The Vow by Jessica Martinez Page A

find the free throw line (measured and marked with a dot of gray paint two years ago, small enough that my dad still hasn’t noticed it) and hold the ball up to shoot. I force myself to relax as my elbow sinks, then let my muscles contract to shoot the ball. It rolls off the pads of my fingertips, spinning backward but flying forward in a perfect arc. I wait for the sound—the gasp of the ball sliding through the net—and let every thought wash away with it, leaving nothing but the feel of the pebbled leather in my hands.
    I do it again and again. Then layups. Jump shots. By the time I decide to find my three-point-line gray dot farther down the driveway, I’m drenched with sweat and my pulse is thundering in my ears. I sink the first one. And the second. But there’s too much force behind the third one, and the ball ricochets off the rim, careens left, and smashes the light on the side of the garage door.
    I look up to the house and wait, but nobody comes rushing to a window.
    Glass crunches beneath my feet as I make my way over, and all my thoughts come rushing back for me.
    What am I even practicing for? Basketball is over.
    I find a broom in the garage, pull a box from the recycling bin for the shards. My heart is still pounding, but I’m soaked through with sweat and shivering as I crouch over the glass. I watch my fingers pick glittering chunks off the pavement like they belong to somebody else, while thoughts scream through my brain in a mixed-up order: Dad will kill me if he gets a flat tire. Basketball is over. I hope he does get a flat. I’m losing Annie. Maya Lawless never even happened. We’re leaving. We’re leaving. We’re leaving. We’re leaving. We’re leaving. We’re leaving.
    “What happened?”
    Sarina’s voice startles me, and I drop the box. Luckily it doesn’t spill. She’s standing on the porch in her pajamas and monkey slippers. Glasses again.
    “I broke the light.”
    “You need help?”
    “No.” I want to be alone.
    “Are you sure?”
    “Yeah. Go inside.”
    She hesitates, shifts her weight from leg to leg. I can tell she wants to talk again, but I’m done, all talked out after last night. I keep my head down, and eventually she goes back inside.
    I sweep up the shards that are too tiny to pick up and survey the area. It’s hard to tell, but I think I got it all.
    I’m a lousy brother. And I was a jerk to Annie tonight too. I should just lock myself in a room for the next two weeks.
    My hands are still shaking a little, but I don’t even know why. It’s just a broken lightbulb. Except with the thousands of hours I’ve spent shooting hoops out here, how has it never happened before? And why tonight, when the only thing I have left to want is basketball? Annie believes in a random, unfeeling universe, but that’s crap. Everything means something.
    It takes a bowl of reheated lamb stew from last night and ten minutes in a scalding shower before I’m calm. No, more than calm. I’m so exhausted I’m not sure I can get myself dried and dressed. Last night’s sleeplessness, then today’s anger and worry and fear—it feels vaguely like the week after I got my wisdom teeth pulled and was allowed to dabble in the world of heavy pain meds.
    I manage to drag myself into bed where my thoughts become blurrier and blurrier until I lose myself to dreams of driving Annie’s truck. At first I’m speeding down the road from Mr. Twister, but then I come around a bend and suddenly I’m in Jordan, outside of Amman, where the landscape is dusty orange and wide open. I panic because I’m actually there, but for just a moment, because I hear Annie laugh and realize she’s beside me in the truck. I laugh too, out of relief because she’s there, even if I kind of still know it’s a dream. But then she holds up her arm and I see the blood trickling down her finger, down her forearm, over her knobby elbow, and I stop laughing. She points to her lap. It’s glittering. I feel sick because