Read Online Promise Me Something by Sara Kocek - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sara Kocek
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She shot me irritable looks all through dinner that night, and Dad told me later he was disappointed too, but only because he wanted us to be a happy family together. Fat chance.
When I arrived at Olive’s house on the night of Thanksgiving, the driveway was packed with cars. Dad didn’t pull in; he rolled to a stop at the foot of the driveway and craned his neck up at the two-story house. “Looks like a party in there,” he said. “Try to have fun, will you?”
“We’ll see,” I said, gathering my overnight bag off the floor. Fun and Olive weren’t exactly two words that belonged in the same sentence. It was true we’d been growing closer since Halloween, and I was starting to trust her almost as much as Abby, Leah, and Madison. But all the same, I couldn’t remember the last time we’d had fun together—probably the day we threw candy at each other in her bedroom.
Olive greeted me at the front door flanked by her mother and father. Her mother looked pinch-faced and angry, but her father was more handsome than I expected: tall, with a chiseled face and well-groomed eyebrows. I barely had time to notice the Ralph Lauren insignia on his shirt before he extended a hand and shook mine so hard that my elbow cracked. “Welcome,” he said with a wide, artificial smile. “You’re just in time for the feast.”
They led me through the foyer, which was emptier and more echoey than I remembered, with tall white walls and modern art. It was a relief to step into the dining room, which was at least smaller but still looked like a museum. A heavy travertine table with a centerpiece of poufy blue hydrangeas dominated the room. Crowded around the table were all of Olive’s relatives and two empty chairs with perfectly straight backs.
Olive grabbed me by the arm and led me around the table to our seats. “You have to hear what went down between my parents this morning,” she hissed, but before she could elaborate, an old woman wearing a long string of pearls looked up from the table and barked, “Posture, dear! Remember your posture.” She was dabbing at the corners of her mouth with a white linen napkin, and her face had the same pinched expression as Mrs. Barton’s.
“I am remembering,” Olive muttered, straightening her shoulders. I took a seat next to her and put my napkin in my lap.
“It would be polite of you to introduce your friend,” said the old woman, who I was now sitting next to. I hoped my own posture was acceptable.
Olive sighed rudely. “Nana Jane, this is my friend Reyna,” she said. “Reyna, this is Nana Jane.” Then she turned back to me and tapped my empty place. “Do you want white meat or dark? I’ll get you some from the buffet.”
“White, please,” I said.
Nana Jane watched Olive leave the table; then she leaned toward me and asked me to repeat my name. Before I could answer, Mr. Barton stood up at the head of the table and tapped his spoon to his glass. I felt disoriented. It was unnerving to be plunked in the middle of someone else’s family gathering, with all its politics and personalities.
“Now that we’re all here…” Mr. Barton announced, clearing his throat, “I thought I’d say a few words…”
The room quieted as Olive slid back into her seat beside mine. “Here,” she whispered. “If you want any gravy, help yourself during the speech. He likes to hear himself talk.”
Mr. Barton began a typical Thanksgiving toast—something about coming together and the importance of family—and I zoned out, noticing that next to me, Olive was tracing a word into her mashed potatoes with her fork. At first I thought she was spelling hell and I felt a familiar twinge of annoyance. Thanksgiving dinner, no matter how much you hate your family, doesn’t count as hell. Learning that your mom was just killed by a drunk driver— that’s hell. But then Olive added a small swoop with her fork, and the word changed to help . I glanced sideways at her, but she wasn’t
When I arrived at Olive’s house on the night of Thanksgiving, the driveway was packed with cars. Dad didn’t pull in; he rolled to a stop at the foot of the driveway and craned his neck up at the two-story house. “Looks like a party in there,” he said. “Try to have fun, will you?”
“We’ll see,” I said, gathering my overnight bag off the floor. Fun and Olive weren’t exactly two words that belonged in the same sentence. It was true we’d been growing closer since Halloween, and I was starting to trust her almost as much as Abby, Leah, and Madison. But all the same, I couldn’t remember the last time we’d had fun together—probably the day we threw candy at each other in her bedroom.
Olive greeted me at the front door flanked by her mother and father. Her mother looked pinch-faced and angry, but her father was more handsome than I expected: tall, with a chiseled face and well-groomed eyebrows. I barely had time to notice the Ralph Lauren insignia on his shirt before he extended a hand and shook mine so hard that my elbow cracked. “Welcome,” he said with a wide, artificial smile. “You’re just in time for the feast.”
They led me through the foyer, which was emptier and more echoey than I remembered, with tall white walls and modern art. It was a relief to step into the dining room, which was at least smaller but still looked like a museum. A heavy travertine table with a centerpiece of poufy blue hydrangeas dominated the room. Crowded around the table were all of Olive’s relatives and two empty chairs with perfectly straight backs.
Olive grabbed me by the arm and led me around the table to our seats. “You have to hear what went down between my parents this morning,” she hissed, but before she could elaborate, an old woman wearing a long string of pearls looked up from the table and barked, “Posture, dear! Remember your posture.” She was dabbing at the corners of her mouth with a white linen napkin, and her face had the same pinched expression as Mrs. Barton’s.
“I am remembering,” Olive muttered, straightening her shoulders. I took a seat next to her and put my napkin in my lap.
“It would be polite of you to introduce your friend,” said the old woman, who I was now sitting next to. I hoped my own posture was acceptable.
Olive sighed rudely. “Nana Jane, this is my friend Reyna,” she said. “Reyna, this is Nana Jane.” Then she turned back to me and tapped my empty place. “Do you want white meat or dark? I’ll get you some from the buffet.”
“White, please,” I said.
Nana Jane watched Olive leave the table; then she leaned toward me and asked me to repeat my name. Before I could answer, Mr. Barton stood up at the head of the table and tapped his spoon to his glass. I felt disoriented. It was unnerving to be plunked in the middle of someone else’s family gathering, with all its politics and personalities.
“Now that we’re all here…” Mr. Barton announced, clearing his throat, “I thought I’d say a few words…”
The room quieted as Olive slid back into her seat beside mine. “Here,” she whispered. “If you want any gravy, help yourself during the speech. He likes to hear himself talk.”
Mr. Barton began a typical Thanksgiving toast—something about coming together and the importance of family—and I zoned out, noticing that next to me, Olive was tracing a word into her mashed potatoes with her fork. At first I thought she was spelling hell and I felt a familiar twinge of annoyance. Thanksgiving dinner, no matter how much you hate your family, doesn’t count as hell. Learning that your mom was just killed by a drunk driver— that’s hell. But then Olive added a small swoop with her fork, and the word changed to help . I glanced sideways at her, but she wasn’t
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