cottage. I weave through them, smiling and saying hi to the ones who say hi first, trying to ignore the sudden sour taste in my mouth.

This is not a big deal, Annie.

Except it is. The sweat is starting to pool in the center of my bra. I can feel it dripping down my back too, rolling over my calves. The memory of humidity always fades over the winter, but then summer hits and I don’t know why I didn’t appreciate every dry day.

I force my feet up the steps and to the door. Almost there. I put a steadying hand on the brass knob and will my heart to slow down. Just an interview for a minimum-wage summer job.

Except not any job. Her job.

Without warning, the door swings open and I lunge back. A couple of seniors rush by, and in their wake, a blast of cool, sweet air rushes at me. It almost sucks me in. It’s butter and honey with a hint of vanilla, the smell of baking sugar cones, and I remember it. It’s what my sister smelled like.

A horn blares behind me, two long, nasal beeps—my horn—and I turn around to see Mo leaning over the driver’s seat. He’s motioning for me to come back.

I scramble back down the steps.

Weren’t you just yelling at me to get in there? I ask, pretending to be annoyed.

I forgot to tell you don’t be nervous, he says. "You clam up and get all shifty-eyed when you’re nervous. It’s weird. You need to be, you know, bubbly."

I nod. Bubbly.

And for the record, I still don’t think this is a good idea. At all.

Let the record reflect that Mo thinks this is a bad idea.

Right. So good luck. I should have said that before.

Thanks. I pause, bite my lip, wait for the flock of dive-bombing birds in my stomach to settle. They don’t. Mo’s right. This is a really bad idea. The nerves are a premonition, the universe’s way of warning me that I have no business trying to slip into Lena’s life. It’s been empty for eight years.

Okay, go, he says abruptly.

I push away from the car with both hands and spin around. I can feel Mo’s eyes on my back, forcing me up the steps.

This moment, this is why I love Mo, why he’s my best friend and always will be. He’s only nice when I need him to be. He doesn’t treat me like a china doll teetering on the edge of a shelf, just waiting to be knocked over by a puff of air. He doesn’t think I’ll hit the ground and explode into a thousand pieces.

He’s the only one.

Chapter 2

Mo

I can’t be the only one. There have to be other people out there who see the Mr. Twister mascot for what he is: Hitler. A grinning, cartoon, twisty-cone version of the Führer himself, advertising to the world that this place is secretly Nazi central. There is no other logical reason to put one of those little black smudge mustaches on a custard mascot.

Of course, I’ve got Annie in my head—Chill out, Mo. It’s obviously supposed to be Charlie Chaplin—so fine, where’s the cane? And the hat? Exactly. Hitler.

This truck is an oven. I am pot roast.

I’d go in, but I’m already throwing up a little in my mouth just thinking about the assault of peachy-ness behind those doors. Peach walls, peach aprons, peach countertops, peach chalk on the blackboard menu. And of course, Annie is in there smiling and faking brain-dead. I’m better off as pot roast, and besides, the Spanish Inquisition isn’t going to learn itself.

I turn back to the previous page, the one that I’ve already read and forgotten three times this hour, and start over. The picture of Ferdinand II of Aragon is freakishly distracting. It’s the way he’s glaring. I close my right eye and glare back at him and his unapologetic scowl. I bet nobody told him to quit being cranky.

Laughter erupts from the porch and I look up.

She’s going to hate working here. The clientele is sprawled all over the veranda and grass, mostly kids from school, plus a few of the Saint James snots and some vaguely familiar faces from Bardstown. It’s a typical mix for this side of E-town: some privileged, some middle-class, some trailer park, all white.

Everyone is pretending that finals are already over, even though a good chunk of them have more exams tomorrow. But why study when you could be celebrating the near-completion of another substandard academic year? And why not be patriotic at the same time? Some girl I recognize from basketball games in Taylorsville is wearing an American flag bikini top. And right in front of the truck, that douchebag Chase Dunkirk is licking custard off Tia Kent’s palm, while Maya is five feet away.

Maya Lawless. I mouth her name, imaging what it would feel like to say it to her and have her turn her head and smile with those full lips. Lucky for Chase, she’s too busy doing some kind of cheerleading routine to notice that he’s licking sugar off someone else. Go team.

This. This is why Annie working here is such a bad idea. She’s better than all of this. She sees through it, like I do, and she’s going to be miserable in one of those frilly aprons, listening to bubble-gum pop, counting change for morons all day.

And at some point she’s going to realize Lena isn’t in there.

I’m not an idiot. I know that’s why Annie wants this job, and I don’t like it. It seems dangerous, thinking her sister’s essence is waiting to be unearthed in a bucket of Mr. Twister’s world-famous Strawberry Storm, but I can’t stop her. Or maybe I could if I wanted to, but I don’t want to stop her. People are always stopping her.

If she didn’t want the job so badly, and in that quiet, intense way she has where every cell in her body leans toward an idea, I’d have already talked her out of it, but she’s like an iron shaving being pulled by a magnet on the other side of the screen.

Chase? Maya’s voice from clear across the lawn pulls me from my thoughts.

I look up.

What’s going on? she asks, genuine confusion on her beautiful face. Cheer-fest over. She’s got her hands on her hips and those movie-star lips in a pout as she closes the distance between her and Tia with long bare-legged strides. Chick fight. I shut the textbook. Ferdinand can wait.

Nothing, baby. Douchebag has already taken several steps away from Tia and is pulling Maya to him, expertly spinning her around and away from Tia. Should we go get you some custard? he asks, and of course Maya follows, instantly tranquilized.

She deserves better. Also, a little hair pulling would’ve made this scene a lot less lame.

Honesty moment: Mr. Twister’s probably isn’t a white-supremacy hub. Despite the Hitler vibe I’m still getting from the mascot, I doubt anyone who hangs out at this place is capable of feeling strongly about anything more substantial than, I don’t know, The Bachelor.

Music, something twangy and grating, starts up from a few cars down, and several girls on the lawn start singing along. Then several more. Soon every girl on the lawn is belting lyrics about dying young and being buried in satin, like one big redneck choir. I’m considering trying to start the truck with my bike-lock key so I can roll up the windows, when a Frisbee collides with the windshield. It’s like a thousand volts straight to my heart. The clatter echoes in my ears, and after an eternity in that frozen state of shock, my heart resumes beating.

I look up to see who threw it, then reach my arm out the window and give a choice gesture to the deserving recipient. It’s just Bryce.

What are you doing in there? he calls, jogging over to retrieve the Frisbee. Aren’t you dying?

Studying, and yes.

Sometimes I really wish I could beat the crap out of you, you know? It’s not right to be such a loser and not get punished. Put the books down and get out here.

I’ve gotta read this. Remember reading? The thing with the letters and the words?

Yeah, I remember, he says with a grin. Your mom’s been tutoring me. She’s incredible, by the way.

Ah, yes. Bryce’s your mom shtick—not classy but comfortable. Like old sweatpants. Like Red Lobster. Like South Park reruns. I’d tell him how lame it is, but I’d hate to neuter his personality completely.

Plus, Bryce and I have a little something I call court synergy that can’t be screwed with. He’s Crick to my Watson, Jerry to my Ben, Diddy to my Donkey Kong. It’s this melding of rhythm and flow and intuition that I barely understand. We would have taken State this year if it weren’t for a team of seven-foot ’roid-ragers from Louisville.

All of this, as he said, is why he doesn’t beat the crap out of me and why I put up with a friend who is a barely functionally literate. That’s the beauty of basketball. I don’t know why it’s not being used to resolve global unrest.

Just the thought of pebbled leather under my finger­tips pulls my muscles tight, and I force my eyes back down to Ferdinand. I won’t be benched by the venerable Dr. Hussein for one single A-minus.

Come on, man, Bryce says. You gotta be roasting.

"I’ve gotta be roasting? Bryce’s skin is pink and glistening. Another ten minutes in the sun and he’ll be a walking blister. I can practically hear your skin sizzling."

I’m fine.

You smell like bacon.

Where’s your girlfriend? he asks.

No clue. Probably back at your house, making your dad’s dinner.

It takes him a second; then he grins appreciatively. Your other girlfriend.

Annie is not my girlfriend, and she never will be. Bryce knows this, I know this, and Annie knows this. As for the rest of the world, they’re all idiots. It’s not one of those faux-platonic friendships where one person is secretly obsessed with the other one. And it’s not one of those things where hanging out is peppered with random make-out sessions and periods of hating each other. We just are what we are.

Annie isn’t ugly. And over the years there’ve been a string of guys, mostly jerks, intrigued enough to pursue, date, and get dumped by her. But that waify, translucent-skinned thing doesn’t do it for me. I need a girl with something to hold on to. A girl with sway in her hips. Like maybe a certain cheerleader who’s temporarily distracted by a passing douchebag, but who will come to her senses any day now. For example.

The only sway Annie’s got is accidental. I love her and all, but she walks like a double-jointed robot, and she’s so skinny a gust of wind could level her.

Besides, if Annie and I ever got together like that, the inevitable breakup would kill us.

Fine, Bryce says. Where is that chick you’re always with who isn’t your girlfriend?

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.