Free The Vow by Jessica Martinez Page B

moment.
    Finally she says, “Yeah.”
    I don’t need to say anything else.
    That’s the moment when everyone remembers the thing that slipped their minds when I was playing basketball, or doing their homework for a small but reasonable fee. In that silence, I can hear their thoughts. Mohammed Ibrahim Hussein? Oh, yeah. That’s Mo’s real name.

Chapter 9
    Annie
    W hat’s your real name?”
    I don’t look up from my stack of dollar bills. I’m counting.
    “Your name,” Flora demands.
    Flora and I have been working side by side for over a week—she knows my name. And she’s old-ish, but too young to be losing her mind, so it’s probably the start of a joke. Based on the last few she’s told me, probably a dirty one. I don’t know if I want my name involved.
    “Um, Annabelle,” I say, still thumbing. Am I at twenty-nine or thirty-nine?
    “Your last name,” she says, and I now hear the crackle in her voice. It’s not humor.
    I put the bills back in the open cash register, uncounted, and look up. She’s holding a butter-yellow envelope with a duck sticker on it. Annie Bernier is hand-written carefully in the center. No address. No stamp.
    Today is not the day to talk to Flora about Lena. I’ve been holding back tears since I clocked in, gritting my teeth every time I think about Mo.
    “Oh, nobody says it right,” I say, pretending I don’t know what she’s talking about. “It’s Burn-yay . Most people just say Burn-year , but I don’t really care. It’s not like I speak French or anything. My grandpa thinks he’s the accent police, practically yells at people who say it wrong, but his father was born in France, which he thinks entitles him to act like he’s French and treat people like crap.”
    I glance at her, hoping she lost interest midramble. She did not.
    I point to the envelope. “What’s that?”
    She doesn’t answer or give it to me. She just stares, and now I can feel her trying to pull Lena’s features out of mine. I should tell her not to bother. Lena’s face was fuller, prettier, and she had a beauty mark sitting on her cheekbone, just beneath the left eye. In all her pictures, she’s smiling with her mouth closed, like one of those classic beauties from old movies, but I don’t remember her being polished like that. I remember a huge laugh and a tiny gap between her lower front teeth. She could whistle through it.
    I hold my hand out for the envelope. Flora doesn’t give it to me, so I let my hand drop to my side.
    My cheeks are burning, even though I haven’t done anything wrong. This feels like the time I got busted for cheating off Libby McGregor’s math quiz in eighth grade when she was the one copying off of me. Libby was an idiot, the only person in the whole class stupid enough to think I’d be writing down correct answers.
    “You’re Lena’s sister,” Flora finally says. Her lips are flat, the skin around them a sagging web of wrinkles.
    “Yeah.”
    “Why didn’t you tell me?”
    “I thought you knew,” I lie. “Rachel and Clara know.”
    “You’ve got her eyes,” she says matter-of-factly. It doesn’t sound like a compliment. It sounds like she thinks I stole them.
    I don’t say anything. It’s awkward, but I’ve learned that people need a moment. I look around to the front, where Reed is helping a rain-soaked old man fix his umbrella. Otherwise the shop is empty. It’s only five, but thankfully the rain is keeping the swim-camp kids from wandering our way.
    Flora takes a ragged breath, her shoulders rising under her curly maroon hair, her eyes never leaving me. She’s inches from my face. When she lets the breath out, I can almost taste the tar from her last cigarette. “How long has it been now?” she asks.
    “Eight years.”
    “Eight.” She blinks, and I see grimy eyelid creases where makeup has settled. “Why are you working here? Must be killing your parents. You hate them or something?”
    “No.” I don’t tell her I had to threaten