Cross My Heart

by Katie Klein

  Daniel moved Sarah into our house, with my parents’ blessing, and he continued to work while she took some time off. A few months later, Joshua was born. Daniel immediately proposed, and Sarah said yes. She started school again, and they made plans to move into their own place as soon as they could afford it.

  The entire ordeal changed Daniel, though, and it’s because of this I know he expects more from me; he doesn’t want me making the same mistakes he did. Since he and Sarah got it backwards, it’s even more important to him that I do things in the right order.

  “But think of how adorable Joshy is going to look in his baby tuxedo,” I point out.

  Sarah laughs. “Daniel swears he’s going to be walking by the wedding.”

  “See? Can you imagine anything more perfect?” I ask. “A wedding in the park . . . Daniel and Josh . . . people who love you guys. . . . And God, Sarah, this isn’t nineteen-fifty. No one is going to faint if you show up to your own wedding wearing white. I mean, look at you. You guys are like, the most perfect little family ever.”

  She runs her fingers through her straight, brown hair at its part. “The most perfect family living with my future in-laws.”

  “You are not a burden. I don’t know what any of us are gonna do when you move out. And I know Mom: she’s gonna die if she doesn’t get to see her little man every day. I’m surprised they haven’t mentioned building you guys a guest house out back, just to keep you close by.”

  She smiles. “You’re sweet, Jaden. You always know what to say to make me feel better. I should’ve made you my maid of honor instead of my sister.”

  “I’m happy to be a bridesmaid. Besides, Melissa deserves it for sticking by you.” A brief silence falls between us. “You know,” I continue, “I feel sorry for your parents. Especially your mom. I mean, if she would just spend five minutes with Joshy. . . .”

  She sighs. “Which is why she stays as far away as possible.”

  “Are you sending them an invitation?” I ask quietly.

  She shrugs. “Maybe. If I can ever pick one.”

  “You should. You know . . . just in case.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And Sarah? If you want to go with swirly cursive, go with swirly cursive, okay? This is your wedding: don’t let anyone else tell you how to plan it.”

  Sarah rolls off my bed and stands. “Thanks, Jaden,” she says, smiling.

  “You’re welcome.”

  She leaves the room, shutting the door behind her. I spread out across my blue comforter and continue reading. When I finally pause long enough to check the time, it’s after midnight. Just one more chapter. But then the story is almost over, and I can’t stop. It’s past two in the morning when I read the final words, finishing the novella in one sitting.

  I sigh and close the book, thinking about everything I’ve just read: about love, and longing, and the inability to act on romantic feelings. It’s a terrible story—terrible because of what happens . . . what doesn’t happen.

  I turn off my lamp, plunging the room into darkness. My spinning thoughts keep me awake, though, even as I try to force sleep. I’m not sure when it finally happens—when I slip into unconsciousness—but I do. Still, I dream. I dream about Ethan and Mattie and what might have been.

  Chapter Five

  “I hate Zeena Frome.” I slam my paper lunch bag onto the picnic table in front of Parker. A cold breeze nips at my bare neck. I flip up the collar of my jacket, wishing for a scarf.

  He glances up from what looks like a science text. “Is this supposed to mean something to me?”

  I pick up my leg, climb over the deteriorating wooden bench—rough and gray, with nails popping out of joints—and sit down across from him. “Zeena Frome. Ethan’s wife. I hate her.”

  A surprised expression crosses his face; there’s an edge to his eyes. “What? Why?”

  “Because she’s such a faker. I mean, there is absolutely nothing wrong with her. You know that, right?”

  “Wait.” He pauses for a moment, thinking as he narrows his eyes. “You mean you’re already finished?”

  “Yes.”

  “I know you’re an assiduous intellectual and all, but I was under the impression I had a week to read it.”

  “Look who’s been studying Ms. Tugwell’s SAT vocabulary lists.” My eyes roll dramatically.

  He smirks, features softening.

  “Anyway, you won’t need a week,” I go on, shaking my head. “Once I started I couldn’t put it down. It was so addictive . . . like a train wreck.”

  “A train wreck,” he repeats, disbelieving.

  “You know—you don’t really want to see blood and destruction and death because you know it’ll haunt you forever, but at the same time you can’t look away?”

  “You’re comparing Ethan Frome to a train wreck?”

  “Yes!” I cry, smacking my palm against the jagged surface of the picnic table. I pick up a splinter in my finger. It stings. The tiny sliver of wood protrudes from my skin. “That’s exactly what I’m comparing it to,” I go on, voice lower. “It’s awful.”

  “A good awful, right?”

  I pinch my fingernails together and carefully pluck the splinter out. “A horrible awful. A tragic awful.”

  A group of sophomore girls scampers by our table, moving toward the building. A couple of them slow down, staring at us as they pass. I hear a few giggles, then high-pitched muttering. They’re talking about us. Parker doesn’t seem to notice.

  “So, what happens?” he asks.

  “I can’t tell you. You have to read it.”

  “I’m going to read it. I just . . . you know . . . want to know what I’m in for.”

  I eye him, cautious. He sounds sincere enough. Like maybe he’s not one of those guys who relies on SparkNotes or lifts his essays from the internet. Anyway, if he didn’t read it, I’d know in a second when it came time to brainstorm. “It’s awful,” I say, shaking my head. “There are no words.”

  His eyes glaze over, as if he’s working overtime to keep them from rolling. “I get it. It’s awful. Enough with the head bobbing. You can be more specific.”

  I sit up straighter and tuck my hair behind my ears, then open my lunch bag. “There’s this horrible accident. But it’s not really an accident. See, Zeena and Ethan are married, right? Zeena brings in her cousin, Mattie, to help around the house because she’s sick or something. Well, Ethan decides that he sorta has a thing for Mattie, but he doesn’t know how to act on it.”

  “I guess that’s where the whole romance comes in,” he says.

  “That’s just it,” I continue, pulling my sandwich out of the bag. “There is no romance. Ethan and Mattie don’t do anything. And Zeena? She’s just awful, complaining and moaning about how sick she is. Get this: she goes to a doctor who says she shouldn’t lift a finger anymore, and that she needs a ‘hired girl’ to come and take care of her.”

  “I thought that’s what Mattie was for,” Parker interrupts. He highlights a passage in his textbook, the bright yellow marks streaking across the page.

  “Yeah, well, not anymore. She realizes something is going on between Mattie and Ethan, and decides to kick her out.”

  “Makes sense.”

  My mouth drops in indignation, a spark of anger prickling at my stomach. “No! It doesn’t! Ethan and Zeena are not in love.”

  He props his head up with his fist, elbow on the table, eyeing me. Perplexed. “So you’re telling me the tragedy of this novel is a loveless marriage and a loser who can’t act on his adulterous feelings.”

  I wince, confidence slipping. Is that what I’m saying? “God, you make it sound so awful. And no, that’s not the tragedy. Not all of it, anyway. When Ethan is taking Mattie to the station they realize they can’t live without each other, so they decide to kill themselves. They’re sledding down a mountain, heading straight for this huge tree. They hit it, but it doesn’t kill them. I mean, it screws them both up—Ethan has a limp, and Mattie, well, she becomes
an invalid . . . all sick and ugly . . . and you will never guess what Zeena does. . . .”

  “What does Zeena do?” Parker asks, though it’s obvious he’s just trying to humor me.

  “She picks right up like there’s nothing wrong with her in the world, and starts taking care of Mattie. I mean, really. She was practically on her deathbed, needing some poor hired girl to come in and take care of her, and all of a sudden she’s well enough to care for herself and everyone else? It’s tragic. That’s all.”

  Parker sits motionless, studying my face, mouth hinting at a smile, and suddenly I remember what he said in the bathroom that day: about me being boring. And I wonder if he still believes that, or if, after our last few conversations, he’s starting to see me differently. Because part of me kind of wants to shatter that perception, that image he carries of me. I want to know what he sees when he looks at me now. I want to know what he’s thinking when he stares at me like that—with that quiet intensity. I don’t want him to think I’m boring. I don’t want to care what he thinks about me at all. I shift in my seat, then tuck my hair behind my ears. “Well?” I finally ask, breaking the uneasy silence.

  He tears his eyes away from mine. “So you’re saying Mattie and Ethan actually get what they want?”

  I scoff, then roll my eyes. Has he not listened to anything I’ve said? “No! They wanted to be together. That was the whole point.”

  He shrugs his shoulders. “They’re together, right?” he asks calmly.

  “Of course not!” I think about what he’s saying. “Um, well. . . . Yeah, I guess Mattie and Ethan are together in the end, but not like they want to be. Can you imagine watching the girl you love suffer for the rest of her life because of something stupid you did?”

  “Don’t know,” he replies. “It’s never happened. So I lack a certain degree of empathy.”

  Another extended stillness falls over us. I bite into my sandwich, feeling the cold for the first time since we started talking. I shiver, a chill rippling—goose bumps crawling up my spine, and gaze across the empty courtyard.

  “The story sounds good, anyway,” Parker says, flipping to the next page of his textbook, shoulders relaxed.

  The icy breeze tousles my hair, blowing a few, stray strands in my face. I brush them away with my fingertips. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin it for you.”

  “I asked.”

  I pick at my sandwich for a moment, then take another bite. It’s not until after I’ve swallowed that I notice Parker doesn’t have a sandwich, or a cafeteria tray, or even a drink.

  “So, do you not eat?” I ask, curious.

  “Depends on what kind of mood I’m in.”

  I think of my brothers as teenagers, when they consumed entire bags of potato chips and a two-liter in one sitting. Even Blake and Tony eat their lunches plus whatever they can coax from the snack machines. Parker is tall, and thin, but he doesn’t look scrawny beneath that leather jacket of his.

  “Fair enough. Why do you sit out here by yourself?”

  “Because it’s quiet.”

  “And that doesn’t get boring?”

  “Nope,” he replies.

  I let go of a sigh. “Am I bothering you?” I ask, point blank. I figure I’ve already ruined his peaceful lunch hour with my ramblings about Ethan and Mattie. He’s probably waiting for me to leave . . . but then . . .

  “Nah,” he says, shrugging.

  He shrugs a lot, I notice—wrapped in nonchalance, but not distant or uncaring. He’s quiet; he doesn’t waste words. Everything seems calculated, and thought out—not planned . . . more like . . . insightful, maybe.

  I reach into my brown paper sack and remove a plastic bag of Sun Chips. It crinkles and squeaks between my fingers as I split it open. I grab one, then pass the bag over to Parker. He stares at me for a moment, deliberating, before reaching for them. His fingers graze mine as he takes the bag from me. They’re ice—but I can feel a flicker of energy pass between us, and I fight the urge to touch him again, to prove it’s only my imagination.

  I clear my throat, studying my sandwich as he begins eating, my cheeks burning. When our eyes meet again he offers a sly grin. It’s fleeting, but it illuminates his features just the same, and I can’t help but smile in response.

  * * *

  Savannah meets me in the lobby at our raffle table at the end of last period. I ignore her grim expression as I examine my poster board, which, after a week, has already lost some of its rosy sparkle. We haven’t spoken since earlier that morning, and since I kind of missed lunch. . . .

  “Hey! What’s up?” I ask as she slides into one of the plastic chairs.

  “Not much. How are we doing?”

  “We’re up to about three hundred fifty,” I answer, sitting down beside her.

  “Not bad.” She pauses before continuing, and, with the atypical silence, it’s hard not to know exactly what will follow. “We, um, missed you at lunch.”

  “Yeah. I had some things to do,” I explain, trying to keep my tone as cheery as possible.

  “With Parker Whalen.”

  “It’s just this project. We’re finally making some headway and I wanna go with it . . . you know . . . while it lasts. I guess you saw me sitting with him today.”

  “Yeah, we did,” she replies, speaking for the entire table. “We kinda wondered why you didn’t mention you planned on eating with him.” Savannah leans back in her chair as the bell rings. Students swarm out of classrooms, tripping over themselves; laughter floods the hallways. The end of the day sounds are always twice as amped compared to morning; it’s as if, after eight hours, everyone has finally found the will to live.

  “Is this about me or Parker?” I ask, voice louder.

  “It’s just that, you know, people say things.”

  I hate thinking that people might be talking about me. Gossiping. Speculating. Especially my friends. I hate that I actually care what they think, wishing for a moment I was one of those girls who could just let go—be myself—and not worry so much about other people.

  “Like what, Savannah? What are people saying about him? It’s probably nothing I haven’t heard already. You’re forgetting I don’t have a choice here. He’s my partner. I have to spend time with him if we’re going to get this thing done. You have a partner. You know this.”

  She doesn’t answer. Conversations buzz around us; shouts and squeals; the heavy footsteps of guys in their Sketchers running through the foyer, thudding and squeaking against the tile floor; the bang of locker doors as they shut at intervals in a percussive chorus.

  I watch that same gaggle of sophomore girls from lunch pass through the lobby. This time they don’t stop to stare or whisper. They don’t even notice me. It’s as if, with Parker, I might be someone worth talking about. Alone, I’m just Jaden McEntyre, pushing another human rights campaign onto the masses. I swallow hard.

  “You know,” I continue as they disappear behind a corner. “I don’t think he’s as bad as everyone thinks. He’s smart. He has . . . things to say.”

  “It’s fine, Jaden. Okay? I don’t have a problem with you and Parker, but you should probably talk to Blake.”

  I turn back to her, lips pulled into a frown. “Why? What’s wrong with Blake?”

  “Let’s just say he wasn’t very happy with the idea of you and Parker Whalen sitting outside eating lunch together.”

  “It’s schoolwork.”

  “I know,” Savannah replies. “Just talk to Blake. I mean, he is your boyfriend.”

  I let out a sarcastic laugh. “There’s absolutely nothing for him to worry about. This is . . . literature. That’s all.”

  Savannah stands, picks up her bag, and tosses it over her shoulder. “It’s fine. Just keep Blake informed, k? I don’t really want to get caught in the middle of this . . . whatever it is.” She turns and walks away, leaving me alone at the table—saving the children of Bangladesh—all by myself.

  “Okay,” I reply. But she’s already halfway d
own the hall, mingling into the crowd.

  I sigh, remove my cell phone from my purse, and punch in Blake’s digits.

  Chapter Six

  On Monday afternoon, as I open my locker door just before the final bell, I’m surprised to see a little white note card flutter end over end to the floor. I bend down to pick it up, then turn it over, examining the words written in dark, block print: Zeena Sucks.

  The words draw a smile. I fan my face with the card and wonder how Parker knew which locker was mine. I turn around, half expecting him to appear—to find him watching me. But I’m alone. I study the card in my hands, my heart wavering momentarily when I realize that, at some point between the last trip to my locker and now, Parker thought of me—thought enough to write a message, and then enough to search out my locker and give it to me. I brush my fingers across the Harvard crest and shut the metal door as the final bell rings. If the note is true, it means Parker might’ve finished reading the book, which means he might be ready to discuss it. There’s only one way to find out.

  The library is nearly empty, the only noise coming from the librarian and her assistant, the latter checking in various books at the counter—slipping cards in the back pockets and setting them aside, one by one—and the former typing information into the computer database, the keyboard clacking with every strike.

  I move toward Parker—the same circular table we occupied the week prior—breathing in the smell of old cardboard and mildewed pages. I suck in a quick breath as I approach, then calmly release it.

  “So?” I ask, sitting down in the chair across from him.

  “So?” he repeats, not taking his eyes off his textbook, so nondescriptly that I begin to wonder if this—me being here—is a mistake.

  “What do you think? I mean, besides ‘Zeena Sucks.’” I offer a bright smile, letting him know, in my own little way, that I found his note—and I appreciated it.

  “I don’t know,” he replies, closing his book, sitting back in his chair, slouching. I’m surprised to see Geometry II gracing the cover. Second-year Geometry is an elective—an elective that I didn’t even sign up for. I unzip my bag, pulling out my English notebook and, with it, the notes I already jotted down about Ethan and Mattie and their story.