Promise Me Something by Sara Kocek Read Free Book Online Page B

about.”
    Out of the corner of my eye I saw Olive’s back straighten.
    “Maybe you should bring her along,” said Madison. “That way we can see for ourselves what’s so weird about her.”
    “No, that’s OK.” I glanced over at Olive. Her ears were perked like a dog’s.
    “Come on! Bring her to the sleepover.”
    “I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” I said.
    “What does she want?” mouthed Olive.
    I lowered the phone. “She wants you to come to Leah’s sleepover after the haunted house on Halloween night.”
    “I’d rather have a sleepover with just the two of us.”
    I didn’t say anything. I tried Olive’s trick of staring without blinking. It worked.
    “Fine.” She rolled her eyes and sighed dramatically. “In the name of our friendship, I’ll endure the adolescent torture ritual known as the slumber party.”
    “OK,” I told Madison. “Olive is coming, and she says thanks for inviting her.”
    “I say no such thing,” muttered Olive.
    “Awesome!” said Madison.
    We hung up and I sat back down on the bed near Olive. “Maybe it’ll be fun,” I said, trying to reassure us both. “I’m sure they’ll like you.”
    She cocked an eyebrow at me. “Are you delusional? Nobody likes me.”

    When I got to school on the morning of Halloween, Mr. Mancuzzi, the principal, was standing in the parking lot threatening detention to anyone whose costume revealed more skin than was permitted by the school dress code.
    Olive and I walked straight past him. Between her overalls and my long-sleeved blouse buttoned to the collar, our costumes were so modest they couldn’t possibly get us in trouble. Or so we thought until Mr. Mancuzzi spotted Olive’s pitchfork.
    “Whoa, there!” he called after us. “Where are you going with that pitchfork, young lady?”
    “What young lady?” Olive kept walking. “I don’t see any young ladies around here.”
    “He means you,” I said.
    Mr. Mancuzzi was jogging to reach us. “Girls!”
    “Why would he call us girls?” Olive’s face was a careful mask. “I’m an old man, and you’re no spring chicken.”
    I stopped and waited for Mr. Mancuzzi while Olive continued her somber march toward the school.
    “It’s part of our costume,” I tried to explain when he reached me. “Without the pitchfork, nobody will recognize what we’re supposed to be.”
    “And just what are you supposed to be?” He squinted at my blouse and apron. “Farmers?”
    “Sort of,” I said.
    Mr. Mancuzzi scratched his moustache and looked up at Olive, who was watching us from the front steps with her mouth set in a grim line, just like the man in the painting.
    “At least you’re dressed appropriately,” he sighed. “But if I hear one word today about the misuse of a pitchfork, I’ll confiscate it. Got that?”
    I nodded and jogged to catch up with Olive.

    It was a mark of my invisibility at school that nobody commented on my costume during the day. Olive got made fun of—people joked that she was too convincing as an old man—but nobody said anything about my outfit one way or the other. I think it was because nobody knew my name. That is, until the parade.
    If you ask me, everything that happened during seventh period was the fault of Gretchen Palmer—the girl from our homeroom who teased Olive for wearing a uniform to school. The minute she saw us at the parade, she called over her posse and started poking fun. “What are you supposed to be?” she asked, eyeing Olive’s overalls. “Farmers or something? You look like you’re from the Depression.”
    “Bingo,” said Olive. “What are you supposed to be?”
    Gretchen was dressed in a skimpy nurse’s uniform that showed off her cleavage. It was a miracle Mr. Mancuzzi hadn’t made her change her outfit. “A nurse,” she said. “Obviously.” Her friends stood behind her and adjusted their stethoscopes. They were nurses too.
    “I see,” said Olive. “Well, you better go—you wouldn’t want those