The Vow by Jessica Martinez Page B

I knew and I didn’t tell her and it’s my fault—there are shards of glass everywhere. Her fingers are full of them, and now she’s trying to pull them out, but there’s too much blood. She turns and stares at me with her huge, sad eyes, and I’m suddenly drowning in guilt. It is my fault. It’s my dream. I should have warned her it was full of broken glass.

Chapter 11
    Annie
    I t breaks through my dream like a fist shattering glass and pulls me out. The idea is that strong. It is hands reaching for me, gripping my arms and lifting me up. Now I’m sitting in bed, panting in the dark, staring at where the moonlight splashes over the waves on my walls. I feel just a little like I might throw up—the idea is that good. My hair and T-shirt are soaked with sweat and my heart is racing because the idea is better than good. It’s amazing. So amazing I can’t believe my brain came up with it.
    My alarm clock says 2:36. I grab my phone from the nightstand and dial Mo.
    The first call goes to voice mail, so I call again. Second call, voice mail. This is ridiculous. He’s a light sleeper. Third call, he picks up on the fourth ring.
    “Are you kidding me?” He’s groggy and angry, but whispering, which is good since his parents’ room is right above his.
    “Mo, I have an idea.”
    “Are you kidding me?”
    “Mo, seriously, wake up. I have an idea.”
    “Are you kidding me?” Still groggy, but angrier now.
    “Wake up. I have to ask you something, and if you ask me if I’m kidding you one more time I’m going to assume you’re still asleep and start singing that Shania Twain song.”
    “I’m awake.”
    “Good.”
    “Your question,” he mumbles.
    I take a shaky breath, suddenly nervous. But this is our salvation. I knew the minute it reached into my dream and grabbed me that it was meant to be. This is not the time for nerves.
    “Mo, will you marry me?”
    Heartbeats. His. Mine. Nothing but blood pulsing between us as I wait for him to speak.
    Say something. This silence feels dangerous, like we’re lying in a bed of broken glass, afraid to move or even breathe. Mo is never speechless.
    “What are you talking about?” he asks finally.
    “I’m talking about you staying here.”
    “But like getting married married?”
    “They can’t deport you if you’re my husband,” I say.
    “Are you crazy?”
    My mind is spinning too quickly to cringe at the word. “Mo, think about it. You could stay.”
    He lets another long pause go by, and I can feel the weight of the idea pushing down on me. No, on both of us now. “It can’t be that easy,” he says.
    “I think it is. I mean, I don’t really know, but it’s something people do, right? I haven’t researched it or anything, but . . . I mean, Mo . . .” A nervous laugh comes out. It doesn’t even sound like me. “You could stay .”
    “I could stay,” he repeats robotically.
    I want to melt his shock, snap him out of his daze so he can hear what I’m saying. “You could stay.”
    “Are you kidding me?” he whispers, then laughs too.
    I’m laughing for real now, with relief and joy and terror all rolling through me. But I’m scared to stop laughing because I feel a little like I might cry.
    “Wait,” he says. “No.”
    I stop, winded.
    “I can’t get married. I’m not eighteen.”
    “Yeah, you can. You just have to have your parents’ permission.”
    “Both of them?” In his voice I can hear he doubts me, doubts that I know anything.
    “Uh…I’m not sure. You don’t think they’d do it? I mean, obviously, I’m not the Muslim daughter-in-law of their dreams, but your dad is obsessed with the your Harvard prospects, and your mom—”
    “It’s not that simple,” he says, cutting me off.
    “I don’t think it’s simple, but they love you, and maybe your mom can convince your dad.”
    He exhales loudly. “What about your parents?”
    “What about them? I’m eighteen.”
    “Eighteen with all the freedom of an