Cross My Heart

by Katie Klein

  Parker reaches out to shake her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. McEntyre,” he says. It surprises me to see this, actually . . . not because I think Parker isn’t polite. . . . Well, yeah, I guess that’s exactly what I was thinking. He seems like the kind of guy who avoids parents, and prefers head nods or . . . fist bumps or something. I can add “reserved politeness” to the growing tally of things I’m wrong about concerning him. I’m not above admitting I’m wrong. In fact, in this case, I’d rather be wrong.

  Mom maneuvers Joshua to her other leg. “You too. Jaden tells me you’re working on a paper together?”

  “A series of papers, actually,” he explains.

  I shrug. “It’s a pretty big project. On Ethan Frome. That’s why we get partners.”

  “Sounds nice. Are you interested in sticking around for dinner?” she asks civilly.

  “Thanks, but my dad will probably be expecting me when he gets off work.”

  Mom eyes him warily before turning her attention back to the magazine. “All right, then,” she says, licking the tip of her finger. “Don’t let me keep you.”

  I grab our drinks and chips. “Come on. We’ll be in my room if you need anything,” I tell Mom.

  Parker follows me through the foyer, footsteps close.

  “Jaden?” she calls.

  “Yeah?”

  “Why don’t you work in the front room? We won’t bother you.”

  I snort. “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 climb the stairs, suppressing my laughter. Is she that worried about Parker and me being alone together? I mean, suggesting the front room? It’s practically boarded up from November to April every year. We’d die of hypothermia.

  Parker takes his time, studying the photographs hanging on the wall above the steps—my family in different stages over the years.

  “Well, this is typical,” he mutters, voice flat, dropping his bag to my bedroom floor.

  “What’s typical?” I ask. I skim my fingers across the burgundy Harvard sticker secured just above my light switch. “Water or soda?”

  “Soda,” he replies. “And your room is typical.”

  I toss him the can of cola. “Why do you say that?”

  “It’s just . . . exactly how I pictured it, that’s all.”

  I snicker. “Okay Parker, I’m gonna pretend you did not just admit to me that you fantasize about my bedroom.”

  “I wasn’t fantasizing,” he says with a slight smile, a faint blush creeping to his cheeks. “It’s just that this is exactly how I imagined it would be: clean . . . organized . . . boring.”

  He thinks my room is boring? I laugh. “There is nothing boring about my room. In fact . . . it’s the coolest room I know. Parts of it, anyway.”

  “Really?” he asks, disbelieving.

  “Really. For instance. . . .” I jerk my chin toward the closet, motioning for him to follow, then open the door and step 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?” he asks.

  “You wish,” I say, rolling my eyes.

  But the idea of spending seven minutes alone in a closet with Parker. . . . I shiver, but it’s a warm shiver, and I’m not sure I can pass it off as being near the frosty third floor. I shove the thought away as we continue to the back, passing a long rack of clothes and stepping over my shoes. I don’t need to stoop to get through the door frame, but Parker, several inches taller than me, does. “Come on,” I urge, climbing the hidden set of stairs.

  “You know, I was just kidding about the whole seven minutes thing,” he says as we reach the top.

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

  “Again, that’s not what I meant.”

  I flip on the light switch and lead him into the unfinished third floor, inhaling a mix of insulation and damp wood. Daylight slips between exposed cracks in the walls. Nails protrude from the open ceilings. We pass the splintered, wooden beams supporting the roof, and step around the cardboard boxes scattered about, some holding Christmas decorations, others full of old baby clothes or toys, or things we’ve outgrown that my mom can’t bear to give away.

  “Wow,” Parker mutters, low under his breath.

  “I know,” I reply. “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?” he asks.

  I shrug. “Creepy old house . . . you know.”

  “Is it haunted or something?”

  “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.”

  Parker wanders over to a window, where I’ve propped an old, pink beanbag chair and stacked a few books beside a Disney Princesses lamp.

  “There’s another set of stairs, so you can get here from the hallway. 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.” I point to the window. “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.”

  Parker moves closer, leaning against the glass. “Aren’t you the daredevil,” he says, examining the tree.

  “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.”

  Parker follows me back to the stairs. I turn off the light and we descend in semi-darkness, feeling the prickly, sheetrock walls with our hands.

  “Not bad,” Parker says as we re-enter my bedroom. I shut the closet 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.”

  I smile knowingly. “This isn’t a restoration.”

  “But I thought. . . .”

  “Come here.” I walk over to the bathroom and flick on the light switch. “See that?” I point to the wrench. “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. . . .” I return to my bedroom and bounce on a soft spot. It groans. “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 nineteen-sixty. I’m grateful there’s electricity and indoor plumbing.”

  “But your dad is like, this huge construction guy,” Parker says, perplexed.

  I fold my arms across my chest. “New construction, yes,” I say, laughing. “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.”

  We stand still for a moment, trapped in a thoughtful silence.

  “I just feel kinda bad for my mom, you know?” I finally say. “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,” I continue, evaluating my room: the blue rug and white wicker bed frame, the same ruffled, sky blue bedspread I’ve had since I was eleven. “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.” The words tumble out, one after the other. It’s like I can’t
stop them. These words . . . I’ve never spoken them aloud. Not to Savannah or Ashley or Blake. And I don’t know what made me pick Parker. What made me say them now, when I was perfectly happy keeping it all inside.

  I glance over at him and his liquid eyes fix on mine, soft. Sincere. And they pull me into him, because it’s like he knows; he understands what it’s like to feel disappointment.

  “I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

  I swallow hard as the ground beneath me tilts, throwing me off kilter. “Anyway,” I say, wrenching my eyes from his, forcing the feeling away. “We should get to work. I hope you like Sun Chips. They’re supposed to be better for you than regular potato chips.” I toss the bag on the bed and grab my bottled water.

  “They’re fine. Good, actually.”

  “Good,” I reply, faking a smile, pushing things back to the way they were—the way they should be. “So. Ethan and Mattie. What do we know about the suicide attempt?” I ask, turning my full attention to Ethan Frome and his tragedy.

  Parker and I gather our notebooks and sit down on my bed. He leans against my pillow, one leg tucked beneath him. I try not to think about how surreal this is—Parker and me sharing Sun Chips, relaxing on my bed like we’ve done this forever. . . .

  My pillow will smell like him tonight. My heart flutters.

  “They both wanted it,” he replies.

  “They’d rather be dead together than alive without each other,” I say, concentrating, scribbling my notes onto the page.

  “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,” I confirm. “She still has all the power.”

  “Actually,” Parker begins, “I was wondering what would’ve happened if he wouldn’t have swerved.”

  “You mean if they would’ve succeeded? Good point.” I think about this for a moment, then straighten. “You know what really bothered me, though?”

  “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?”

  Parker shrugs. “I don’t know. I just assumed he resigned himself to the fact that since the suicide didn’t work he and Mattie weren’t meant to be together.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “In thirty seconds?” I ask, 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.”

  I feel an unexpected flittering in my stomach, watching him. Listening.

  He smiles at me, even as his eyes narrow, like he notices a change in my expression or something. “What?” he asks, curious.

  He’s doing this—smiling, I mean—more and more. I have to admit, I kind of like it. I shake my head, smiling back, amused. It’s not enough to say that each time his mouth opens something amazing and brilliant and intuitive comes out, that he surprises me every day.

  My cell phone vibrates on my desk, pulsating, jarring us back to present. I jump off the bed, reaching for it, then read the text message from Blake: miss u! A wave of guilt crashes over me. Because Blake misses me. Because he has no clue where I am. Who I’m with. That Parker Whalen is sitting on my bed not five feet away from me as I’m reading his message. That I am a liar and a pathetic girlfriend. Because if he knew. . . .

  I frown. “Or maybe he didn’t really love her at all,” I go on, continuing our conversation. Staring at the screen. The message. The photo of a heavenly Blake. “Maybe he loved the idea of her.”

  Moments pass. And it’s like the low, murky clouds from outside have crowded between us.

  Parker clears his throat. “Hanson?” he asks, voice cool and balanced.

  I bite into my lip, nodding. “Yeah.”

  Chapter Ten

  Parker is already at his desk, going over his notes, when I enter the classroom the following day. As usual, he doesn’t lift his head as I trek down the aisle to my seat. I set my books on top of my desk, glance over at him, then hastily turn away. Ms. Tugwell moves from the lectern, tennis shoes groaning beneath her weight, and begins writing literary terms across the board. I watch her for a moment, listening to the marker thud and squeak before looking over at Parker again. This time I stare, willing him to turn to me.

  What is this, anyway? I can talk to him at lunch, give him my chips, make plans to see him, invite him to my house and show him the third floor. We can talk about love and suicide . . . but he can’t even acknowledge my existence outside of Ethan Frome?

  I continue to watch him. Look at me, Parker. Look. At. Me. I beg silently. Our classmates scurry into the room, the last one jumping into his seat just before the late bell. When the ringing stops, Parker moves his head toward me, catching my eye. He looks away, and, at first, I don’t think he’s going to turn back. . . . But then he does.

  Something catches in my throat, and I smile, surprised.

  He offers a tiny nod in my direction.

  My insides twist in a flurry of excitement, and I stifle the laugh welling inside.

  Parker Whalen knows I’m alive.

  * * *

  On Thursday, just before lunch, I open my locker and discover another white note card. I flip it over: Library: 3:00, and a question mark.

  “Hey!”

  I jump, cram the message deep inside my locker, and slam the door shut.

  “Blake! Hey!” I sputter, spinning around on my heel. My heart pumps rapidly in my chest. I tuck my hair behind my ears, hoping he didn’t see the note or what it said, that he won’t ask what it means. Because I’m not entirely sure he’ll like what I have to say, and I don’t think I can lie. Keeping my meetings with Parker under wraps is one thing. Lying to Blake’s face about them is another. I force a stiff smile. “Lunch. Are you ready?”

  “I am if you are.”

  I link my arm through his, breathing a quick sigh of relief as we head to the cafeteria. The further we move from my locker the more comfortable I feel. Blake is clueless, and it’s imperative he stay that way.

  Parker is already at our table, notebook open to a clean page, when I arrive that afternoon.

  “Winter,” he says as I sit down on the cool seat, not directly across from him, like before, but leaving only a chair between us.

  “I hate winter,” I mutter. “What about it?”

  “It’s crucial. Everything that happens takes place during the winter.”

  “Winter sucks,” I reiterate.

  “Exactly.”

  I blow out a sigh. “I’m not following. Are you talking about now or the book?”

  He slants a look sideways. “What’s up with you?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

  “Nothing . . . it’s just . . . one of those days,” I explain, staring out the window at the dark, bleak sky; the naked trees, their branches dancing. “Anyway. I have this thing against winter. It’s like . . . after Christmas life stops or something. There’s nothing to look forward to. The days are short and cold . . . it never snows here. It’s just . . . my least favorite season, that’s all. It depresses me.”

  Parker leans back in his seat and crosses his arms, the corners of his mouth turning up. I just can make out the tiniest trace of a dimple in his left cheek. “You mean to tell me that Jaden McEntyre gets depressed?”

  I manage a half-smile, face flushing as the temperature rises. “Sometimes, believe it or not, yes. I get depressed.”

  “No way,” he mutters, shaking his head in disbelief. “I never would’ve guessed. You’ve got that whole ‘life is perfect come save the world with me’ act down pat. Who’d have thought you could use some therapy?”

  “Shut up. It’s not an act,”
I say, brow furrowed. “And I don’t need therapy. It’s important to think about things bigger than yourself—to try to make a difference. You only get one chance, you know? Why not do everything you can while you’ve got it?”

  “You say that like there’s something bigger and better out there,” Parker says, watching me closely.

  I shrug. Maybe there is. “So what’s your deal with winter? Are we talking about me or Ethan?”

  “Actually,” he begins, “I was talking about Ethan . . . and winter.”

  “What about it?”

  “It’s a central element to the novel. I mean, think about it. It’s cold, business is bad, Zeena is sick. Everything is moving at a snail’s pace. He’s kind of like you in that sense: who wouldn’t be depressed?”

  “Everything is so much worse because it’s cold and dark and problems seem never-ending,” I confirm. I think about this for a moment: about Ethan and how bitter and dismal his surroundings were . . . how everything was covered in snow . . . and how Mattie and their time together was the only thing he looked forward to.

  “And didn’t Ethan say if his mother would’ve died in the spring he would have never married Zeena?” Parker continues, interrupting my thoughts.

  “Parker, you’re fairly brilliant,” I say, writing this down in my notebook. I never dreamed that Parker Whalen would contribute this much to our project—that we would talk this much, even. Totally bizarre. I’m making a note about Ethan’s decision to marry Zeena when I realize. . . .“Oh My God,” I mutter.

  Parker’s forehead wrinkles with concern. “What is it?”

  I gasp, hand flying to my mouth. “Oh. My. God.” I pull my hair away from my face and close my eyes. “Tell me today’s not Thursday,” I practically whisper.

  “Um, yeah,” he replies. “It’s Thursday.”

  “Oh my God!”

  The librarian shushes me from her desk. I jump to my feet.

  “What’s wrong?” Parker asks, eyeing me cautiously.

  “I missed my meeting!” I hiss.

  “What meeting?”

  I grab my notes, stuffing them into my bag, wrinkling them. “At the elementary school. We’re raising money for the library and I’m in charge. Jesus! How could I let this happen? I never forget anything!”