Cross My Heart

by Katie Klein

  “Absolutely.”

  “I was thinking of stalking you Monday afternoon around three. I figured we should divvy up assignments for our project.”

  “Okay,” I reply. He shuts my car door carefully, then circles around to his motorcycle.

  I watch as he runs his fingers through his hair, straps his helmet on, and ratchets the engine. Before he backs out of the space, I offer a tiny wave. He nods in reply.

  I pull out of the parking lot first, taking a left in the direction toward my house. I watch in my rearview mirror as Parker takes a right, heading wherever he wants to go: out of town . . . home . . . whatever suits his whims of the moment. For this, I find myself feeling both sad for him and envious at the same time, wondering how it’s even possible two such emotions could mutually exist. And yet here I am—torn: wanting to pull him closer, saving him, and at the same time wishing I could hop on the back of his motorcycle and, for once, allow someone to save me.

  * * *

  Earlier, I thought Parker and I were the only ones in the entire world still awake. As soon as I let myself inside and shut the front door, however, I realize I was wrong. Dead. Wrong.

  “Jaden?”

  I jump at the sound of my own name, startled.

  “Mom? Jesus!” I hiss, working to even my breathing.

  My mom appears at the door leading to the den, arms folded across her chest. Though I haven’t seen it often (and as a result of Daniel and Phillip’s transgressions more than mine), she has that “look” on her face. It screams disapproval. Her mouth is pressed in a thin, firm line, features sharpened by the shadows from the lamp on the buffet beside the stairs. I want to melt, to disappear between the cracks of the floorboards.

  “Where were you?” she asks.

  “I didn’t miss curfew,” I say, automatically moving to defend myself. I realize a moment too late: that’s not exactly what she asked.

  “I didn’t say you did. I asked you where you were,” she calmly repeats.

  I clear my throat. “I went out with Blake and Savannah after the game,” I say, guarded, struggling to steady my voice. It’s not a total lie.

  “Really?”

  “Yes,” I reply guiltily, shifting my weight from one leg to the other. I almost hesitate to ask, but: “Why?”

  Mom doesn’t move, just continues to stare at me in accusation. “Because Blake called. He wanted to make sure you got home okay. Imagine his surprise when I told him you weren’t here, yet. He was sure you left when he did.”

  “What did he say?” I ask. My palms are beginning to sweat, and the foyer air has never felt so stifling in winter. I shiver.

  “He said to call him when you got in,” she informs me. “I doubt he thought it would be this late, though.”

  “I’ll call.” I move toward the stairs. “He’s probably not even asleep.”

  “That was more than an hour ago,” Mom says before I can climb them. “I’m going to ask again: where were you?”

  I should’ve checked my tone before answering, because even I can hear the irritation in my voice as I spit out the words: “I was just hanging out with some friends.”

  “Friends?”

  I roll my eyes. “Friend.”

  “Which friend?”

  Of course she wants specifics. I wonder why she’s not asleep like a normal parent. I wonder why Blake called me when I was just with him like, fifteen minutes earlier. I wonder why it’s such a big deal Parker Whalen is my friend, and that I like spending time with him. I hesitate before answering, knowing this is about to get ugly. Real. Ugly. “Parker.”

  “Parker,” she repeats, her tone icy.

  “He was riding by Guido’s as I was leaving and recognized my car. We got caught up talking in the parking lot.” I speak swiftly: the words flying out of my mouth one after the other. “That’s all, I swear.”

  My body temperature continues to rise, increasing with each new lie. So I’m not telling the entire truth. . . . The only thing I can hope for is that no one witnessed me climbing onto the back of Parker’s motorcycle and riding away with him. That would make an already bad situation much, much worse.

  “Jaden,” my mother says, sighing. “I don’t like finding out from your boyfriend that you’re supposed to be home, and, when you don’t arrive, learn that you were out late with a completely different boy.”

  “It’s not a big deal, Mom, I swear. You’re complicating things.”

  Actually, I’m doing the complicating . . . and they’re becoming more and more complicated by the second . . . this whole me, Parker, and Blake thing . . . but I can’t admit this to her. I have to make her understand there’s absolutely nothing to worry about.

  “Yes, Jaden, it is a big deal. Your father and I give you a lot of leeway with your curfew. We don’t ask you to come home at an unreasonable time for your age, but we expect you to be responsible.”

  “We were talking in my car in a parking lot, Mom,” I explain, an uncomfortable edge to my voice. “We were hanging out. Not spray painting the sides of buildings or shooting up in a dark alley. We were talking.” Though talking, in many ways, is becoming just as dangerous.

  “That’s not the point, Jaden.”

  “I don’t understand what the point is, Mom,” I say, my voice rising. “I didn’t break curfew.” I stop . . . thinking. “Oh, I get it. This isn’t about me or being out late. This is about Parker.”

  “Hanging out with some guy who your father and I know nothing about except for what we’ve heard . . .”

  “But that’s the point!” I cry, interrupting.

  Her eyes grow wider, flashing angrily. “Keep your voice down. The baby and everyone else are asleep,” she warns.

  I take a deep breath. “The point is,” I continue, calmer, “that you don’t know anything about him. No one does. He’s not some evil guy with a horrible reputation, Mom. He’s not. He’s smart. He has things to say . . . and what pisses me off the most is that no one wants to listen. They do the same thing you’re doing right now: assuming the worst.” Salty tears sting my eyes and I’m sad again. I’m sad for Parker. For us. For everyone who won’t give him a chance. Because he’s worth that much, at least. He’s a decent guy; he deserves better than all of this.

  Do not cry.

  “These last few months are important, Jaden,” Mom says. “We don’t want some outsider ruining things for you.”

  My mouth plummets in astonishment. I scoff. “What? Are you even listening to what I’m saying?” I ask. A tear escapes, trickling soundlessly down my cheek. I’m crying. I hate that I’m crying. I hate that I’m crying in front of my mom. Jaden McEntyre doesn’t cry in front of anyone. For any reason. Ever.

  “This discussion is over,” she announces, arms folded. “I understand that you have a project you’re supposed to be working on with this boy . . . but keep your priorities straight. What would Blake think about this?”

  “I thought this was about my future,” I reply coolly, choking on the words.

  “If you think of Blake in terms of your future, then you need to take him into account, too.”

  I roll my eyes, shaking my head. I can’t believe this is even happening. I don’t know how to explain myself any better. I don’t know how I can make her realize she’s being too judgmental about Parker—her and everyone else. I don’t know why it’s so important that they understand where I’m coming from, period.

  “Fine.”

  Mom disappears into the den. I head to my room, taking the steps two at a time.

  When I switch on the light, everything is as it should be: my pristine room, smooth bedspread, the squeaky oak floors; the muted fragrance of my perfume—a soft, powdery floral I sprayed earlier that morning; the sink faucet I can only get running with a wrench. . . .

  And in the morning, when I twist open my blinds, the same wintery gray clouds—dense and opaque—like every day before it.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “It was so amazing, Jaden, I swear.
We like the same music, we hate the same classes, we like the same sports . . . ,” Savannah gushes. She hasn’t stopped talking about her ride with Tony since she arrived at my locker.

  “Since when do you like sports?” I ask, interrupting, searching in vain for my chemistry notebook. I growl in aggravation. It’s bright pink. It’s not like it can hide from me.

  She plants her free hand on her hip. “I happen to love sports, thank you,” she replies.

  “Savannah, the only sport you have any interest in is shoe shopping, because God knows when Macy’s has a sale it becomes an endurance event.”

  She frowns. “You’re just mad because I found that pair of Jimmy Choo heels on eBay for prom last year.”

  “They didn’t fit,” I remind her, shifting my hair over my shoulder. “You took them off after two dances because you had the biggest red welts on your feet anyone had ever seen.”

  “Yeah, well, speaking of prom,” she continues, ignoring me, “I was thinking that maybe Tony should ask me. You think he’ll go, right? I mean, how could he not go to our senior prom?”

  I shrug. How am I supposed to know? I mean, I’m not psychic. I have no clue what Tony’s plans are concerning prom. After this weekend, I’m not entirely sure what my plans are concerning prom.

  “Okay. What’s wrong with you?” she asks, curious.

  Not something I can get into right now. “Nothing,” I reply. “I have the last of our money from the raffle. We’ll let Mr. Anderson pick a number this week, and then this thing will be over.”

  “This thing?” Savannah repeats. “Jaden, you were so psyched about this project. And now it’s just a ‘thing’? What’s happened to you?”

  “Nothing.” A heavy sigh.

  “Okay. I may have selfish tendencies in that I generally only focus on me, my problems, and what I want . . . but I know when something is going on with my best friend. Spill it.”

  “There’s nothing going on.” I moan, feeling my forehead. The hallway is warm, anyway, but I’m kind of hoping I have a fever. At least that would explain why I feel absolutely wretched.

  “You’re lying.”

  “I know.”

  “So tell me.”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “So let me try to help you.”

  “You’re not going to like what I have to say.”

  “You won’t know unless you tell me.”

  We go back and forth like this until she finally wears me down. “You have to swear . . . this doesn’t leave the two of us.” I survey the busy hallway, watching for eavesdroppers.

  Savannah holds up her hand. “I solemnly swear.”

  “Don’t be sarcastic. This is serious,” I warn, pushing her hand down.

  “What’s up?”

  I let out another huge sigh, stomach heavy and twisted. “It’s this thing with Parker,” I confess, shaking my head. I can’t believe I’m admitting this out loud. It just makes it more real, and at this point I’m not sure I can handle real.

  “What about him?” Savannah pries.

  “Well . . . I kind of spent some time with him on Friday night . . . after you all left, and Blake was gone. I was about to leave and he showed up. I, um . . . went for a ride on his bike, and we talked for like, ever in my car.”

  Her mouth drops, forming a perfect oval. She blinks a few times. “What? Are you serious?” She lowers her voice. “Jaden. . . .”

  “I know! I know!” I cry. “I am so completely confused right now.”

  “Does Blake know?”

  “No,” I say quickly. “And you cannot tell him.”

  “Does anyone else know?”

  I finally locate my notebook, and cram it into my backpack. “I didn’t get home until midnight. My mom met me and told me Blake called. She asked where I was and I had to tell her. I mean, she knew I wasn’t with Blake. I told her that Parker and I hung out for a while. I didn’t tell her about the motorcycle thing. So really, you can’t let that get out, Savannah.”

  She moves in closer. “Was she mad?”

  “Livid,” I reply. “She said I needed to get my priorities straight. She doesn’t want me going anywhere near Parker.”

  “If it wasn’t for this stupid English project it wouldn’t be a problem,” she muses.

  “I know. . . . But Savannah . . . I like Parker. I’m glad I got the chance to know him. I just wish everyone else could see him the way I do. He’s not weird or scary . . . he’s just . . . I don’t know. He’s Parker.” I shrug.

  “Jaden, you have to tell me the truth,” she begins, her blue eyes wide. “Do you like Parker? Or do you like Parker?”

  “Is there a difference?” I ask.

  “Yes, and you know it.”

  “I like Parker. I mean, I don’t think I like him. I just, you know, like spending time with him.”

  “Yeah, but do you think you could grow to like him?”

  “That’s what’s so freakin’ scary,” I admit.

  “Do you know how he feels about you?”

  I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear, wishing I’d brought an elastic with me. One less thing to worry about. “No. I have no clue.”

  She chews on her thumbnail for a minute, thinking. “So what did you tell Blake?” she finally asks.

  “I called him Saturday. I just said I was really busy with school stuff. He didn’t ask. Do you think he knows something? I mean, has he said anything to you?”

  She shakes her head. “No. Not to me. But then, I wouldn’t expect him to.”

  I lean against my locker as the warning bell rings. “What am I gonna do?” I whine. “This is crazy.” I want to bash my head against the locker until I pass out, and then I want to wake up to a world without this insanity.

  “Well, it looks like at some point you’re going to have to make a decision.”

  I hike my bag further up my shoulder. “I know.”

  “I’d hate to be you, though,” Savannah says, voice flat.

  “Tell me about it.” We head down the hallway. “But you cannot breathe a word of this to anyone. Not until I can figure something out.”

  “Taking it to the grave,” she swears.

  * * *

  I toss a small bag of Sun Chips toward Parker. It lands on the table just in front of him with a dull “smack,” crinkling the plastic. “Sorry. I was kind of distracted at lunch,” I explain.

  “No one asked you to keep bringing me food.” Still, he reaches over and picks it up.

  The library is empty today—the entire room ours. It’s quiet. The odor of musty, mildewed books permeates the air—a familiar smell of late, one I immediately associate with Parker.

  “That doesn’t keep you from taking it,” I point out, sitting down in the chair beside him. “Besides, I thought you liked Sun Chips.”

  “I do,” he replies.

  “They’re better for you than regular potato chips,” I remind him.

  “My dad’s not a big fan of either,” he says. “He’s more of a pork rind kind of guy.”

  My nose wrinkles in disgust. “Ew.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “He should let you do the shopping.”

  “I do the shopping. Pepsi, potted meat, bread, beanie weenies, and pork rinds times fourteen . . . every week.”

  “Ew,” I repeat.

  “Sometimes I get lucky and we have a real meal . . . like Hot Pockets.”

  “Parker, that’s not a real meal.”

  He shrugs. “That’s what happens when two bachelors live together.”

  “Two bachelors, huh? Remind me to stay away from your bathroom,” I mutter. I know what it’s like to live with boys. Before we moved, Daniel and Phillip and I shared a bathroom. Needless to say, it didn’t take long for it to turn absolutely nasty, and that was with Mom cleaning it once or twice a week. Maybe it’s frustrating to have to use a wrench to get water, but at least my bathroom is my own. It’s nice not having to worry about Daniel forgetting to put the seat down, or Phill
ip forgetting to lift it.

  Parker smiles at me, then nudges my knee with his. “I’m just trying to make you feel sorry for me. Is it working?”

  “Yes, I feel completely sorry for you,” I say, rolling my eyes, voice laced with sarcasm. I do feel sorry for him, actually, but I don’t think he’d appreciate knowing that.

  “Good. So how are we going to divide up these papers?”

  I unzip my bag and shift things around, searching for my English notebook and a pen. Already I can feel my shoulders relaxing, the tension in my neck and back fading, coiled muscles loosening. I exhale, letting go of the demons that plagued me the entire day.

  “Well, we have to do a summary, bio on the author, three character analyses, three themes, and an oral analysis on what we learned,” I say, reading the list on our requirements sheet. “Aren’t you so glad you have me as your partner to help out?” I tease.

  “Of course, because God knows I can’t complete a project without you,” he replies, eyes shining. Bright.

  “Be serious.” I laugh, cheeks warming, balling my fist and punching him playfully on the shoulder. “You need me.”

  In the next moment Parker perks up, glancing at the door and pulling back in his seat.

  “What?” I ask.

  He clears his throat.

  “Jaden?”

  I freeze at the sound of Blake’s voice behind me, his footsteps thudding against the carpet as he moves closer. My heart fumbles a beat.

  “What’s going on? I waited for you in the parking lot,” he says, pointing his thumb toward the door. There’s a jealous edge to his voice.

  “I’m sorry. I, um . . . I thought you had practice,” I reply, voice trembling. The guilt simmering inside has to be smeared across my face, revealing everything Parker and I have done together since we started this project.

  I can feel Parker’s eyes evaluating me

  Blake’s brow furrows, eyes guarded. “Season’s over, remember?”

  No, I don’t remember, actually, but I nod, and agree, pretending it slipped my mind. “You can sit down if you want,” I say, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite make it to my lips. “We’re just trying to divide up these assignments, you know, for our English project. We’re almost done.” I talk quickly, the nervousness dancing in the pit of my stomach affecting my speech patterns. I try to take another breath, but nearly choke on it. Parker and I are sitting so close: side by side, knee to knee. How did I not notice this? But more importantly: does Blake notice?