Free Promise Me Something by Sara Kocek Page B

Olive’s eyes widened. “What the hell are you talking about?”
    I didn’t tell her it had been on the day we met, or that it had been a pebble, not a rock. All I managed to say was, “We’re friends, OK? I’ve never told anyone else about my dad destroying the kitchen—”
    “We’re not friends,” she said, wiping her eyes. “We’re not, because if you really knew me, you would hate me. And you already hate me, so you would really hate me if you knew.”
    “Knew what?” My stomach was folding unpleasantly. I hoped I wasn’t going to throw up.
    “Nothing.” She gulped a big breath of air. “I’m just drowning in secrets, that’s all.”
    I had no idea what I was supposed to say. My tongue felt heavy, and I concentrated on not getting sick all over the carpet.
    “Or maybe it’s just my parents.” She swiped at her cheeks. “Maybe that’s why everything is the way it is. Do you think it’s wrong of me to hate my mom?”
    “Hate’s a strong word,” I managed to say. My speech came out slurred.
    “But I do hate her.” Olive was staring past me into the darkness. “I hate the way she can’t control herself. The way she can’t love me like she’s supposed to.”
    The room seemed to slide in and out of focus before my eyes, and I could tell that I was either going to throw up or fall asleep on the floor, but I wasn’t sure which. “I’m not in a position to judge you,” I said at last.
    “Of course you are,” Olive sighed, turning away from me. “Everybody judges everybody else automatically. That’s the whole fucking problem with the world.”
    It was late—or technically early—when we finally climbed back into bed. We both fell asleep on her carpet for a while, but by two a.m., we woke up and realized we were cold.
    Stumbling up from the floor and onto the bed, I told Olive that my head was pounding. The room still seemed to rock slightly, as though we were sitting in a big cradle.
    “You need some water,” she mumbled, but neither of us stood up to get some. Instead we just wedged our feet under the covers and pulled the blankets up to our chins.
    “I feel guilty,” I told her. My mouth was dry and the words came out sounding scratchy.
    “So?” said Olive.
    I shrugged. “I shouldn’t have drank anything. Dranken. Drunk?”
    “Drunk.”
    “Leah got wasted with her older sister one time.” It popped out of my mouth out of nowhere, and I began to suspect I was still drunk. “She threw up and it was gross.”
    “Leah…” Olive frowned. “Was she the one with the pink bra?”
    “Yeah, the slutty one.” I felt my hand fly to my mouth.
    Olive started giggling.
    “I didn’t mean to say that,” I said. “I have a headache.”
    But Olive was grinning now. “Doesn’t she remind you of a dog that humps everything in sight? Like she really needs to be neutered or something—”
    I laughed so suddenly and unexpectedly that I actually snorted. Then Olive did too. “Shut up!” I squealed. “You’re making me say bad things about my friends!” I rubbed my temples, where the headache was blaring like bad music.
    “Oh—how about that hickey she had!” Olive touched her own neck. “It was like the size of a vacuum cleaner. Couldn’t you see her making out with an inanimate object?”
    “Not Leah, but maybe Madison,” I said. “Because she’s such a prude, it would be the only way she’d ever—” I could barely finish my sentence. Olive was clapping with glee.
    “You’re so mean!” She was wiggling her feet under the covers. “Are you really Reyna? Reyna doesn’t say mean things. Ever.”
    “It’s your fault for getting me drunk,” I said.
    “More, more!” She pounded her fist against the mattress. “Tell me how great I am and how everyone else sucks.”
    “It’s not funny,” I said. “I’m growing apart from my friends.”
    “You don’t need them.” She rolled over onto her back and stretched out her arms until her knuckles grazed my