Cross My Heart

by Katie Klein

  Who is he to give advice about college? I toss him a dirty look. “Of course I considered other factors. Academics. Student Life. The potential connections. The fact that it’s one of the top schools in the country.”

  He smirks, shadows falling across his face. “You keep coming back to that.”

  “The truth is: I’ve always wanted to go there. For as far back as I can remember, even. It’s Harvard or nothing.”

  “You can’t say that,” he states.

  “Why not?”

  “Because if by some fluke you don’t get in, then you’ll miss out on college, and end up doing minimum wage work at a minimum wage job.”

  “I can still be a hard worker without a piece of paper,” I toss back.

  A wide grin spreads across his face. “You’re a force, do you know that?"

  “Yeah, well, there’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

  “I’m realizing that,” he agrees, nodding.

  I run my fingers through my hair, wrap a tendril around my finger, coiling it, examining the ends. When I look back at him, Parker is still watching me, eyes warm and serious all at once. What is he thinking?

  “Tell me something,” I whisper, letting my hair fall.

  “What?”

  Tell me what you’re thinking. “I don’t know. Anything. Tell me something real. Something I don’t know.”

  “About what?”

  Us. Me. Whatever it is we’re doing. I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter. You.”

  I watch as he breathes in and out. Thinking. Debating.

  “I’m pissed at my mom for kicking me out of the house.”

  He tells me about her. How broke they were. How he never had anything growing up. How she jumped from boyfriend to boyfriend, thinking they had the answers—that they held some secret key to her happiness. How awful coming home was after she remarried. How he hated the guy who first offered him weed. That he quit smoking (everything) cold turkey. How he felt when he was arrested—like he was the biggest screw up ever. What it’s like to be an only child. And how, more than anything else, he can’t wait to leave for good. Finally leave it all behind.

  He stops there, refusing to go on. “Your turn,” he says.

  My nose scrunches. “My turn?”

  “Yeah. It’s only fair, right?”

  “Okay. What do you want to know?” I sit up, straighter.

  “Same idea. Something real. Something no one else knows.”

  I have to think for a moment. Something no one else knows. That implies I’m hiding something. I don’t have anything to hide. Except for Parker, maybe. But then. . . .

  “I, um, I don’t really know how to relate to my dad,” I say, swallowing hard. “He’s busy. All the time. He doesn’t pay very much attention to me, or do things I’d like him to do. Things I need him to do. Like fix my faucet.”

  Parker doesn’t interrupt or finish what I’m trying to say. He just watches—listening—eyes trained on me. And so I go on. I tell him what it was like growing up the baby sister of two brothers, that I feel more connected to Daniel than anyone else in my family, and the thing that scares me the most is failure: not living up to everyone’s expectations.

  “But that’s not even logical,” he says. “I mean, if that’s true, then you’re already setting yourself up to fail because you can’t please everybody.”

  “I know. It’s just that, it’s like everyone is anticipating me going on and doing something amazing—saving the world, or whatever,” I reply. “They expect it.”

  “Which is why you need to start focusing more on Jaden and less on what everyone wants Jaden to be. You need to relax. When was the last time you went out and did something crazy, for you?”

  “Saturday . . . and now tonight,” I remind him. Hopping on the back of a motorcycle with a guy I barely know. Sneaking him up to my third floor attic. Feeling . . . something for him, though I can’t quite figure out what.

  “Yeah, well, it’s been a long time coming. You can’t let the opinions of other people get in the way of who you want to be.”

  “I know, but in a lot of ways it’s my own fault. Their expectations are so high because I set them. They’re all sitting back, waiting for me to become . . . I don’t know . . . Jaden McEntyre, M.D.”

  “Who cares? You’re not living for them.”

  “I know . . . but . . .”

  “You have a ‘but’ for everything, do you know that?” He stops, pausing, brow furrowing as he considers something—something else. “Wait a minute. What are you saying? You want to go to med school, right?” he asks.

  I open my mouth to answer, then shut it. And it hits me: Do I want to go to med school? Has anyone even asked me if that’s what I really want to do? I close my eyes for a moment, pressing my thumb and index finger into the bridge of my nose. Why would he ask unless he had a reason to think that’s not what I really want? Is that what I want? Am I even ready to make that kind of decision?

  He leans forward, whispering: “Jade.”

  “What?” I mutter.

  Parker removes my hand from my face, wrapping his fingers tightly around mine. He pulls my hand to his lips, and I can feel his warm breath, the raspy shadow on his chin from not shaving. My eyes flutter open, my stomach flip-flops. “Please tell me you want to be a doctor, and it’s not something somebody told you you should do that sounded like a good idea at the time.”

  I swallow hard, stuffing my emotions deep inside, heart bumping against my ribs. “No. I mean, med school is the greatest challenge, right? I want to see if I can make it.”

  “This isn’t about a challenge,” he says, a flash of anger in his eyes. “This is about finding what you love to do: doing something that makes you happy.”

  “Helping people makes me happy,” I reply, defiant, wrenching my hand away from his grasp.

  “If it doesn’t work out. . . .” he trails off.

  If it doesn’t work out? I shrug. “I don’t know. But isn’t that the point? To go to school and figure out what you want to do?”

  “Yeah, keeping in mind it’s your decision and no one else’s.”

  “I make all of my own decisions, thank you,” I say.

  “Okay, then. Let me rephrase that: keeping in mind that your decisions shouldn’t be influenced by other people.”

  Listen to him taking the moral high road, like he has all the answers. He isn’t even going to college. “You should take your own advice,” I snap, fury simmering, bubbling inside.

  A smile hovers at the edge of his lips. “You’re really going there again.”

  “You started it.”

  “Yeah, well, friends don’t let friends screw themselves by stressing about what other people think.”

  I raise an eyebrow, surprised by this admission, tiny sprouts of hope blossoming, dissolving my anger entirely. “So . . . you’re saying we’re friends?” I ask, cautious.

  He pauses a beat. Then another. “I think so. Don’t you?”

  A smile pulls at the corners of my mouth, lips tingling. Parker Whalen is my friend. “I’m just making sure we’re on the same page, that’s all. You’re not the easiest person to read.”

  He shrugs.

  “In that case,” I go on, “friends don’t let friends screw themselves by not thinking about the future at all. So don’t expect me to let up on the whole college thing. As your friend I have a license to annoy you about it. Bring it up. Beat you into submission.”

  “So this is an abusive relationship,” he confirms.

  I laugh softly, unable to meet his eyes. “This is a friend . . . caring about her friend.”

  * * *

  Without my phone or a watch, there’s no possible way for either of us to know how much time has elapsed, but in the distant corners of my subconscious I know the early hours of the morning have accelerated past, leaving us suspended. Even when the conversation begins to wane and I’m stifling yawns, I’m disappointed to hear Parker say he has to leave. Because part o
f me doesn’t want him to go. As exhausted as I am, I’d relinquish sleep altogether for the chance to stay up the rest of the night talking—just being with him—something I’ve never felt about anyone. Ever.

  “I guess it would be kind of obvious if we both show up to school half-asleep,” I reason.

  “And I don’t think Mr. Perfect would appreciate the rumors about your late-night escapades on the third floor,” Parker teases.

  I furrow my brow, scowling. “Which is why it doesn’t leave this room.”

  “He’s not going to find out from me, so don’t worry,” he assures me. He takes his index finger and traces an X on his chest.

  I smile at this, standing carefully, my joints stiff and full of fatigue. “It’s been fun,” I admit. And as soon as I say it, I know it’s the truth. It has been fun. Fun and scary and strange and surreal and amazing all at once.

  “We should do it again sometime.”

  For a moment we stand there, motionless. It hurts to look at him, but I can’t tear my eyes away. I can’t seem to get enough of him. I swallow hard. I don’t know how to end this. . . . I don’t even know if I want it to end. I bite my lower lip, chewing on it, self-conscious. He’s so close. The light from the window falls across his face, highlighting his features. His strong jaw line. His dark eyes. I feel this dangerously inexplicable urge to move closer to him, and I wonder what he’s thinking behind those hypnotic eyes. If he’s feeling the way I’m feeling—that, if he leaned in, just a little bit more, I might actually kiss him.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he finally whispers, eyes trained to mine. “Well, later today, I guess,” he clarifies.

  I work to hide my disappointment. “Okay.”

  He backs away, moving slowly toward the window, raising the sash. An arctic draft whooshes inside.

  And when he smiles at me I just know, when I lay my head on my pillow in a few, short moments, it’ll be the last thing I see before I shut my eyes, and the first thing I’ll remember when I wake up.

  I pull my comforter tighter as he climbs outside, trying to keep my body heat from escaping, even as goose bumps rise to the surface of my skin. I shiver, watching as he lowers himself to the second floor roof, disappearing to the other side of the house. I close and lock the window, then peer out at the street for one last glimpse.

  He resurfaces briefly under a streetlamp—hands buried deep in his pockets, breath smoking, mingling with the frigid air—before vanishing into the shadows.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I’m responding to Blake’s morning text message, yawning, when . . .

  “Good morning, Sunshine,” a low voice whispers in my ear.

  A series of tingles race up and down my spine. I flip my phone shut, forgetting to press send, remembering a moment too late.

  “No thanks to you,” I say quietly, so no one will hear. I grab my calculus book. “When I finally got to bed,” I continue, “it was like, three-thirty in the morning. My alarm goes off at six-thirty. That means if I fell asleep right away, I’m running on three hours of sleep. And I’m gonna be honest with you: I didn’t fall asleep right away.”

  Parker leans into the locker beside me, adjusts his backpack on his shoulder, then runs his fingers through his hair. “Yeah, well, you didn’t have a ten-minute walk or a twenty-minute drive home,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m running on two hours. If I fell asleep right away.” Traces of darkness linger beneath his lower lashes, adding to his perpetual shroud of mystery. At least I have the luxury of concealer to hide my midnight escapades.

  “We should’ve just stayed up,” I muse.

  He smiles wryly. “Scandalous.”

  I notice, as I hoist my bag over my shoulder, a few people around us are staring, not so subtly. The group of girls down the way? Craning their necks in our direction. The couple navigating the halls with their hands in each other’s back pockets? Slowing considerably as they pass, turning their heads to keep their eyes on us. There are others, too. Gawking. Whispering. Faces eager with curiosity. It’s like some huge, irrelevant newsflash that is, in my opinion, hardly worth spreading: Parker Whalen is talking to Jaden McEntyre in the hallway. Big Deal. Apparently I’m the only one who feels this way.

  I inhale, ignoring the ogling. “I feel sorry for everyone around me, because by lunchtime . . . it’s over. I’m going to be a total beyotch.”

  Parker laughs at this. “I doubt that.”

  “Don’t,” I say seriously.

  “There’s no way Jaden McEntyre gets bitchy in public. That’s just not happening.”

  “Believe it, because it happens.”

  “Not in public. You might go home and yell into your pillow or freak out in the mirror, but you don’t lose your cool in front of people, even if you have come dangerously close.”

  I roll my eyes. “I hate how you think you know me,” I grumble, touching the Harvard crest before shutting my locker door.

  “Yeah, well, give me fair warning if you really plan to go postal on someone today, because I’d pay to see it.”

  “If you’re lucky you’ll be on the receiving end,” I threaten. “Oh, that reminds me. Here: take this.” I hold out my purse, not thinking. Parker stares at the little black number for a moment. “It’s just for a second,” I assure him. He slowly reaches out to take it from me. I slide my bag off my shoulder and unzip it. It takes some digging, but I finally find what I’m searching for. I take my purse back, trading it for a brown paper bag.

  He eyes me suspiciously, then opens it and peers inside. “What’s this?” he asks.

  “Lunch,” I tell him, matter of fact.

  “So we’re beyond the soda and potato chips?”

  “Sun Chips—there’s a difference—and yeah, I packed you everything I packed for me.”

  “I can’t believe you’re bringing my lunch now,” he mutters, expressionless.

  “Would you rather eat pork rinds and beanie weenies?” I ask. “God, Parker, it’s no wonder you don’t bring any food to school. And I’m sorry, but I’m officially foregoing the sodas. First, because they’re bad for you, and second, Phillip was pissed the other night because they keep disappearing. But more importantly: they’re bad for you.”

  “First, I didn’t tell you about the pork rinds so you’d feel sorry for me. And second . . . you were right. You really are kind of bitchy.”

  I close my eyes and rub the inside corners with my index fingers. They fill with sleep, dry and heavy. “I told you if you weren’t careful. . . . I swear . . . sleep deprivation brings out the worst in me.”

  “You know,” he says, peering inside the bag. “It’s okay. Because ham and cheese is my absolute favorite . . . and an apple? It’s like, the lunch of champions.”

  I stifle another yawn. “It doesn’t get much better than that, right?”

  “Only if you were eating with me,” he says.

  I eye him, unconvinced, but he’s serious. He’s asking me to spend my lunch break with him? I let out a nervous laugh. “I’d love to, except I got so much flack last time. If I do it again I’ll be forced into some kind of intervention. Why don’t you eat with me?” I brush his jacket sleeve with my fingertips; the scratched, worn leather feels smooth against my skin. The shabbiest areas show patches of gray, but the coat itself looks warm and comfortable and inviting, and I wonder what it would feel like over my shoulders. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to Savannah and Ashley . . . they’re so great.”

  The warning bell rings overhead, its shrill timbre echoing through the halls, bouncing off cinderblocks, traveling. I jump, instinctively jerking my hand away. Remembering where I am. Who I’m touching. We walk in step down the hallway, heading toward English, my ears still ringing, humbler after having been called out.

  “I doubt that would go over very well.”

  It takes me a moment to catch on to what he’s saying. “Oh,” I mutter, struggling to control my disappointment as we maneuver through the crowd. “You mean Blake.”r />
  “I don’t think he’d appreciate my being there very much.”

  I sigh. “Probably not.”

  “But if you change your mind you know where to find me.”

  We continue walking in silence, letting the hallway chatter fill the space between us. I disregard the occasional surprised expression as we pass, keeping my eyes straight ahead, focused.

  “So,” I say, nearing the door to Ms. Tugwell’s classroom. “How long do you think it’ll take for us to fall asleep in this class?”

  “Depends on how warm the room is.” He reaches for the doorknob. “Let’s at least try to stay awake long enough for her to take attendance. She wants us to be present,” he continues, pulling the door open and letting me walk through. “She never said anything about being coherent.”

  * * *

  Following this, I experience what’s probably the longest day of my entire life. We don’t fall asleep in English, but as the day progresses the lack of rest catches up with me. I zone in and out of consciousness, knowing the notes I’m taking in my classes will be unintelligible when I go over them later. I keep my head low and propped up with my hand, disappearing behind the person in front of me, hiding (somewhat ineffectively) from my teachers.

  What’s worse, my thoughts keep slipping, drifting to the night before, migrating to Parker. He’s right: I play it safe and I’m boring. I’m textbook Type A: Ivy League, pre-med, taking on every cause known to man—from feeding the stray cat to filling shoeboxes for needy kids across entire oceans. Active in the Student Government Association. Always volunteering to bake cookies, or decorate for the homecoming dance. The first one to arrive and the last person to leave. The one student every teacher can count on to do the optional reading and practice questions.

  So why, all of a sudden, does it feel like something is missing? Something I didn’t even realize was missing. Parker is right. It’s as if I have all the education, but not the experience. I have a life, but I’m not living. There’s no excitement, nothing unpredictable about my life and the choices I’ve made. Until he came along.