Chapter One: The Three Promises

Promises should never be made lightly. At least that’s always been my go-to rule in life. Keep expectations low, that way you won’t disappoint often. This is especially true when it comes to dating. A girl never forgets a promise, so a few years back, I decided never to make any.

But then a couple of months ago, during the summer before my Senior year of high school, Hannah moved to town. And I don’t know how she managed, but somehow when I am with her, all rules and logic go out the window.

I would promise her the moon if it would make her flash me one of her “I can practically taste you” looks. Thankfully, two of the three promises I made her over the summer weren’t serious at all. I was planning on doing the first one anyway. So, when she put her head on my shoulder and whispered, “Promise me we will go to the homecoming dance together,” it was a no-brainer.

It seemed a silly thing to promise seeing as we were exclusively dating. The dance was a couple of weeks ago. We even were selected for court which was kind of a shocker, seeing as she was new to the school this year.

The second promise I made to Hannah was also not a big deal at all. A couple of Saturdays ago, we were headed to Crispi’s, our favorite diner, and passed by our town’s little farmer’s market. It’s in the Main Street parking lot and happens every Saturday from late June to early November. My mother goes there a lot, but I’ve never been.

So, when Hannah pointed at the tents and casually said, “Hey Drew, promise we will check out the farmer’s market before the season ends,” it sounded like a good idea. With Halloween only a week away, and the weather forecasted to be sunny and pleasant, today seemed the perfect day to fulfill that second promise. So here we are.

But as we walk through the crowds, hand in hand, my mind is elsewhere, stuck on the third promise that I made to her. The only one of the three I regret making.

I don’t even know who told her about the old Maxwell house. I sure as hell didn’t.

My best friend Lucas and I rode our bikes out to that creepy old house back in fifth grade. He dared me to go up onto the porch and ring the bell. I put one foot on the porch and a squirrel shot out from under an old chair in front of me, sending me backward, tripping down the steps in horror. We both screamed our guts out as we jumped on our bikes and rode at lightning speed the six or so miles back into town. We never spoke of the place again.

But when it's homecoming night, and your perfect girlfriend’s naked chest is pressed against yours and you’re about to do something you have always wanted to do, but before anything starts happening, she leans back and asks, “Will you take me to the Maxwell house on Halloween night?” you agree.

At the exact moment, she could have asked me for anything. I would have given her a kidney. A nut. My car.

Of course, “I promise,” was the only thing to say. I didn’t even think about her weird-ass timing. But now with the horrible excursion only a week away, I am freaking out about it. At least I was able to convince—and by convince, I mean bribe—Lucas and his girl to come, too. Cost me fifty bucks, but I can live with that. I think it will be easier for me to pretend to be brave if Lucas is there, too. There is strength in numbers.

Hannah tugs on my arm, snapping me out of my thoughts and back into the marketplace. “Look at these soaps! Oh, and she has honey, too. Let’s get some.”

Passing a crude wooden sign that reads “Millie’s Sweet and Clean,” I follow her into the tent, impressed with the practical name and the colorful variety of honey and multi-colored bar soaps. An old lady is sitting in the corner, who I assume is Millie. She has a plastic hood covering her blueish-white hair and huge dark 1970s-style sunglasses on. Her red woolly coat is pulled tightly around her neck and it's worn out, shabby, and pilled. She is wearing bright red lipstick, too, but it's not very neat, almost as if she put it on in the dark.

Maybe she can't see very well. She does look like she could be in her nineties.

I pass her my most dashing smile. “These are wonderful. Did you make all of this?”

“Drew,” Hannah taps me on the shoulder and points to a small handwritten sign next to a particularly purple bar of soap, “read the sign.”

“Right.” I lean down to examine the fine print.

I cannot speak. Throat cancer. Soap is $4 each or 3 for $10. Honey is $10 your choice. Cash only.

“Gotcha,” I say, rubbing my neck awkwardly as the odd woman nods at me. “Hannah, why don’t you pick out what you’d like, and I’ll pay the nice lady.”

She pops up onto her tiptoes and pecks me on the cheek before picking out three flowery bars and a jar of honey. I drop a twenty in Millie’s gloved hand and she hands me a plastic bag for our goodies. I am relieved to be out of her tent and into the sunshine again. Old people give me the heebie jeebies.

The next tent over has strange vibes, too. It’s a basic farm stand, selling the typical veggies. But the two men working the stall seem odd. Like horror movie odd. Bald, twin men, each with several teeth missing, easily 350 pounds, wearing matching denim overalls and grungy white t-shirts. I glance around, starting to wonder if I am on a prank show or something. Instead, I catch glimpses of other strange workers.

One man is close to seven feet tall and selling only sunflowers. Another has so many tattoos and piercings that you can hardly see any actual skin, and he has an eclectic collection of crochet and paper craft animals for sale.

“Do these vendors seem a bit odd to you?” I glance down at Hannah, who shrugs and pulls me toward the baker’s tent.

“Creative types,” she says matter-of-factly. “Besides, since when are you so judgy? Never had you pegged for a snob.”

Her words stop me in my tracks. She’s right. I’m not usually one to judge. I think I’ve just gotten myself whipped up in a nervous paranoia because of next Saturday. These people aren’t any stranger than anyone else.

“You’re right. I’m being rude. Are you getting bread?” I point to the loaves on the table.

She picks up a cinnamon raisin loaf. “Hell yeah. My mom loves this stuff.”

“My treat,” I say. “Let me pay the witch.”

“Drew, that is so rude. Would you stop with all of…”?

“Hannah wait,” I interrupt, pointing and laughing at the vendor lady in a witch costume behind her. “She’s dressed as an actual witch.”

Hannah spins around and laughs at the warty-nosed green-skinned witch, who is making her way over to us. “I almost forgot that Halloween’s only a week away. I’m so excited to go you know where. Aren’t you?”

“Thrilled,” I manage. “Can hardly wait.”