The Hard Kind of Promise Page 3

  "It's hard to hear myself over everyone else," she said.

  "I know," Grandpa said. "It gets easier."

  He said it as though he was sure, even though she knew he'd never sung in public in his life.

  "Sarah's got a new friend from chorus," Mom said. She was standing over the open oven door, checking on the spareribs. "What's her name, honey?"

  Sarah hated how her mother still cared so much about who her friends were. Mom liked Marjorie, but she always said it was good to have more than one friend. You never know, she said, which is what she said about almost everything. Mom lived as though she thought some catastrophe was going to happen in the next hour and she wanted to be prepared.

  "Lizzie." To Grandpa, Sarah said, "She's not a friend, exactly. Just someone I hang out with."

  "Of course she's a friend!" Mom said.

  "Why isn't she a friend?" Grandpa asked.

  "Because—because..." It was so hard to explain. "Because Marjorie's my friend."

  "Can't you have more than one friend?" Grandpa asked.

  "Well, yeah, if you're all friends together."

  "Why can't Marjorie and this Lizzie be friends?" Grandpa asked.

  She waited for him to finish his juice before she answered.

  "I don't know if they'd like each other," she said. "Marjorie can be kind of annoying."

  "But you like her," Grandpa said.

  Mom brought over the salad bowl and set three plates on the table.

  "Maybe it's time you and Marjorie took a little time apart," she said.

  "No!" Sarah said. She noticed with irritation that there were artichokes in the salad. Mom knew she hated artichokes. "She's my best friend! You don't take time apart when you're best friends."

  Grandpa used the salad tongs to put salad on Sarah's plate.

  "Remember Patty Bowlingball?" he asked, winking at Mom.

  Patty Bolenbaugh was Mom's best friend when she was a kid. Grandpa had always called her Patty Bowlingball as a joke. Mom still rolled her eyes when he said it.

  "What about her?" Mom asked.

  "Your mother and I thought you two spent too much time together. Especially when Patty decided it was time the two of you got your ears pierced. Remember?" Grandpa looked at Sarah. "Your grandmother about had a fit. She wanted to send your mother to a private school. Split them up for good."

  "Why didn't she?" Sarah had heard it before, but Grandpa loved to talk about Mom when she was little.

  "When she heard about being sent to a private school, your mother moped around for a week. Wouldn't talk. Wouldn't eat. 'Patty's my best friend,' she kept saying." Grandpa speared a cucumber with his fork. "Finally your grandmother just gave up."

  Mom swallowed a small bite of salad. "Well, for heaven's sake, Dad, I'm not saying Sarah should go to another school." She poked around on her plate, looking for a crouton. "I'm just saying you can't have too many friends."

  "But it's not like that in middle school," Sarah said. "You have one best friend and then maybe a couple of other people you hang out with. Not big groups, though."

  "I had a big group," Grandpa said.

  "Boys are different."

  Grandpa laughed. "Maybe so," he said.

  Mom stood up to check on the spareribs again. "Well, I had lots of friends," she said, opening the oven door. "Why don't you try introducing Marjorie and Lizzie? Maybe they'll like each other."

  "I don't know," Sarah said. "I don't know Lizzie well enough yet."

  Lizzie and Sarah had had a pretty good time at the Juice Warehouse, but there were a lot of silences. It was hard to think of what to say to a new person. With Marjorie, there was always something to talk about: movies, old jokes, memories.

  "When I first got my prosthesis, I tried to hide it," Grandpa said. "I didn't tell people about it. When I'd walk into a store and the clerk would ask me about my limp, I'd just say I'd twisted my knee. Now I tell everyone. In the summer I wear shorts. I don't care what people say."

  Sarah sighed. "It's different in middle school," she said. "You have to care what people say, or no one will like you."

  "Oh, Sarah," Mom said from over by the oven, where she was putting spareribs on their plates. She sounded frustrated. It bugged Sarah that her mom acted as though it wasn't that way when she was in middle school, which it definitely was, even if everyone was still dancing to disco and no one had computers.

  "What would Lizzie say about Marjorie?" Grandpa asked.

  "That she's weird."

  "Is she?" he asked.

  Sarah looked away. "A little."

  Grandpa laughed as Mom set his plate in front of him. "Good for her," he said. "And good for you for liking her anyway."

  Mom gave Sarah her plate. "There are lots of non-weird people to like, you know," she said. "There's nothing wrong with being normal."

  "Mom," Sarah said. She was so irritating.

  Grandpa picked up a rib and took a bite. A little barbecue sauce got into his mustache.

  "As I recall, Patty Bowlingball liked to tell people she could bend spoons just by thinking about them," he said. "Now that's weird."

  Sarah gave him a grateful look. She didn't tell him that she wouldn't mind if Marjorie could find a way to be just a little less weird.

  CHAPTER 3

  IN CHORUS THE NEXT DAY, Mr. Roche asked everyone to sit down. Sarah knew this meant they weren't going to sing. You had to stand for singing.

  "We have a very exciting opportunity," Mr. Roche said. He was younger than Sarah's parents, and pudgy, and he wore big tinted glasses indoors, which made him look like pictures of men from the 1970s. Also, he had a nose ring.

  Lizzie leaned close and whispered, "Uh-oh. Something's going on. I'll bet it means extra work."

  Mr. Roche crossed his arms and stared at Lizzie. Usually he tried to act as though he were one of the kids, but when someone whispered in class, he got just as mad as any other teacher.

  When Lizzie was quiet, he went on.

  "We have been asked to participate in a choral competition in Los Angeles," he said.

  Everyone started talking at once. Going to Los Angeles meant flying and staying overnight.

  "People, please!" Mr. Roche begged. "Raise your hands if you have questions."

  Jason Webb raised his hand and then, without waiting to be called on, asked, "Can we go to Disneyland?"

  Lizzie looked at Sarah and shook her head. "He is beyond heinous," she said. Then she added, "Hey, if we get to stay in a motel, do you want to be in my room?"

  "Definitely," Sarah said, feeling happy.

  Mr. Roche was rapping on his music stand with his baton.

  "If you are not quiet in the next three seconds, we will not be going to Los Angeles," he said sternly.

  Immediately everyone shut up.

  "Traveling as a chorus means that we will have to listen to each other. That we will have to follow directions. That we will have to be respectful of adults." Mr. Roche pushed his shaggy bangs off his forehead. "Do you think you can handle that?"

  Everyone said yes together. Jason Webb raised his hand.

  "Yes?" Mr. Roche said.

  "What about Disneyland?" Jason asked.

  "There isn't going to be time for Disneyland. And you all need to understand that this competition is going to mean a lot of extra rehearsal time."

  Without turning her head, Lizzie whispered, "Told you so."

  "We're going to have to meet after school and on some Saturdays," Mr. Roche said. "If you have other commitments, you're not going to be able to make rehearsals. And if you can't make rehearsals, you can't go to Los Angeles."

  Molly Worth raised her hand. "What about soccer?" she asked. "I have soccer games every Saturday."

  "Well, you're going to have to think about that, Molly," Mr. Roche said. "Chorus isn't just a class. Chorus is a commitment, and it's just as important as swim team and horseback riding and soccer and chess club."

  "There's no horseback riding here," Jason said.


  Lizzie sighed loudly. "Not at school, but some people ride horses," she said. "God!"

  "Shut up!" Jason said.

  Lizzie turned around. "You shut up," she said. "And shave, why don't you?"

  "That's enough!" Mr. Roche slammed his baton down again. "This is exactly what I'm talking about! This is the kind of thing we have to deal with if you guys want to win this competition. Now, I want you to think about it. There are going to be choruses from all over the state at this competition. They are going to be very serious about doing well. And I'm asking you all: Do you want to do this? Do you want to invest time and energy into becoming the best chorus you can possibly be?"

  Lizzie looked irritated at having to agree with Jason Webb about anything, but she said yes along with everyone else.

  "All right." Mr. Roche began to riffle through a stack of papers on his stand. "I'm going to pass out information sheets for you to take home to your parents. You need to get them to sign some medical forms and permission slips. We're going to be having a bake sale and an auction in the next couple weeks. And we need chaperones!"

  "My mom hates all this stuff," Sarah said to Lizzie.

  "Ask your dad," she said.

  "He hates it, too," Sarah said. He didn't, actually, but Sarah didn't like for him to be too involved with her school stuff. Diane was always wanting to volunteer for things. She was a chef. Heading up a bake sale would be just the kind of thing she'd want to do.

  Sarah didn't like her volunteering. Diane was always trying to pretend to be her real mom.

  "Competing is a lot of work, people!" Mr. Roche said. He had a big smile on his face, as though work were really like spending a day at the beach.

  "I knew it," Lizzie said. "Except for flying and staying in a motel, this trip is going to be heinous."

  "I know," Sarah said, even though she could tell from her voice that Lizzie was just as excited as everyone else.

  "Los Angeles is right next to Hollywood," Marjorie said when Sarah arrived at their palm tree and told her the news. "You're so lucky. You can see Grauman's Chinese Theatre, and the movie studios, and—"

  "There isn't going to be time for that," Sarah said. "Not even time for Disneyland. Mr. Roche says all we're doing is singing. We don't even get to go to the beach."

  "Who'd want to go to the beach when you could see the Walk of Fame?"

  "What's that?"

  "In Hollywood, when you get to be famous, you get a star on the sidewalk with your name alongside it. My grandma says it's really fun to walk down the sidewalk and look for your favorite stars."

  "I don't think we're going to have time for that, either," Sarah said. "It's going to be singing all the time."

  "Do you have to take a bus?"

  "No. A plane. Lizzie and I are going to get a window seat and a middle seat and then take turns looking out."

  Immediately Sarah felt guilty. For no reason.

  "Lizzie Lowitz?" Marjorie pulled her lunch bag out of her backpack and sniffed it. "She seems nice."

  "She is nice. Really nice. In fact," Sarah said, her heart thumping, "I was thinking maybe we could all eat together sometime."

  Marjorie nodded. "Who does she eat with?"

  "Carly Breslow, I think." Sarah didn't know Carly very well. In third grade, she'd been the first person to get a glow-in-the-dark retainer. "You want to find them now?"

  "Sure," Marjorie said.

  It hurt Sarah's heart a little, how much she loved Marjorie, how Marjorie was always ready to be friendly to new people, how she didn't mind that Lizzie and Sarah had plans to sit together on the airplane. Sarah tried to imagine how it would make her feel if Marjorie had another friend. She thought she might be jealous. She would still want Marjorie to like her best.

  Slowly they toured the schoolyard, passing all the kids clumped together in their own groups. Some kids were eating; others were playing basketball. The sun was exactly overhead. In the distance, the hills were brown and gray, like old wood you found at the beach. It wasn't the way it was in books, where the leaves turned red and orange and gold. A lot of trees in California stayed green all year. Still, you knew it was fall. The air smelled warm and smoky. All the classrooms had pumpkins on the doors.

  It was hard to find anyone in particular, but suddenly Sarah saw them. Lizzie and Carly were sitting on the ground in front of Mr. Mayberry's room, with their backs against the building right next to the classroom door.

  "There they are," she said.

  At the same moment, Lizzie looked their way.

  "Hey, Sarah!" she said.

  It made Sarah brave. She walked closer.

  "Can we sit with you guys?" she asked.

  In middle school, Sarah knew, you couldn't just sit wherever you wanted. You had to ask.

  "Sure," Lizzie said.

  Carly said nothing, but she was eyeing Marjorie with caution.

  Sarah sat across from them on the walkway. Marjorie lowered herself next to Sarah but didn't actually sit.

  "Hey, Carly," Sarah said.

  "Hey." Carly was now looking at Marjorie with frank distaste. Sarah knew her mom would say to introduce them, but that would have been weird. She kept her mouth shut and, in her head, she ordered Marjorie to sit down like a normal person.

  "Why are you guys over here?" Lizzie asked.

  "We just thought it would be fun," Sarah said. "It's boring on our bench."

  Lizzie nodded happily. "We've been trying to figure out the cutest guy in French," she said. She added, "All the really cute guys take Spanish."

  "I take Spanish," Sarah said. "No one is cute at all."

  Except Robert Whitchurch, she thought, but didn't say. Robert was also in chorus. Sarah wasn't ready for Lizzie to know that she thought he was cute.

  "I think Cameron Cruz is cute, except for his tight pants," Lizzie said. "But Carly says Everett diCreszenza is cuter."

  "Yeah, because he's so tall," Sarah said, smiling at Carly, not wanting her to think that just by sitting with them, she was trying to steal Lizzie away from her.

  But Carly was still staring at Marjorie, who was peeling her banana.

  "Marjorie," she said, "why are you squatting like that?"

  Marjorie took a bite of her banana and then, her mouth still full, said, "I'm a little gassy."

  Sarah felt the blood stop moving in her veins.

  "Gross!" Carly's face crinkled up in disgust.

  "Marjorie!" Sarah couldn't help it.

  "What?" As usual, Marjorie was completely clueless.

  "Farting is heinous," Lizzie said. "If you're going to be farting, you have to sit somewhere else."

  "Well—" Marjorie began.

  "You guys!" Sarah hissed. She knew she had to do something. "Quit talking about farting! Steve Birgantee is looking over here!"

  Steve Birgantee was the most popular boy in the seventh grade. He was tall and played every sport. Also, unlike Alison Mulvaney, he seemed genuinely nice. People really liked him.

  "Oh, God!" Lizzie said, sighing. "Isn't he amazing?"

  "I love how his arms are all veiny," Carly breathed.

  "And how he looks tan, but not like he's trying to look tan," Lizzie said. "You know what I mean?"

  Marjorie opened her mouth, but before she could say no, Sarah said, "Exactly." Actually, she had no idea what Lizzie was talking about, but she knew enough to know that when you were trying to make new friends, you had to pretend to understand everything they said. But Marjorie, she was sure, would have no idea. The best thing to do was to make sure Marjorie never got a chance to say anything at all.

  Carly tossed her balled-up lunch bag into a nearby trash can.

  She groaned. "I hate having science right after lunch," she said. "Mayberry talks about molds and fungi, and I almost throw up. What time is it, anyway?"

  Before Sarah could stop her, Marjorie said, "One twenty-three." She said it with an English accent, with her head held up high, as though she were introducing an opera singer to an au
ditorium full of people in fancy evening clothes.

  "How do you know?" Carly asked. "You don't even have a watch."

  "I can just tell," Marjorie said in her regular voice. "I have an internal clock in my brain. It's one of my gifts."

  "What do you mean, 'gifts'?" Lizzie asked. She sounded skeptical.

  "My mom says it's just one of those things I can do that other people can't. It's almost magical, she says." Marjorie seemed to like that Carly and Lizzie were paying so much attention to her.

  Lizzie glanced at her cell phone, which was on, even though it wasn't supposed to be. Sarah marveled at her nerve. The principal confiscated cell phones if they rang during school hours.

  "It is one twenty-three," she said.

  "It's like I'm a robot and I was programmed to always know what time it is," Marjorie said.

  "What are you talking about?" Carly said. "Why do you even want to be a robot?"

  Sarah closed her eyes. She knew what was coming.

  "It is one twenty-three," Marjorie said in a staccato, robotic voice. "Now it is one twenty-four." She stood up, held out her arms stiffly, and tilted forward from the waist, then stood up straight. "Warning, Will Robinson! It is one twenty-four. Warning! Warning!"

  Lizzie whispered, "Why is she doing that?"

  "It's from an old TV show. Lost in Space," Sarah said miserably. "It's in black-and-white. There's a robot in it."

  "Make her stop!" Carly whispered.

  Fortunately, at that moment the bell rang. At one twenty-five exactly, as Sarah was sure Marjorie already knew from her magic brain clock.

  On the way back to class, Sarah said, "Why did you talk about farting?"

  "I didn't say anything about farting. I said I was gassy."

  "It's the same thing!" She took a breath and dodged a clot of eighth grade boys. "Marjorie, just for your information, don't talk about farting with new people. Ever. I mean, don't even say anything that has anything to do with farting."

  "Why? Everybody gets gas."

  "Because! It's gross. People like talking about nice things when you don't know them very well."

  "I wasn't really talking about farting. I was just answering a question."

  "And don't pretend to be a robot. Or somebody British. Or anybody with a funny voice." Without waiting for her to ask why, Sarah said, "It makes people feel uncomfortable when they don't know what you're talking about."