Jessica Martinez - The Vow

Annie

Mo tosses a stick of gum into my lap.

No, thanks.

You need it, he says.

I put it in my mouth. It tastes like dust and mint and aspartame. You dont think chewing gum is unprofessional?

Youre interviewing at Mr. Twister. Unprofessional would be refusing to flirt with the customers.

Right. I crumple the foil wrapper and throw it at his face.

He ignores me. Hes too busy squinting out the windshield at the towering Mr. Twister sign. Its a ten-foot grinning tornado-in-a-cone. With a mustache. Unprofessional would be telling them your GPA is over 2.0.

It might not be.

Thats the depressing truth. Less than an hour ago I was sweating under a strip of fluorescent lights, scratching nonsense formulas and equations onto a test thicker than my arm. By halfway through, my eraser had crumbled into little rubbery bits. Not that it mattered. I can guess wrong on the first try just as well as the second or third.

So it didnt go well, Mo says.

It did not.

Maybe chems just not your sport.

Im over it.

Mo says nothing. He should be mad about the hours hes wasted tutoring me, but he isnt, or at least hes pretending well.

It doesnt matter. Chemistry is not important.

This is important.

The mint flavor is gone, already leached from the gum, so I spit the lump into Mos empty Taco Bell cup and begin finger-combing my hair. It takes a while. My trucks AC died three weeks ago, so Ive been driving with the windows down and looking like a stray Yorkie ever since. A few good yanks and I give up, twisting my hair into a clip instead.

Mo jacks up the fan and angles the vents toward himself, grumbling something I cant hear.

Still broken, I remind him.

A drop of sweat rolls over his temple, down his cheek. Unprofessional, he pushes on, would be telling them you arent racist.

Ill keep that to myself then. Is the horse dead yet or are we going to keep beating it for a while?

Mos conspiracy theory du jour is that Mr. Twister is a white-supremacy cell. He thinks a quaint frozen custard joint is the perfect front for stockpiling weapons and racist propaganda. His only evidence: blond staff and the occasional confederate flag license plate in the parking lot. Like now, for example, there are three, all of which he made sure to point out as we pulled in. I argued that there are at least three confederate flags in every parking lot from Florida to Kentucky to Texas, not to mention that Im the blondest person he knows and not a Nazi. He ignored that.

Thats not really why he hates it, though. Mr. Twister is all about the easy smile, and Mo cant stand that. The colors are too Easter egg, the music is too snappy, and last time we were in there the girl working the soft serve couldnt verify that the dairy was grass-fed. Im not sure she even knew cows were involved in the product.

Unprofessional, he mutters, would be walking in there with your Iraqi boyfriend.

Dead. Horse. Mo. Is the crankiness here for the whole summer or something that might go away?

Not sure. Ill let you know.

I rub gloss over my lips.

Mo is not Iraqi, and Mo is not my boyfriend. If I could just convince the God-fearing Christians of Elizabethtown of these two facts, I really think hed be less paranoid about things in general. But people believe what people want to believe.

Seven years ago, when Mo moved here, it was hard enough for people to wrap their minds around the fact that a coffee-skinned, black-haired boy could be named Mohammed Ibrahim Hussein and not be Saddams secret grandson. Now, well now, everyone knows Mo. And despite what he likes to pretend to believe, they dont think hes a terrorist, and some of them do make an effort to remember hes from Jordan and not Iraq. I wonder though, if he hadnt spent the last seven years trying to prove the two points, maybe the chip on his shoulder wouldnt be the size of, I dont know, the Middle East.

Its true though, that at the end of the day hes still the nice Arab boy or that Iraqi kid, and no amount of time here will change that. Were Hardin County, Kentucky. We specialize in Southern hospitality, bourbon, tobacco, and horse farms. Not political correctness.

As for Mo being my boyfriend, there are so many reasons that Mo and I will never be together, I dont even know where to start.

Are you going in or what? he asks.

Yes. I take a big dramatic breath. Yes, I am. I dont have chocolate on my face or anything, do I?

Id have already told you. Quit stalling. He pulls his European History textbook out of his backpack and starts flipping through the pages, whistling a tune through his front teeth: The Battle Hymn of the Republic.

You dont have to stay in the truck, you know, I say.

What, and prove how overprotective the Iraqi boyfriend is?

Really? This cranky all summer?

Not if you get your AC fixed, he says. And I wouldnt be cranky at all if I didnt still have to study.

I never question that line of crap. Mo is one final exam away from finishing his junior year with a zillion AP credits, but its never enough. Its the great paradox: He does not have to study, and yet he is always studying. Like my Aunt Helen with the Botox.

Do you want me to leave the car on? I ask.

No. Ill take my chances with the windows down. Maybe Ill get some cross-breeze.

Okay, Im going then. I kick my legs up and out the open window, hoisting myself through as gracefully as possible in a jean skirt.

The door hasnt worked since the winter before last. But that and the recent AC issues aside, its a lovable machinedark-blue exterior, soft tan leather seats, never needed a single repair. Mo can complain, but he knows shes my baby. And its not like he has his own ride.

I tug my skirt down so it covers enough thigh. Mos mostly wrong about Mr. Twister, but they do hire a certain type of girlthe cute but wholesome type. Sweet but not slutty. Arent you going to wish me luck?

He glances up at me, then back to his textbook. Sure, but dont come crying to me when you realize it sucks taking orders from your intellectual inferiors.

Im dumber than you think. Ill be just fine.

I still say you should be applying at Myrnas so you can get a discount on paints. That at least makes sense.

I shake my head. He knows this isnt about sense. This is about her, and theres nothing of her at Myrnas. If my truck is gone when I come back out, Im calling the police.

Are you ignoring my good advice? he asks.

Yes.

Im not going to steal your truck. Your dad would totally press charges.

Maybe, but you could use your time in juvie on an application essay. Just think of the sympathy points.

He smiles. Finally. He has good teeth, straight and even like piano keys. Other things are crookedhis nose, the thin white scar that breaks his left eyebrow in half, the weird way he half shuts his right eye when he reads. But hes got perfect teeth, and a nice smile when I can force it out of him.

Why are you staring at me? Arent you late?

If I can just get him through finals without the stomach acid climbing up and eating a hole in his brain, well be good.

Stop stalling, he says. Go.

So I go, the stack of silver bangles on my wrist jingling with every step. Chris Dorsey brought them back from Mexico for me. That was last fall, two weeks before I broke up with him, which seemed like long enough not to have to return them. Mo thinks Im heartless for wearing them, but I like the sound they make.

Besides, Mo doesnt know why I broke up with Chris. I tell Mo almost everything, but he wouldnt understand that. He doesnt know what its like to be talked into doing something you dont want to do. Mo never does anything he doesnt want to do.