Free Promise Me Something by Sara Kocek

not whatever,” I told her. “It’s horrible.”
    “I know.” The corners of her mouth twitched upward in a smile. “Can’t you recognize a defense mechanism when you see one?”
    I stepped backward into the hallway to leave, but Olive stayed still for a few seconds. She stood there with her hand on the doorframe, taking it all in, and when she finally followed me back to her room, she took a shard of glass with her and set it on her dresser.
    As we changed, I felt sorry for Olive for the first time—truly sorry. Maybe having an alcoholic mother wasn’t better than having no mother at all. Her whole house had a cold, foreboding feeling—like a wax museum—and I got the creepy sensation, as I slipped out of my jeans and into my pajamas, that Mrs. Barton was standing frozen on the floor below us, waiting for a reason to come to life and light the whole house on fire.
    Olive flicked the light switch by the door and the room became dark—almost pitch black, but not quite. Light was falling in a chopstick pattern through the Venetian blinds, and I saw her move toward the bed and pull down the covers. I did the same, climbing under them, and rested my head against the overstuffed pillow. Her sheets were crisp and clean.
    “Reyna?”
    “What?” I rolled over on my side to face her. We hadn’t been whispering when the lights were on, but now that the room was dark, it seemed right.
    “Thanks for coming tonight.” She pulled the covers up to her shoulders.
    “Thanks for inviting me,” I answered. I didn’t know what else to say. We lay in silence for a moment, and I rolled a certain thought around in my mind like a ball of yarn, trying to figure out where it started and stopped. Finally I blurted, “My dad destroyed a room once. Sort of like what you showed me.”
    She glanced over at me. “After your mom died?”
    “No, this summer.” I didn’t remind her about the car accident—I just told her about the bowl of Rice Krispies, the shattered bowl, the overturned chair.
    “I guess everybody needs to lose control every now and then,” Olive said, turning on her side to face me. “Which reminds me…Do you remember how I told you my dad got rid of all the booze in the house?”
    I nodded and shifted my cheek to a cool patch on the pillow.
    “He didn’t know about my stash—the stuff I confiscated from her months ago.”
    “So?”
    The corner of her mouth twitched. “So I was wondering if you wanted to try some.”
    I stared at her.
    “I’ve never been drunk,” she told me. “And I refuse to try it for the first time by myself. That would be pathetic.”
    I didn’t say anything. My mind was revving into high gear, suddenly nervous. I had never had anything more than a sip of wine in my life.
    “I’ll tell you if you’re starting to get drunk.” She propped herself up on one elbow. “I know how to recognize the signs. We won’t get wasted, we’ll just get tipsy.”
    “Just to test it out?” I said.
    “Yeah, just to see how our systems respond.” She was watching me carefully. Then she added, “I know I’m not the most fun person in the world. Not like your other friends—”
    “It’s not that,” I said. “It’s just… now ?”
    Olive raised her eyebrows. “Why not?”
    She had a point. I would inevitably try my first drink at some point, and I didn’t want it to be at a party—I had a brief and awful image of throwing up all over Levi Siegel’s jeans. If I was going to get drunk, I preferred to test my limits in the safety of Olive’s bedroom. “I guess I’ll try some,” I said. “I just don’t want to go overboard.”
    She smiled and stood up, the springs on the bed creaking quietly. “I don’t have any cups in here, but we can drink straight out of the bottle.”
    I sat up and leaned back against the headboard. It felt like a business proposition.
    Olive moved through the dark room toward the filing cabinet, crouched, and pulled out the bottom drawer. It slid smoothly