Jessica Martinez - The Vow

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?”

“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.