The Vow by Jessica Martinez

look for? You said don’t waste the time, and I’ve been wanting to screw with Chase for years. Everybody’s so afraid of him—it seems like a good time to seize the day.”
    Annie lets go of the seat belt and folds her arms. “Forget Chase. Go find Maya. Tell her you’ve been in love with her since eighth grade.”
    I squint at the point where the dotted yellow line first appears in the darkness, refusing to look at her. But for once I don’t deny it. The I’m not hot for Maya line is old, and at this point pretending with Annie is about as useless as driving over to Maya’s house to profess my undying love. Sure, I could throw rocks at her window until she appears wearing just a tank top and panties (it’s my dream; I’ll choose the attire), but I’m not a total idiot. I know it won’t really end the way I want it to.
    Whereas focusing my energy on making Chase’s life hell—that could yield two weeks of satisfaction and maybe even enough distraction from my life sentence that I won’t kill myself or turn on Annie. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner.
    “We need to get something to put the goat crap in,” I say.
    “You can put it in a golden suitcase, I’m still not letting it in the back of my truck.”
    “What? Last week you had bags of fertilizer back there. What’s the difference?”
    She puts her feet on the dash, then tips her head to her knees and sighs. She looks small and tired, all bent like that, like a crunched question mark. “The difference is it’s almost ten after. If I’m not home in the next ten minutes, there will be a police car in the driveway when I do get home.”
    That’s not a difference , but the Berniers’ post-Lena issues aren’t exactly an appropriate topic for arguing semantics. “Fine. New plan. We go to your house, but I stay in the car while you go inside and go up to bed. Then you sneak out with a six-pack and we get drunk.”
    “You don’t drink.”
    “Not with that attitude, I don’t. This is my one and only opportunity to be a part of the American underage binge-drinking epidemic—do you really want to take that away from me?”
    “You and me splitting a six-pack is not binge drinking. And I don’t want you breaking your Muslim commandments or whatever on my watch.”
    “Since when are you an expert on Islam?”
    “I’m just trying to be a good friend. You don’t want to get drunk.”
    “I think I do.” Maybe I was half-kidding when I suggested it, but I’m serious now. I want to know what it feels like to get plastered. Mom’s wrapped up in misery, and Dad’s brain is already halfway across the world. I bet neither of them would even notice.
    Annie sighs. “I’m tired.”
    If Annie isn’t on board, I’m screwed. I’m getting dropped off at my home, where the only alcohol is in Nyquil, and I have no car. The whole world hates me.
    We drive the rest of the way without speaking, and I get out at my house with a simple “Later.” She slides over into the driver’s seat, waves without looking at me, and backs out, giving the dented mailbox a good six-foot clearance. I watch her drive away. It’s thirty seconds at least until I can’t hear the labored chug of the truck’s engine.
    Behind me the house is waiting. I turn and take note: The kitchen and living room are dark, but the bedrooms and Dad’s office are lit. The animals have already retreated to their caves.
    I can’t make myself go inside. The stars are pulsing in tandem with the blood in my fingertips, and the post-rain air is cool. I can’t go lie in bed and spend another night thinking miserable thoughts.
    I dial the code into the garage keypad, find my basketball, and start dribbling. That sound—the ball smacking the pavement—is so hard and bright, like the crack of a fist colliding with a jaw. I love it. It’s the same sound Bryce’s knuckles made when he hit that kid from Taylorsville for calling me a towelhead.
    I should’ve been the one to hit him.
    I