by Katie Klein
Across the table Savannah smiles.
This is the Jaden they want: the organizer, the leader, the project manager. The one person they can count on to get behind a penny drive to raise funds for a Mexican orphanage, or a bracelet campaign to raise awareness about glaucoma. The Jaden who jumps from one cause to the next and the next and the next. They don’t want the uneasy Jaden. The one who worries constantly about Harvard and her future. They don’t want the Jaden who wastes her time concerned about a guy who, in their opinion, isn’t worth the effort. They don’t want the Jaden who wonders about Parker Whalen, keeps secrets about him, and is frequently overtaken by thoughts of him. The Jaden prone to blank stares and far-off gazes.
The conversation shifts to that weekend’s basketball game. There’s no possible way they’ll ever make it to the tournament, but, as always, Tony and Blake just know they can beat this team. I’m only half-aware of the chatter going on around me, trying my best not to look out the window again, the whole time wondering: what good is the Jaden who single-handedly saves the universe, when there are issues much closer that are just as real . . . and just as important?
* * *
The gymnasium is packed on Friday night. For some strange reason the community has always supported the basketball team, but things amped up approximately two seconds ago, when Tony landed a shock three-pointer and put our team in the lead. I can hardly hear myself think for all the screaming, not counting the fact that Savannah, sitting beside me, nearly rips my arm out of its socket with her excited tugging.
During the commotion, a woman, baby planted on her hip, stops in front of our raffle table. The baby is younger than Joshua, his smooth skin flushed pink, and wearing a onesie and no shoes, even though it’s barely above freezing outside.
She asks what we’re raffling. I immediately remember taping my poster to the front of the table (only a spattering of glitter remaining, now), which clearly states what we’re giving away (a Wii), and that the proceeds are going to help poor children (in Bangladesh). I smile anyway, though, and give my little spiel, keeping my voice just above the roar of the crowd.
“I don’t have five bucks on me right now, but I’ll send Ray down in a few minutes to buy us a ticket,” she says. I nod politely, though I have no idea who Ray is—or if I’ll even know him when I see him. Whoever he is, I hope he’s holding on to socks and a jacket for that child, or my next fundraiser will be a clothing drive for the poor kids of Bedford. The woman wanders away; the baby keeps watching us.
“He is on fire!” Savannah says.
“They’re playing really well tonight!” I agree, yelling above the stomping feet against the stands, the crowd chanting, new tennis shoes squeaking against the gym floor.
She turns to me, squinting her eyes. “What? I can’t hear a thing!”
“He’s on fire!” I repeat, louder.
She continues cheering for Tony while I open the black money bag and start counting five and ten dollar bills. In a few seconds the crowd is on its feet, shouts reverberating—magnified—consuming our tiny gymnasium.
“What happened?” I ask.
“Your man just scored!”
“Oh. Well. Yay!” I go back to counting.
“I can’t believe we’ve sold this many tickets,” I muse, flipping through the bills. “We must’ve made a thousand bucks tonight alone.”
“I can’t believe this many people come out to see our basketball team lose,” Savannah replies. “Don’t they have anything better to do on a Friday night than show up at some high school ball game? I mean, I’ve seen people here who have already graduated. How sad is that?”
I glance to my right where Vince De Luca, the most infamous of these graduates, is holding court. “As long as their faces aren’t painted,” I say, eyeing him carefully.
“I know, right?”
The third quarter buzzer rings. I check the score. We’re trailing by a few points. It’s not anything we can’t make up in the final quarter, though, and this surprises me. Tony and Blake were right: the team is better. Usually by this time I’ve eaten too much popcorn, drank my way through two bottled waters, and I’m checking the time. At least they’re giving us something to watch.
“Oh. My. God,” Savannah mutters. She sits, frozen, staring across the gym.
My back stiffens. “What?”
“You will never guess who’s here, and totally staring you down.”
I scan the gymnasium. “Who?”
“Who do you think?”
He’s standing by the exit at the other end of the gym, fading into the background; waiting by the door as people pass in and out; leaning against the wall, hands tucked deep inside the pockets of his leather jacket. Even from a distance his dark features are striking. He seems . . . dangerous . . . but not in a scary or intimidating way. It’s more like he knows something. Something I don’t. Like he possesses some secret knowledge about life and living, and if I’ll only follow him, I might learn a little something, too.
My mouth runs dry, and suddenly I feel completely transparent. Like he can see right through me and my campaign to save the poverty-stricken: me and my boring life and my dull boyfriend. I clear my throat. “He’s watching the game,” I inform Savannah, turning my attention back to the money bag.
“No,” she replies, confident. “He is so checking you out.”
My cheeks flush with heat—the temperature of the room rising rapidly—and I push up the sleeves of my pink sweater in an attempt to cool down. Organize the money, I tell myself. Don’t look, don’t stare, just start grouping cash. I shift the fives and tens.
“He’s still staring.”
I glance up again, and our eyes meet. That penetrating gaze. I suck in a breath. Parker lifts his head ever so slightly. In fact, I’m not entirely sure I see it move. I tuck a few stray hairs behind my ears, heart smashing against my chest, then, as I slowly bring my hands down, offer a tiny wave. A sly smile crosses his face . . . which, in turn, makes me smile.
“I cannot believe you,” Savannah says, her face brightening.
I jump, jolting back to reality. “What?”
“What?” She shakes her head, then leans back in her seat, folding her arms across her chest. “Okay, so what’s he really like?”
“Who?”
She rolls her eyes dramatically. “Don’t play idiot with me.”
I continue organizing our cash by denomination. “I don’t know,” I say, shrugging. “He’s nice. He’s smart.” I glance up at him again, quickly. He’s still there.
“You mean he’s not weird or anything?” she asks, studying him from a distance. “Because I could totally see body parts in formaldehyde-filled jars as his decoration of choice.”
“No,” I say, scoffing. “He actually seems very normal. Which is what I’ve been trying to tell you for weeks.”
“Well, maybe you can introduce me,” she continues. “Because he’s kinda hot.”
“Hey,” a voice interrupts. “Who’s hot?”
My head jerks up. “You are,” I reply, forcing a smile at Blake, who appeared at our table without warning. His hairline is damp. Sweat beads on his forehead and trickles down his cheek. “Can I get you a towel?” I ask.
“Nah,” he replies, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. “We still on for pizza tonight after the game?” he asks me, breaths heavy.
I sit taller, more rigid. “Um, yeah. I guess.”
“Savannah?” he asks.
“Who’s going?”
“Don’t know for sure. Tony, probably. I guess if you see Ashley let her know, too.”
“I don’t think Ashley’s here,” I muse, looking around. I pass the exit sign quickly, and somehow miss Parker.
“We can call her on her cell. I don’t think she’s doing anything, And yeah, if Tony goes I’m in,” says Savannah.
Blake nods. “Cool. I’ll catch you after the game.”
The buzzer sounds and Blake is off, heading toward center court.
Savannah lets out a tiny squeal. “As if this night could get any better,” she sings, nudging me in the arm with her bony elbow. “I get dinner with Tony.”
I smile, and, without thinking, look back to the exit. But Parker is gone. He’s disappeared. I scan the crowd, surveying the blur of faces. When I don’t see him, I bite into my lower lip, heart slowing.
“No way!” Savannah cries.
“What?” I ask. The crowd cheers wildly.
“You’re looking for him!”
A slow burn creeps to my cheeks. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” I yell.
“Come on. You can’t tell me there’s not something going on between the two of you. You are totally not yourself lately, and everyone knows it. So does any of this craziness that’s been going on have anything to do with the fact that you might have a thing for Parker Whalen?” she asks dryly, voice lower.
I scoff. “What? Savannah. No.” I shake my head rapidly, as if I can’t believe she even suggested such a thing. But then I wonder. . . .
She leans back in her chair. “I’m just saying it’s weird: you hanging out with Parker, not paying any attention to Blake. . . .”
“Of course I’m paying attention to Blake. He’s my boyfriend,” I confirm, though even this feels strange, suddenly. This word coming from my lips. I must have the word “guilty” tattooed on my forehead. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty.
Savannah shakes her head. “Well, let’s just say that lately it looks like you’re more interested in spending time with Parker Whalen than Blake. And forgive me if I’m wrong, but I thought boyfriends were priority.”
“They are,” I assure her, unable to meet her gaze.
“I mean, the boy is hot, I swear he is,” she continues, not listening. “Let’s just try not to make it obvious we’re watching for him everywhere we go, k?”
I let out a sarcastic laugh, holding my chin high. “It’s one project, Savannah. One.”
“And projects end, right?” she urges.
“Exactly,” I reply, forcing another smile, my cheeks flaming from so much dishonesty. “It’s a non-issue.”
Chapter Thirteen
“God, my parents are gonna kill me,” Savannah mutters, checking the time on her cell. Blake opens the door to Guido’s, ushering me, Tony, and Savannah out into the frosty, night air.
“I thought you were going to talk to them about your curfew,” I say as Blake sidles up next to me, wrapping his arm around my shoulder and drawing me closer. “You know, since you’re a senior and going off to college soon, anyway.”
Even in the street light, weak and diffused, I can tell she’s rolling her eyes. “Enough, Jaden. Not all of us are good enough for Harvard. Besides, they just pull their whole ‘there’s nothing to do after eleven that won’t get you into trouble anyway’ crap. Ugh.” She groans. “And my car’s still at school.”
Tony moves closer, shifting. Shuffling his feet. He opens his mouth to speak, then clamps it shut. He clears his throat and tries again. “You know,” he says. “It’s on my way. I can . . . I don’t know. Drop you off, maybe?”
Savannah’s eyes light up. She twists a tiny section of her hair, wrapping it around her fingers. “Really?” she asks, staring at him in surprise. I split a smile from Tony to Savannah, then back to Tony again, trying to decide if he’s being polite, or if this is the “in” Savannah has been waiting for. “You would do that?”
He nods. “Sure,” he says, confident.
A tiny giggle escapes. “That would be excellent!”
I suppress my laughter, knowing Savannah could walk through her front door at four in the morning and be met with World War Three, and it wouldn’t matter—not when Tony is offering a ride . . . and a chance for some alone time.
Tony heads over to his red pickup truck and opens the passenger door. Savannah grabs my hand, squeezing it, and gives a little squeal.
“Have fun,” I tell her.
She adjusts her purse, hiking it further up her shoulder, and hurries over to Tony. In a matter of moments the truck is cranked, the radio blasting. Savannah waves as she and Tony pull out of the parking lot.
“She’s in heaven right now,” I say, waving back, my warm breath turning to smoke in the cool air.
“What?” Blake asks, closing in on me.
“Come on. It’s obvious she’s crushing on him.”
He snickers. “It was obvious to everyone but Tony.”
“Until when?”
“Until one of the guys nearly beat him down in practice the other day saying if he didn’t ask her out someone else would.”
I wrap my arms tighter around my chest, trying to keep the heat in. For the first time I notice stars twinkling overhead. And to my left . . . the moon. “Hey,” I say, marveling. “The stars are out.”
Blake tilts his head, gazing upwards. “The clouds must have lifted.”
“That means we might actually see sunshine tomorrow.” Finally. I smile.
He moves forward, linking his finger in the belt loop of my jeans and pulling me into him. We fall back against my car door; the cold metal seeps through my clothes. I shiver. “So, when do I get to take you on a real date again?” he asks, voice low, wrapping his arms around me.
I stare into his gray-blue eyes, feeling my temperature rise, the heat from his body passing to me. “Whenever you want.”
“Good, because there’s this place in Hamilton my brother told me about. I was going to make reservations for us in a few weeks.”
“Is it a nice place?”
“Yes. A very nice place.”
“So I’d have to dress up?”
“Yes,” he affirms.
“And so would you?”
“Yeah, that’s kind of the idea. A dinner out . . . nice restaurant . . . you keep me on my toes, you know.” His eyes light with amusement, but there’s a mocking edge to his tone.
I laugh.
“It’ll take about an hour to get there. Are your parents okay with you going that far?”
“I’ll double check, but I’m sure it’s all right. I mean, they practically worship you.”
He smiles. “Your parents, maybe. I’m not so sure about Daniel.”
“Daniel is just protective,” I say, defending my brother.
“Well don’t ask for his permission, because I don’t think I’ll get it.”
I lean in and stand on my tiptoes to kiss him softly on the mouth. He slips his fingers through my hair, kissing me back . . . but it’s hard and kind of slobbery and tastes like garlic and peppermint. I pull back, and, without thinking, wipe my lips.
“That’s all I get?” he asks, teasing.
I offer a smile, tugging lightly on his jacket collar. “For now.”
“All right. I’ll call you later, then,” he says, backing up.
“Thanks for the pizza.”
“You’re welcome. And don’t forget to ask your parents. I’ll make us reservations.”
“Okay,” I reply, pulling my jacket tighter as a chilly breeze blows between us. I sweep the hair out of my eyes as Blake opens the door to his SUV and climbs in. I don’t move until he’s completely out of sight—taillights disappearing as he makes a right turn out of town.
I exhale loudly, and dig through my purse for my keys. I grab my cell phone, too, open the car door, and slide inside. The car is like a deep freezer, the cloth seat ice beneath my legs. I lock the doors and crank the engine, willing the car to heat up.
While waiting, I check my messages. As I punch in my password numbers, I hear a distant rumbling, like thunder. I glance in the rearview mirror as the noise grows louder. I turn in my seat, repositioning myself, and watch that familiar, shiny motorcycle cross the parking lot, glinting as it passes beneath the streetlight.
What is he doing here?
I swivel back around in my seat and smile, heart beating a faster cadence, then reach for the handle and open my car door as Parker pulls into the space beside me.
“Hey
, you,” I say, when he silences the motor.
He loosens his chin strap and slips his helmet over his head, raking his fingers through his scruffy hair. “What’s up?” he asks.
I cross my arms, hugging my elbows. “I could ask you the same thing.”
He pushes down the kickstand with his black boot, then balances his bike. “Just out for a late-night cruise.”
“If I knew any better I’d think you were following me.”
He raises an eyebrow, eyeing me skeptically. “Are you implying I have nothing better to do on a Friday night than follow you around?”
“Knowing that you fantasize about my room and all . . . of course not,” I say, moving closer to him. I brush my fingers across the sleek, black handle bars, chrome accents gleaming. They’re arctic cold. Glacial. But the bike itself is kind of beautiful. “I saw you at the game,” I continue. “Savannah thinks you’re stalking me.”
“That’s good to know, I guess,” he replies.
I clear my throat, and I swear it sounds like someone else saying: “She also thinks you’re hot.”
Even in the darkness, with only the moon, a streetlamp, and the fluorescent Guido’s sign lighting the parking lot, I can tell Parker is blushing.
Ugh! Why would you say that? I scream at myself. It is so irrelevant. And now he knows we were talking about him, and that it’s possible I think. . . . “Anyway,” I go on, speaking quickly, “I’m glad you’re not a stalker. I don’t know how you knew I was here, though.”
“Like I said: Friday night. You’re fairly predictable.”
My eyebrows sweep up. Predictable enough for him to go looking for me.
Then, as if reading my mind, he exhales loudly. “I was riding by and recognized your car.”
“You cut it kind of close. I was actually getting ready to leave.”
A sly smile crosses his face, his eyes meet mine. They sparkle, knowing. “I didn’t say it was the first time I’ve ridden by.”
My breath catches in my throat and I struggle to keep my expression straight—to cover my surprise. “So you are following me.”
