Collateral Damage

by Katie Klein

  "Yeah."

  "Great." And just when she's about to leave: "Oh, these are for you."

  She opens her brown paper lunch sack, removes a bag of Sun Chips, and tosses it on the table in front of me. I work to cover my surprise. "Aw, Jade. You were thinking about me," I tease.

  "Don't be so sure," she replies, but I can hear the smile in her voice, even if it never reaches her eyes. "I'll see you later."

  She strolls back to the cafeteria. I watch her saunter away, graceful and confident. It's Erik's voice, this time, reminding me not to stare. I suck in a cold breath of fresh air and examine the bag of chips, turning it over in my hands.

  My eyes lift again, one more time, catching her before she disappears.

  * * *

  The plan was to head back to Trenton this afternoon, to check out two separate noise violations not far from the houses I've already hit up. At least one renter was cited for providing alcohol to minors.

  Instead I'm circling Bedford city limits, checking the time on my cell at every intersection, watching the minutes tick closer to three-thirty. The gloves, leather jacket, and helmet work to stave off the icy air, but I can't keep from shivering, my heart from pounding, thundering with the roar of the bike.

  I should've told her no.

  I should've gone to Trenton, anyway.

  I should've gone to the gym to burn off some of this energy.

  I slide my bike along the curb in front of a restored Victorian right on time. I triple check the house number against Jaden's directions, then unstrap my helmet and slip it off my head.

  This is it.

  I exhale an anxious breath and cross the front yard—dead, brown grass crunching beneath my shoes. The house is massive, towering above me against a flat, gray sky. I drop the helmet on one of the weathered rocking chairs on the front porch, take another deep breath, and ring the bell.

  In a moment there are footsteps, the sound of muffled voices, and, when the door opens, Jaden smiles brightly, almost...happy to see me. A cold wind swirls around us, pushing leaves across the porch slats. She pulls her sweater tighter.

  "Hey."

  "Hi. Glad you found it." She opens the door further, and steps aside to let me in.

  "Wasn't too hard to find," I reply.

  "Small town."

  Exceedingly.

  I follow her through the dining room.

  "Mom?" she calls.

  I stifle a groan.

  Of course her mom is home.

  This is the problem with going to people's houses. Now I have to meet the parents? My shoulders square as we step into the kitchen, spine stiffening.

  Jaden and her mom share the same hair color, but as far as similarities go, that's about it. They have matching noses, small and sloped. But Jaden's eyes are green. Must be her dad's. And her smile.... Jade's is way more genuine.

  "This is Parker," she says, introducing me. "Parker, this is my mom and my nephew, Joshua."

  So I was wrong about Jaden being an only child. She has a nephew.

  Her mom eyes me carefully, curiosity radiating in waves. This woman hates me already. I can feel it. Part of me wants to give her a reason to. I can play into the stereotype. I can be anything these people want me to be. But the rational, more level-headed side prevails.

  I can be Mr. Perfect, too.

  "It's nice to meet you, Mrs. McEntyre," I say, extending my hand.

  It works. I've caught her off guard. She shakes it, expression relaxing as she shifts Jaden's nephew to her other leg.

  "You too. Jaden tells me you're working on a paper together?"

  "A series of papers, actually."

  "It's a pretty big project. On Ethan Frome. That's why we get partners," Jaden explains.

  "Sounds nice. Are you interested in sticking around for dinner?" she asks. But I know this game. This polite banter, this back and forth. No way does she actually want me to stay. I should say yes, floor them all—leave them scrambling for words, another chair, an extra place setting—but I take the bait and toss it back. "Thanks, but my dad will probably be expecting me when he gets off work," I lie.

  At the mention of my father she offers another wary once over, then turns her attention back to the magazine she was reading when we interrupted. "All right, then," she says, licking the tip of her finger. "Don't let me keep you."

  Jaden grabs a couple of drinks from the counter. "Come on." Then, to her mom: "We'll be in my room if you need anything."

  I follow her past the long dinner table, back to the foyer. We've almost reached the stairs when: "Jaden?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Why don't you work in the front room? We won't bother you."

  Jaden snorts, the idea amusing her. "Because it's freezing in there. And it's closed off in the winter, remember? Anyone who opens the door dies? Your words, not mine."

  I swallow back a smile. Someone doesn't want us upstairs together. Alone. In a bedroom. Alone.

  Fifteen minutes before Mrs. McEntyre is calling us, asking how we're doing, if we need anything—I guarantee it.

  I follow Jaden up the stairs. The wall running beside us gives me more insight into her than anything I've seen so far. It's full of family photographs. Grandparents. Her mom and dad on their wedding day. She has two brothers—both older than she is, which makes her the baby of the family. And she's the only girl.

  That explains the sense of entitlement.

  I was right about the eyes, too. They're her father's. Her oldest brother's eyes are almost the exact same color. He's pictured again with his wife and Joshua. Next to them is a pig-tailed Jaden—she can't be more than six or seven. Her two front teeth are missing, but she holds nothing back. It's the biggest, cheesiest grin I've ever seen on a little girl, and it's hard not to smile back at it.

  At the top of the stairs I spot a trio of baby portraits—Jaden and her brothers, their birth dates printed underneath.

  She had a birthday not too long ago.

  I study the year and do some quick math.

  She just turned eighteen.

  Eighteen.

  I'm not sure what to do with this information now that I have it. It's almost too much, knowing this—that she's only three years younger than me. That she's a legal adult—free and clear to make her own decisions.

  That she's not off-limits.

  Technically.

  I force the thought out of my head.

  Jaden's bedroom is bright and airy—as bright as it could possibly be on such a cloudy day. It's nothing like Callie's place, with her matching pillows and Pottery Barn vases. Jaden has hardwood floors that might be original to the house. Callie's are fake. Jaden leans toward minimalist. Every built-in shelf at Callie's, every counter, is occupied by some kind of candle or picture frame. Flowers. Bowls of marbles. Books placed "just so" on coffee tables and end tables. Callie is going through an orange phase. Everything in Jaden's room is a calm blue—the rug, the walls, the curtains, the bedspread.

  Strange. I had her pegged as a "pink" kind of girl.

  "Well this is typical," I tell her, easing my bookbag to the floor.

  "What's typical?" she asks, skimming her fingers across a crimson Harvard sticker taped above the light switch. "Water or soda?"

  "Soda. And your room is typical."

  She tosses a can of cola. I catch it one-handed.

  "Why do you say that?" she asks.

  "It's just...exactly how I pictured it, that's all."

  She laughs. It's light and musical and.... "Okay, Parker. I'm gonna pretend you did not just admit to me that you fantasize about my bedroom."

  Wait. What? She thinks I fantasize about....

  My cheeks grow warm.

  That's not what I meant.

  "I wasn't fantasizing. It's just that this is exactly how I imagined it would be. Clean...organized...boring."

  "There is nothing boring about my room. In fact...it's the coolest room I know. Parts of it, anyway."

  "Really?" I ask, disbelieving.


  "Really. For instance...." She motions for me to follow, then opens her closet door and slips inside.

  "Aren't we a little mature to be hiding in here? You're not trying to get seven minutes out of me are you?" I tease.

  "You wish." I think she rolls her eyes. In fact, I'm almost sure she does. But I know that tone. It's a little on the defensive side—like maybe there's an "I wish" trapped inside it. Wishful thinking on my part, because that's when I remember her lips—the little pout she does when she's annoyed. And while I could make seven minutes trapped in a closet with me worth anyone's while, something tells me...so could she.

  And she's eighteen.

  God. Go there, and in two seconds...

  Cold. Shower.

  Think ice.

  Think grandmas.

  Think wrinkly grandmas standing in line at the DMV.

  We head to the back of the small room, moving toward a set of stairs. I duck, passing beneath the frame.

  "Come on." She starts to climb.

  "You know, I was just kidding about the whole seven minutes thing," I say as we reach the top.

  Ice.

  "Like I believe that. You just admitted you fantasize about my room."

  I swallow back my surprise. This girl is ten times more brazen on her turf than she ever was at school. "Again, that's not what I meant."

  She flips on the light switch and we're on an unfinished third floor. The room is huge. The whole house is huge. Daylight trickles through cracks in the walls; nails protrude from open ceilings. It smells like insulation and cardboard. And it's cold. Like we're standing outside in her yard cold.

  And I realize: she has a secret passageway.

  "Wow," I mumble, thoroughly impressed.

  "I know. I love this place. I used to come up here all the time. It was like my own little hideout. I could read, study, stare out the window and think—whatever—and no one would bother me. No one even knew where I was. It would've been great for slumber parties, too, except none of my friends have ever wanted to sleep over."

  "Why's that?" I ask.

  Her shoulders lift, shrugging. "Creepy old house...you know."

  "Is it haunted or something?" Because that would be cool—in a Poeish kind of way.

  "If it is I don't know about it. I mean, I hear funny noises every now and then, but I've never seen anything strange. If it's haunted, whatever is haunting it doesn't seem to mind us being here."

  I wander across the room, moving to a window. Jaden's been here—a nine-year-old Jaden with her pink beanbag chair, pink lamp, and a stack of old books.

  So she was a "pink" kind of girl. At one time, at least.

  "There's another set of stairs, so you can get here from the hallway," she continues. "My mom was going to turn this space into a bonus room or something. Something else that didn't get done. You can actually get in here from the roof. There's a huge oak tree just to the left. It takes you to the second story. There's a dormer over there, and you can climb right up. I used to do it all the time."

  I peer through the dirty glass. She's right. I can see the oak tree, its low branches. "Aren't you the daredevil."

  "Yeah, well, I haven't done it lately. Sarah and Daniel and the baby sleep on that side of the house, so.... Anyway, we should go."

  Sarah and Daniel and the baby....

  Joshua. Her oldest brother and his family still live here.

  She flips off the light and we descend the stairs in semi-darkness, feeling the walls with our hands.

  "Not bad," I say, re-entering her bedroom. She closes the door behind us.

  "Pretty cool, right? I bet my room's not so boring now, is it?"

  "Nah. I like the whole thing anyway...you know, restoration houses."

  She smiles, but it's a sad kind of smile. "This isn't a restoration."

  "But I thought...."

  "Come here." She flips the bathroom light on. "See that?" she asks, pointing to her sink. Her sink—it's missing a nozzle. Her sink has a pipe sticking out of the porcelain, and a little wrench perched on the edge. "If this house was a restoration...it would be restored. Meaning I wouldn't have to break my wrist every time I need cold water. The toilet is...ancient...the tub needs refinishing...."

  She steps back into her bedroom and bounces on the wood floor. It creaks. "The floor needs bracing. Downstairs? The ceiling in the den is sagging in the corner...we can't get hot water in the kitchen sink...this house is a total problem. I mean, I don't think anything major has been done since 1960. I'm grateful there's electricity and indoor plumbing."

  "But your dad is like, this huge construction guy," I say, not understanding.

  She folds her arms across her chest and laughs—a quiet, humorless laugh. "New construction, yes. Or more importantly: Other People's New Construction. When it comes to ours? Forget it. The best part of the house is what you see when you drive by slowly and keep going. When you stop? No way. It's a huge mess."

  A huge mess.

  Perfect on the outside, all screwed up on the inside. I open my mouth to tell her...I don't know...something. But the words aren't there.

  "I just feel kinda bad for my mom, you know?" she continues. "I mean, this was supposed to be her project. It's like we moved in, slapped a few coats of paint on the walls and outside and that was it. I know she had big plans for this place. She wanted to re-stain the floors. Update the kitchen. She always saw how much potential it had, and here we are years later and it's virtually unchanged." She stops here. Her cheeks flush and her eyebrows draw together, like she's confused about something. Embarrassed, maybe. I don't want her to feel embarrassed around me. She shouldn't feel embarrassed around me.

  I know all about "huge messes" and "screwed up on the inside."

  "I'm sorry," I reply. She glances at me, and our eyes meet. That sparkle—it's gone. And I feel a pang of something in my gut, something unfamiliar, part of me wanting to reach out and touch her—a gentle tap on the arm, an "It's okay." But her eyes tear from mine as quickly as they found them. She sucks in a huge breath. "Anyway," she says, voice lifting. "We should get to work. I hope you like Sun Chips. They're supposed to be better for you than regular potato chips." She tosses the bag on her bed and grabs a bottled water.

  "They're fine. Good, actually."

  She seems pleased to hear this. "Good," she replies, all smile—like it never happened. The whole conversation—these confessions.... "So. Ethan and Mattie. What do we know about the suicide attempt?"

  Just like that, it's over.

  We sit down on her bed. I make myself comfortable, leaning against her pillow—her headboard. It smells like her—like her shampoo, or her perfume, maybe—like flowers. Roses. She sits across from me, Indian-style, and chews on the ends of her hair.

  "They both wanted it," I remind her, flipping to a clean page in my notebook.

  "They'd rather be dead together than alive without each other," she adds, letting her hair fall to her shoulder, scribbling the note.

  "Zeena is still controlling Ethan, though. Because even as they're coming down the hill, he swerves when he sees her face."

  "It's almost like she won't even let them die together in peace. She still has all the power."

  "Actually, I was wondering what would've happened if he wouldn't have swerved," I muse. It would've changed the entire outcome of the story. Still a tragedy, but more like Romeo and Juliet. At least in dying together they could have found happiness in life after death.

  If such a thing exists.

  "You mean if they would've succeeded? Good point." She sits quietly for a moment, lost in thought. "You know what really bothered me, though?" she finally asks.

  "What?"

  "How fast Ethan was able to get up and move on with his life once he realized they didn't die. It was like...'Oh Mattie we didn't make it. I better go feed my horse.' I mean, what was that about?"

  I shrug. "I don't know. I just assumed he resigned himself to the fact that since the suicide didn't w
ork he and Mattie weren't meant to be together."

  "In thirty seconds?" she asks, disbelieving. "I mean, a minute ago Ethan was gonna die if he couldn't have her, and, when he didn't, it was like...I don't know."

  "Maybe he had a change of heart. Maybe his love for her was bigger than that. He wanted what was best for her, even if that meant her moving on without him."

  She's watching me again. She's watching like she doesn't understand. Like I'm not supposed to say these things. I'm not allowed. And I know it's because of everything she's heard—the stories floating around about me. There's a reason she accused me of being a slacker the first time we spoke. I'm nothing like she expected. And I have to admit, part of me is glad. Because part of me wants this girl to know me. Not the me she sees at school—but the real me. I'm just not sure how to do that without ruining everything I've created for myself there. Still, I'd like to know what she's thinking, what she sees when she looks at me like this. I force a smile. "What?"

  She shakes her head ever so slightly, eyes narrowing. But as she opens her mouth to respond, her cell phone vibrates—calling to her from across the room. She jumps off the bed, drawn to the sound, and picks it up from her desk. She frowns, examining the screen. I can't tell if it's a call or a text, but she doesn't answer either way.

  "Or maybe he didn't really love her at all," she says, half to herself. "Maybe he loved the idea of her."

  For a second it seems impossible we're still talking about Ethan and Mattie, but I'm pretty sure I know who's on the other end of that interruption.

  Mr. Perfect has impeccable timing.

  I don't believe in signs.

  I'm glad I don't believe in signs.

  * * *

  I'm recopying my English notes later that evening, trying to organize them into coherency, when my phone buzzes on the couch beside me. I pick it up, check the screen, then the time.

  Shit.

  "Callie?" I answer.

  "Hey. Did you forget we had a phone date?" she teases.

  "No, I didn't. I'm sorry. I was working on these notes and I lost track of time." I toss the papers aside, lean back, rub my eyes.

  A basketball game is muted on TV; dinner dishes are pushed aside to make room for books. Tonight was a Hot Pockets night. Every night feels like a Hot Pockets night, lately.