by Katie Klein
I clear my throat. “Oh. Parker, this is Blake. Blake, this is Parker.” A formal introduction is a good place to start.
“What’s up?” Blake asks coolly.
“Not much,” Parker replies.
“So, what did you decide to do your project on again?” Blake asks, not taking his eyes off Parker. I glance back and forth between them. The tension in the air is palpable . . . or maybe it isn’t, and I’m making too big a deal of all this. I’m not quite sure. The entire world is tilted, off kilter.
“Ethan Frome,” Parker answers. “You?”
“Animal Farm,” says Blake.
“Good choice.”
“Yeah,” he agrees. “Since we read it in tenth, we figured it would be a piece of cake.”
I steal a quick glance in Parker’s direction. He raises an eyebrow, but his lips remain sealed together in a perfect line.
I swallow hard. “So, um, topics,” I say, sitting up and tucking my hair behind my ears, wishing for the hundredth time I could just pull it back in a ponytail and get it off my face, already.
“Do you want the summary or the author bio?” Parker asks, turning his attention back to me. There’s something in his tone—this civil iciness. I recognize it instantly from our first encounters—this detached indifference. It’s not the Parker I’ve gotten to know over the past few weeks, and I can’t say I like it—or that I’m happy with Blake for making it return.
“I’ll take either,” I say. I wipe my damp palms across my jeans, ignoring the thick knot woven inside my stomach.
“How about I do the summary and you write about the author?” he suggests.
“Sounds good,” I agree, breathless, noting this on my paper. “Who should our characters be?”
“There are really only three major characters: Zeena, Mattie, and Ethan. And not to be pushy, but I want Ethan.”
“That’s fine. If you don’t mind doing two of the themes, then I’ll take care of Zeena and Mattie.”
“That works,” he says. “What themes did we decide on?”
Out of the corner of my eye I can see Blake, feel his stony glare piercing us. Immediately I imagine the worst: Savannah spilled my secret, or I wasn’t as discrete as I originally thought. I work to keep my breathing steady and my heart beating at a normal pace. As awkward as this is, I can’t let Blake think I’m nervous. This is a simple library study group . . . the end.
I glance over the notes I took during one of our previous sessions. “I like the idea of winter . . . and isolation. I mean, I know it was yours,” I quickly add, “but since I really don’t like it—um, winter, I mean—I kind of feel like I relate to Ethan in that way.”
“No, it’s fine,” he replies. “You can have winter. I’ll take something else we talked about, like love, or jealousy or something.”
Across from me, Blake snorts. My face flushes, ears burning.
“Those would be good,” I assure Parker, working to distract him from my boyfriend, who apparently finds all this tremendously amusing. The effort is futile.
“Is there a problem, Hanson?” Parker demands to know.
“Not at all,” Blake replies, casually leaning his chair back on two legs, crossing his arms in front of his chest.
Oh, God. Not here.
“Okay, because for a minute there I thought you were in on some little joke I missed or something.”
“No.” Blake eases his chair back to the floor. “I just wondered why you would want to write an essay on love.”
“It’s an important part of the story, Blake,” I interrupt.
“It’s just not a guy topic, that’s all.”
“Are you implying something?” Parker asks, casting a menacing glare. “Because if you are say it to my face, asshole.”
The library assistant shushes us from her station. “Once more and I’m asking you to leave,” she warns.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her. Then, turning back to Blake and Parker, my voice low: “Guys, stop it, all right? Blake, we’re almost finished here. Two minutes.”
Blake stands, chuckling, pushing his chair back. “Fine. I’ll be in Non-Fiction.”
We watch as he saunters to the other end of the library.
“Nice guy,” Parker mutters. “I hope he doesn’t get lost.” He jerks his chin toward the shelves.
“I am so sorry,” I whisper, pressing into the corners of my eyes, temples aching. “I don’t know what’s gotten into him.”
“I have a theory or two,” he replies, watching me closely.
He’s right, and it’s stupid of us to sit here pretending that Blake isn’t pissed about the fact that Parker Whalen and I are spending time outside of school together. And that’s only half of it.
“I know.”
He exhales, face softening, eyes losing their harsh edge. “Anyway, it’s fine. I don’t want to keep you. Are we good on our topics?”
I bite into my lower lip, nodding. “Yeah, I mean, if something changes I’ll let you know.” I cram my notebook into my bag and toss it over my shoulder as I stand.
In the next moment Parker moves closer, leaning into me. I can feel the heat radiating in waves from his body, his cheek next to mine—almost touching. I inhale a warm, sea breeze—a mixture of saltwater and spices and pine that might be called irresistible. I barely hear him as he speaks.
“If I meet you at your third floor window tonight, will you let me in?” He whispers softly against my ear, hardly a murmur. A shiver of electricity races up my spine. I’m not sure I understand what he’s saying. What he means.
“What?”
“You said you can get to your third floor by climbing the oak tree to the second floor roof, right?”
“Yeah, but . . .”
“So if I knock on the attic window tonight, will you let me in?”
I pull away from him and stare into the depths of his dark eyes, trapped in their never-ending nothingness—their everythingness—knowing what I’m about to say is so, so completely irresponsible, but unable to resist at the same time. “Yes,” I answer quietly.
“What time?”
“It would have to be late,” I whisper, glancing toward the librarian working the front desk, like she’ll hear us if we’re not careful. “Midnight, even. And you can’t park your motorcycle at the house. You’ll have to walk down the road.”
“That’s fine. I’ll do it.”
I study his face for a moment: the freckles and his lips and his cheekbones and his hair, which at that moment, I want to slip my fingers through, feeling him. “Why are you doing this?” I ask, point blank.
“Because . . . I don't know. I want to spend more time with you . . . outside of school, and this project, and. . . .” He glances toward Non-Fiction then back at me, eyes boring holes into mine. “Other people.”
A shiver trembles along my skin. “I could get in so much trouble,” I practically mouth.
He grins easily—that signature, lop-sided, Parker smile, and I melt. “I won’t get you in trouble,” he promises. “Cross my heart.” He draws an X across his chest with his finger.
“No one has crossed their heart since fourth grade,” I say, rolling my eyes, yet somehow unable to keep from smiling.
“You want a blood oath? A vile of my DNA to wear around your neck?” he asks.
I let out a tiny giggle, cheeks burning.
“You better go,” Parker says, stepping back, putting more distance between us. “Don’t want to keep Mr. Perfect waiting.”
I wince at the sound of the nickname. Because why would I even agree to do this—to sneak Parker over to my house after dark—if everything is perfect? It makes no sense whatsoever.
I glance toward the door. “I guess I’ll, um, see you later.”
I turn on my heel and head to Non-Fiction, where Blake is perusing a volume of America’s best essays. “All done?” he asks, tossing the book on the table beside him.
“Yeah,” I breathe. “All done.”
Chapter
Sixteen
My head is spinning and I’m on the verge of throwing up what little I managed to eat at dinner. A sliver of panic trembles in my stomach. My room is freezing—I shiver—but I’m sweating, and my heart thumps so loudly, beating in my ears, I just know it’s going to wake my parents.
“There is nothing I cannot handle,” I whisper.
My parents’ bedroom is downstairs, on the opposite side of the house. The odds of them hearing us are slim. I have enough dirt on Phillip to blackmail him into keeping quiet. Daniel, though, is an entirely different story. I can only hope, if he happens to hear us, that Sarah can talk some sense into him before he goes homicidal.
I glance at my alarm clock for the millionth time, watching as the bright, red digits change from eleven fifty-one, to eleven fifty-two. I inhale sharply, crawling out of bed. I tiptoe across the floor, avoiding any soft areas—places I know will creak—and quietly open the door. Everything is as I hoped—the lights are off downstairs and in every room upstairs, Sarah and Daniel’s door is shut, and I can hear Phillip’s muffled snoring down the hall.
I breathe a quick sigh of relief, then shut and lock my door. This isn’t a habit of mine, but in the event of an emergency it’ll help if no one can barge into my room unannounced—especially if I’m not here to meet them.
I grab my comforter off the bed, dragging it along as I slip inside the closet. I lift my arm and wave around, searching for the dangling string to the light bulb. In the next instant everything is lit—my clothes, my shoes, boxes of summer things: tank tops and bathing suits and flip flops, and the set of stairs at the back of my closet leading to the third floor. I squint for a moment, blinking back the brightness.
I cross my closet carefully and climb the steps, one by one, walking as softly as possible. The attic is black and freezing, and the cold air bites at my fingers and nose. I pause, allowing my eyes to adjust to the darkness. When I can finally distinguish the various boxes and toys and old pieces of furniture, I take that final step up and, inhaling deeply, creep across the room.
I peer through the dirt-smudged window. The streetlights illuminate certain sections of the road, but the back of the house remains cloaked in shadows. I search for signs of Parker—his dark jeans and black leather jacket—sneaking through the night.
I suck in a breath and hold it for a moment, listening to my heart pound in my chest—slowly—one suspended beat after another. I lower myself onto my beanbag chair, the styrofoam inside crinkling beneath me, and wait.
And then I realize: Parker might not make it. Something might’ve come up. Maybe he changed his mind; he doesn’t want to see me after all. Maybe he considered the very real possibility that we’d be crucified if someone caught us.
But even with doubts coursing through my veins, I can’t imagine Parker flaking out on me. He’s a lot of things, but reluctant isn’t one of them. I keep my senses tuned, listening for the sound of his motorcycle, branches rustling, footsteps on my roof.
I don’t hear a thing until: rap, rap, rap—the softest tapping ever, so quiet that for a moment I think I imagined it. But then I look up, and spy Parker’s broad outline just beyond the glass. I feel a lift of excitement, my pulse accelerating. I move to the window, unlock it, and struggle to lift the sash. It pops loudly, cracking where it’s sealed shut. I stop breathing and listen for a moment, holding the air inside my lungs, not moving until I’m sure no one stirs below us. The window lifts easily. Parker passes me his dark boots. I take them, then step back as he crawls inside, bringing a fresh burst of cold air with him.
“I didn’t even hear you,” I whisper.
“That’s because I’m stealth,” he replies as I lower the sash. “Everything okay?”
“Everyone’s asleep,” I assure him. A wave of relief washes over me. Surely he can get out before anyone sees him, if it even comes to that. Him being here—with me—it can work. I smile, teeth chattering, kind of happy to see him: his pale hands and face and his nose pink from the cold.
“So. . . . What’s this all about?” I ask, curious.
“What’s this about?” he repeats, blowing into his cupped hands, warming his fingers. “I thought you liked hanging out with me.”
For a moment I think I’ve offended him. “I—I do,” I stammer, tucking my hair behind my ears. “This is just . . . random. You. Sneaking over. In the dark.”
Parker sinks to the floor, leaning against the wooden slats beneath the window. I sit down on the beanbag chair, wrapping the comforter securely around my shoulders. The air is thick and icy. With so little insulation in the room, we may as well be sitting outside. It might be safer outside. I don’t know.
I watch him for a moment. Our eyes lock. “I just can’t figure you out,” I confess.
“What’s there to figure out?” he asks, studying me carefully.
“I don’t know,” I reply. In a month he went from antisocial to . . . friendly. My friend, even. It’s so strange.
He sits up. “If you’re uncomfortable, or want me to leave, I’ll go. But the way I see it, life is short. Time is slipping away whether we want to admit it or not, and I’m not wasting a second of it. I had an idea . . . that maybe I wanted to see you, and I went with it. If I didn’t I would’ve stayed awake the entire night wishing I’d said something, and kicking myself for not taking a chance. I hate regrets. Besides,” he continues after a few, quiet moments. “You need more excitement, remember? Consider this an educational experience.”
“An educational experience?” I repeat, not understanding.
“Yeah. The art of living.”
I laugh softly, hugging myself to keep warm. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”
“You can’t tell me this isn’t exhilarating,” he says, eyes sparkling.
I suck in a cold breath. Exhilarating . . . in more ways than one. “It’s the riskiest thing I’ve done,” I tell him. “Ever.”
“Taking off with me on my motorcycle the other night was pretty risky.”
I blush at the memory. “Yeah, well, you’re in my attic in the middle of the night. This kinda tops that.”
He smiles, gazing at me from beneath his lashes, eyes narrowed. “Wow, Jade. You’re really shattering the whole ‘good girl’ stereotype, aren’t you? I bet if I showed up at school tomorrow telling everyone you rode on my motorcycle and sneaked me into your house no one would believe me.”
“You better not,” I warn.
“Why? You’d thank me for it.”
Thank him for screwing up everything I’ve worked so hard to build? For destroying my reputation because of two nights that might end up being mistakes? “No. I wouldn’t.”
“I bet you’ve never invited Hanson over after your parents fell asleep,” he continues. “You’re letting my degeneracy corrupt you.”
“You’re not bad.”
“Really?”
“Really. It’s a façade. That’s what people want to believe so you go with it, because if they really knew who you are life wouldn’t be as exciting.”
Parker laughs softly, lowering his head, but he doesn’t say I’m right or wrong either way.
“So,” I go on. “Do you usually sneak around town after midnight? I mean . . . what would you be doing right now if you weren’t here?”
He shrugs. “I go out every now and then . . . when I can’t sleep or whatever, but usually I’m at home.”
“What do you do at home?”
“Study. Read. Listen to my dad cuss out referees for making pathetic calls.”
“Sounds exciting,” I mutter.
“Yeah, pork rinds, basketball, and liquor. . . . But that’s good because the more he drinks the quicker he passes out, and at least I get some peace and quiet.” He smiles. Like this is funny.
“Is that why you wanna leave?” I ask.
He pauses for a moment, thinking. “Partly. The truth is we just don’t get along. We never did. He’s happy doing minimum wage work at a minimum wage job—if he even goes in to work
at all. I’m better than that.”
“You see, that’s pretty condescending. Because if I recall, you’re the one with stellar grades who’s foregoing a college education,” I remind him.
“Touché.”
“I’m serious, Parker,” I continue. “If you want to make a difference . . . to be different, then you should go to college. What if you end up just like him?”
“First of all: I am nothing like my father. Second: there are plenty of good jobs out there for someone without a college degree. You can still be a hard worker without a piece of paper.”
I lean back, the beanbag chair rustling beneath me as I shift, and fold my arms across my chest. I can’t believe we’re almost fighting—again. “Yeah, well, one day you’ll look back and remember that girl you once knew in high school who thought you deserved better than that.”
“We’ll see,” he replies, with a sly smile. “Miss Harvard.”
“Shut up.” I kick him in the knee with my foot, playfully. Flirting.
The room creaks, settling; a gust of wind pushes against the house. It groans around us, closing in. We watch each other, listening. Holding our collective breath. It takes a few moments before the breeze dies, before my shoulders fall, relaxed.
“I guess that means you haven’t heard from them yet,” he finally asks, his voice quieter.
“No. But I’ve been accepted to every other school I applied to, so I guess that should make me feel better.”
“No, not really.”
I sigh, studying my cuticles, pushing them back with my fingernail. “Good. Because it doesn’t. The other schools . . . I mean, they’re okay . . . but they’re not what I want,” I mumble.
“Why Harvard?” he asks.
“I don’t know. Because . . . it’s like the best of the best. It’s the reputation.”
“So you’re picking a school based on its reputation? That’s it? No other factors were considered?”
