Five Stolen Rings

Chapter 4

STELLA || TWENTY-TWO YEARS AGO

The treehouse is old and small, but Jack and I still play there anyway.

“Slow down,” I say from down on the ground as he clambers up the ladder ahead of me.

“You hurry up,” he retorts over his shoulder. He disappears into the tree house, and I start up the ladder after him.

We met on the playground, Jack and I. He was in second grade while I was in first, and we both got in trouble for refusing to take turns on the swirly slide. We crammed ourselves in together, got stuck halfway down, and had to try to climb out, which resulted in a fall (both of us), a broken arm (Jack), and a sprained wrist (me).

We maybe should have hated each other after that, but we didn’t. He told me I was brave while trying to hold back his tears, and I told him next time we should try going down in a line instead of side by side .

We’ve been best friends ever since—and now we’re going to make it official.

I reach the top of the ladder in no time and crawl into the treehouse, ducking my head. I have to go home soon, so we’re hurrying.

“Here are the rules,” Jack says as I seat myself in front of him. His dark hair flops over his forehead, and his eyes are bright as he talks. “After we make this promise, we’re best friends forever. If we break the promise, we die.”

My eyes widen in fear, and then they narrow. “You’re a liar,” I say. “We won’t die.”

“We’ll wish we had died,” he says solemnly, “because we’ll be so sad.”

“Wow,” I say, my voice soft and full of awe. “Let’s never break it. Even if we don’t like each other someday.”

“I’ll always like you,” Jack says, his tone confident now. “And you’ll probably always like me too.”

I bet he’s right. I don’t like to tell him, but secretly I think he’s smarter than me. He’s one year older, so he knows more grown-up stuff—like he says fourth grade is harder than third grade, and he knows how to do multiplication too.

“Are you ready?” he says. He holds up the needle we stole from the sewing kit in the cabinet above his refrigerator.

“Are you ready?” I shoot back at him, because he seems a little nervous, which makes me feel better. “I hope you’re not a scaredy cat.”

“I’m not a scaredy cat,” he says with a defiant look. “Watch.” He holds out his hand and then, with almost no hesitation, he pricks his finger. He’s so brave that he barely even winces.

“Wow,” I say again. If Jack can do it, so can I. I hold up one finger, and for a second, he just stares at it, his eyes wide. Then he swallows and nods.

He grabs my hand to hold it steady, and then he pokes the needle into my finger. It stings, a hot shock of pain, and I bite my lip as tears well up in my eyes.

I will not cry in front of Jack. I don’t want him to think I’m a crybaby.

Except—

It really hurts. I sniffle as I pull my hand back, looking at my finger. A bead of blood is welling up; it trickles down to the bottom of my finger as another one rises in its place.

“It’s bleeding a lot,” I say, my voice tremulous. When I look at Jack, his expression is anxious.

“Maybe I poked it too hard,” he says, his gaze darting to mine.

My face screws up, and finally the sting is too much to bear; I start to cry.

“Don’t,” Jack says quickly, waving his own not-bleeding hand to quiet me. “Don’t cry! Don’t cry—it’s okay!”

“You said it wouldn’t hurt,” I wail as I cradle my hand. “You said?—”

“I thought it wouldn’t hurt!” he says, cutting me off with a voice full of worry. “I didn’t?—”

“I’m telling! ”

“No!” he says. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry, Stella. Look”—he holds up the needle—“I’ll poke my finger harder too, see? So then you won’t be alone.” And before I can protest, he jabs the needle into his finger.

“Jack!” I say through my tears.

“Ow,” he says as his finger begins to bleed too. His lip puckers out and his chin trembles, and before I know it, he’s crying too .

“I’m telling! ” I shout as I scramble up and crawl to the entrance of the treehouse.

“No, I’m telling!” he says as tears trickle down his cheeks.

“I didn’t even do anything to you!” I yell. I descend the ladder, wiping my furious tears on my sleeve.

Thirty minutes and two Band-Aids later, both Jack and I are grounded for a full week.

By day two I miss him horribly.

By day four, I’ve scribbled an apology note to him, which I convince my best friend India to deliver. When she comes back, she brings a note from Jack.

Sorry I made you cry and sorry I told on you and sorry I made you bleed too. Let’s not poke the needle so hard next time, or maybe we could just do a pretend blood promise.

I nod as I read his suggestion.

Jack always has the best ideas.