The Promise

The chalk line was crooked. Jonas knew it was crooked. Clara knew it too. That didn’t stop Jonas from kneeling down anyway, tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth as he added another sharp turn to the track drawn on the pavement. “There,” he said proudly. “That’s the finish line.” 

Clara squinted at it. “That’s not a finish line,” she said. “It’s going sideways.”

“It’s artistic,” Jonas replied immediately.

“It’s cheating.”

Jonas gasped, clutching his chest like she’d wounded him deeply. “I never cheat.”

Clara didn’t answer. She just lifted her toy car, a blue one with chipped pain, and placed it carefully behind the chalk line. Jonas slammed his red car down beside it, harder than necessary. “Ready?” he asked.

 “You always start early,” Clara said.

“I do not.”

“You did yesterday.”

“That was practice.”

Clara crossed her arms. “You’re not allowed to practice winning.” Jonas grinned. “Watch me.”

They used bottle caps as obstacles today. Jonas had lined them up in a way that made his side of the track smoother — accidentally, he claimed. Clara noticed, of course. “You put more on my side.”

“No I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“They just… rolled there.”

Bottle caps did not roll uphill, but Clara decided not to argue. She crouched lower, eyes focused, black hair falling forward — the thin crimson streak catching the sunlight.

“On three,” she said.

Jonas nodded seriously. “One… two—”

He pushed his car forward before three.

“HEY!” Clara shouted, lunging after him.

Jonas laughed as he sped ahead, making loud engine noises with his mouth. “VROOOOM—”

“That’s unfair!” Clara yelled, chasing his car with hers, knocking over bottle caps as she went. Jonas crossed the crooked finish line first. He threw his arms up. “I win!”

“No you don’t,” Clara said immediately. “You started early.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“It does.”

Jonas thought about it for half a second, then shrugged. “Okay fine. Rematch.”

They played like that for hours.

Toy cars became real cars. Pebbles became rival drivers. Leaves were overtakes. Every race ended with Jonas “winning” and Clara pointing out exactly why he shouldn’t have. Sometimes she won — but only when Jonas pretended not to notice. When the sun started to lower, their shadows stretched long across the pavement. Clara lay on her stomach, chin resting on her hands, watching Jonas redraw the track again for the fifth time.

“You’re making it harder now,” she said.“Races are hard,” Jonas replied seriously. “That’s why they’re cool.”

Clara tilted her head. “Then why do you always win?”

Jonas paused. Looked at her. Smiled.

“Because I’m the best.”

She snorted. “You’re eight.”

“And you’re seven.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means I’m older.”

Clara rolled her eyes so hard Jonas thought they might get stuck like that.

Clara’s house always smelled different. Jonas noticed it every time he came over. Something warm, like bread, maybe — mixed with the faint smell of oil and metal from the garage. He kicked his shoes off at the door without being told and ran straight to the living room. “Is it on?” he asked, already dropping onto the floor. Clara followed, quieter as always, sitting beside him with her legs folded neatly. The TV flickered to life, the screen filled with cars flashing past corners too fast for Jonas to understand how they didn’t crash. The commentary boomed, dramatic and loud.

Jonas leaned forward instantly.

“Look, look!” he said. “That one’s leading!”

“Why did he go inside?” Clara asked. Jonas blinked. “Huh?”

“He could’ve stayed outside,” she said, eyes glued to the screen. “But he didn’t.” Jonas stared harder. The car exited the corner ahead. “Oh,” he said slowly. “Because… speed?” Clara frowned. “No. He slowed down first.” Jonas didn’t answer. He just kept watching. A pit stop came up. Tires changed in a blur. “Why are they changing already?” Clara asked. “They just changed before.”

Jonas scratched his head. “Because… strategy.”

“What strategy?”

He hesitated. “Winning strategy.”

Clara accepted this answer only halfway, humming thoughtfully. An interview played during a break. A veteran racer, older, calm, smiling slightly. The interviewer asked something Jonas didn’t fully understand.

The racer replied, “Sometimes, to go left… you have to turn right first.”

Clara frowned immediately. “That doesn’t make sense,” she said. Jonas smirked, feeling smart for no reason. “You’ll understand when the time comes.” She looked at him suspiciously. “You don’t understand either.” Jonas jumped up. “I totally do!” She chased him around the sofa, laughing, the serious line forgotten as fast as it had arrived.

The next day, the empty ground became a race again. Jonas dragged a stick across the dirt, fixing the crooked line from yesterday. “No, no—this is the corner,” he said, crouching low. “You can’t cut it like that.” Clara squatted beside him, watching carefully. “Then make it bigger,” she said. “If it’s small, the car will fall.”

“The car won’t fall,” Jonas argued. “It’s very strong.”

She nodded like she believed him, then stood up and tapped her head. “Wait.” She put on an imaginary headset, adjusting it with both hands like she’d seen on television. Then she pressed two fingers to her ear, her face suddenly serious.

“Driver Jonas,” she said, lowering her voice. “Box, box.”

Jonas froze. “What? Why?”

“Because,” she said, glancing at the track. “Your tires are tired.”

“They’re not tired,” Jonas protested, grabbing an invisible steering wheel. “They’re brand new.”

Clara crossed her arms. “No. They’re gone.”

Jonas squinted. “Gone where?”

“Gone,” she repeated firmly. “If you don’t pit, you’ll lose.”

“I won’t lose,” he said quickly.

“You will,” she said, nodding once, very sure.

Jonas looked at the ground like he was thinking very hard. Then he sighed. “Okay. But fast. Like really fast.” Clara’s face lit up. She waved both arms wildly. “Go go go! Hurry!” Jonas jumped forward, pretending the car launched, making engine noises with his mouth. He almost tripped over his own feet and had to spin to keep balance.

They both burst out laughing. Jonas laughed so hard he fell backward onto the grass, still holding the invisible wheel. Clara laughed too, sitting down beside him, hugging her knees. For a while, they just lay there, breathing, the sky bright and quiet above them.

“I wanna be a real racer one day,” Jonas said suddenly. His voice wasn’t loud. He wasn’t joking either.

Clara turned her head to look at him.

“The best one,” he added, staring up at the clouds. His eyes were shining in a way Clara hadn’t seen before, like he was already somewhere far away.

She didn’t say anything right away. Then she sat up straighter. “Then I’ll help you.”

Jonas turned his head. “How?”

She thought for a second, lips pressed together. “I’ll tell you when to stop,” she said. “And when to go.”

Jonas smiled. “Like just now?”

“Yeah,” she said. “But better.”

“I won’t listen all the time,” he warned.

“I’ll make you,” she replied.

They both smiled. She held out her little finger. Jonas linked his with hers. “Promise,” he said.

“Promise,” she answered. Their hands stayed like that for a moment longer than needed.

A few days later, Jonas ran to Clara’s house like always. Same road. Same steps. Same impatience in his feet. He stopped in front of the gate, breathing a little fast, already smiling to himself. “Clara!” he called out. Nothing. He walked closer and knocked on the door. Once. Then again, louder. “Hey,” he said, half-laughing. “Okay, you win.” No footsteps. No voice. No sound from inside. Jonas tilted his head, pressing his ear lightly against the door like he always did when she was hiding on purpose.

“…Open it,” he said softly. “I know you’re there.” Still nothing. He stepped back, confused now. He knocked again, harder this time, his small fist stinging. “Clara!” The door didn’t open. The curtains didn’t move. For the first time, something felt wrong. The neighboring door creaked open.

“Oh,” the woman said gently when she saw him. “You’re looking for Clara?”

Jonas straightened immediately. He nodded fast. “Yeah. We were gonna play.” She hesitated for a moment, then said, “Didn’t you hear? They moved. Her family. To Japan.”

Jonas blinked. “…Oh,” he said. His voice came out steady. Too steady. “Yeah,” he added quickly. “I know.” The woman smiled sadly. “It was sudden. They left a few days ago.” Jonas nodded again. “Okay.” She went back inside. Jonas stayed. He stood there in front of the closed door, staring at it like it might open if he waited long enough. Like Clara would suddenly pull it open and laugh and say Got you. His chest felt tight. The pinky promise flashed in his mind — her small finger wrapped around his, her serious voice saying promise. His eyes burned.

“No,” he whispered.

Tears spilled out before he could stop them. He turned and ran. He ran with his hands covering his face, crying loudly now, breath breaking, feet barely watching where they went. He didn’t stop until he reached the empty ground — the place they played every evening. He climbed onto the swing and sat there. Waiting.

“She’ll come,” he muttered, wiping his nose with his sleeve. “It’s just a joke.” He swung his legs slowly. One hour passed. Then another.

“She’s gonna come back,” he said again, quieter now. “She’ll say it was a joke… and then I’ll cry and she’ll hug me.”

The sky darkened. Three hours. It was almost nine when footsteps crunched behind him.

“Jonas?” his mother called. He didn’t turn. “I don’t wanna go home,” he cried out suddenly. “She’ll come back!” His mother hurried over, kneeling in front of him. “Jonas… it’s late.”

“She will!” he sobbed. “Just wait one more hour, please Mom! She’ll say it was a joke!” She watched him cry, helpless, then pulled him into her arms. “Jonas,” she said softly. “They moved to Japan.”

“No,” he shook his head violently. “They didn’t. They didn’t.” His mother held him for a long moment, letting him cry until his breathing came out in broken hiccups. Then she pulled back just enough to look at his face.

“Jonas,” she said gently, brushing his hair away from his wet eyes. “Do you remember something?” He sniffed, nodding a little, not sure what she meant. “The promise,” she continued softly. “You two made a promise to each other, right?” Jonas’ lip trembled. He nodded again, slower this time.

“So remember it,” she said. “Always remember that promise.”

He looked up at her, eyes red, waiting.

“You will meet her again when you grow up,” she said quietly, like it was something certain. “And when that day comes… you’ll fulfill that promise. Together. Okay?”

Jonas didn’t speak. He just leaned forward and hugged her tightly, burying his face in her shoulder. She wrapped her arms around him, holding him as his small body shook with quiet sobs. He nodded against her, again and again. The night air was cool. The swing beside them swayed slightly, creaking in the dark. And the place where two children used to race every evening stayed empty.