Cross My Heart

by Katie Klein

  “Are you feeling okay?” she continues.

  “Not really,” I reply, pulling one of Phillip’s granola bars from the box in the cupboard. “I think I may be getting a cold. Or something.” The lies are coming more quickly, easier.

  “Well,” she begins, shoveling a spoonful of baby cereal into Joshua’s mouth, “you know you always catch one when the weather changes. And it’s been getting warmer.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re running kind of late. Are you going to make it?”

  I glance at the clock on the microwave. “I just won’t be early.”

  I grab the two bag lunches I made the night before and two bottled waters from the refrigerator. If Mom noticed we’re running out of waters and lunch meat faster than usual these last few weeks, she hasn’t let on. For that, I’m grateful.

  “Have a good day,” she calls as I head out the door.

  Thankfully, I have the entire ride to school to compose myself, to clear my head. As long as no one asks about Harvard, or if I’ve heard anything, I’ll be fine. As long as the conversation doesn’t navigate to college period, I’ll be great. I can do this.

  There is nothing I cannot handle.

  The one thing I don’t count on, however, is the only person in the entire world who I can’t hide anything from. Someone who seems to know me better than I know myself, whether I want him to or not.

  “Jade!” he calls as I cross the parking lot.

  My body grows rigid, muscles tensing. Of course. Today. Of all days. This is the day he’d pick to corner me in the parking lot. Forget that he barely says a word to me half the time. My jaw clenches, teeth grinding in frustration. I keep moving, feet striking the pavement with purpose. If I can just get inside . . . get to my locker, everything will be fine. My heart thumps in my ears.

  “Jade!”

  It’s as if our roles reversed—we’ve come full circle—because at one time, not too long ago, even, I was the one chasing him across the parking lot. I should laugh at this. It’s funny.

  His footsteps are quick—quicker than mine—and in a matter of seconds he’s behind me. “Jaden, wait.”

  I ignore him and push forward, brushing my hair away from my face.

  “God! What is wrong with you?” he asks, voice clipped and angry.

  I wince, swallowing back the nausea rising at the words. You can’t cry, Jaden. Tears sting the corners of my eyes. Don’t cry. I can’t stop. I can’t look at him. I can’t cry because he’ll know. Everyone will know. The entire world blurs behind salty tears, a swirling mix of asphalt and blue skies and a thousand shades of green.

  Keep moving.

  He reaches out and grabs my arm, spinning me around to face him. “Jaden,” he says firmly.

  His stony eyes search mine, hard, his features tight. Tears stain my vision. I can barely focus. But I can see his expression soften. I jerk my face away from him, unable to hide.

  “What happened?”

  His voice, laced with fear and worry: that’s all it takes. The tears spill over and run down my cheeks. I wipe them away with the back of my thumbs, but the more I swipe the harder they fall. I can’t stop. I let out a sob in the middle of the parking lot. In front of Parker Whalen. With people watching.

  He puts his hands on either side of my face, turning me back to him. “What happened?” he repeats, voice anxious. Unhinged, even. “You have to tell me.” The endless possibilities seem to play out in his eyes.

  “I . . . I d-didn’t get in,” I stammer. Admitting this out loud—saying the actual words—it cements the whole awful idea into reality. It’s official: I’m not going to Harvard. I’m done.

  I can’t tell if he’s relieved by the news, but everything relaxes: his eyes, his jaw. His hands release me, falling to his sides. I lean into him, not wanting him to let go, resting my head on his chest, burying my face in his cool, leather jacket. He curses under his breath and wraps his arms around me, squeezing, holding me. “I am so sorry,” he whispers.

  “I’m such a hack,” I mutter, breathing in the soft, worn leather. The smell of Parker. “No one is gonna take me seriously ever again.”

  He pulls away. “Just because you didn’t get into your choice college, that doesn’t make you a hack. I mean, I know it can’t feel good . . .”

  “What am I gonna tell everyone?” I interrupt, clumsy tears streaming down my cheeks. I wipe my runny nose across the cuff of my jacket sleeve.

  “The truth. They aren’t going to think any less of you.”

  “I—I can’t.” As hard as I’ve worked to become the Jaden who held it all together. . . . I’m a pathetic, crying, blubbering mess. “I can’t go in there.” I glance toward the building, the halls filling, people staring at us as they pass.

  He pauses for a moment, searching my eyes. “Are you saying you want to get out of here?” he asks, seeming uncertain if that’s what I really want, or if it’s the stress talking.

  Is that what I’m saying? I think so. “Yes.”

  “Then give me your keys.”

  I sniff. “What?”

  “Hand them to me.”

  They jingle softly as I pass them over.

  He takes my hand, locking his fingers with mine, and pulls me across the parking lot. He moves quickly. I jog to keep up with him as we dodge cars.

  When we reach my white Civic, he presses the keyless entry remote and the doors unlock.

  “You know you could get in trouble for this, right?”

  I nod.

  “And you still want to do it?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re sure?” He watches my face for signs of hesitation.

  I waver, but only for a moment, before nodding again. It’s perilously easy for me to make this choice: to step out into this world, to leave everything else behind. “Yeah.”

  He opens the driver’s side door. “Then we’re gone.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Once we hit the highway I reach for my purse, digging for my cell phone. I push the power button until it trills, shutting off. I don’t need anyone trying to find me. Not right now. I open my glove box and pull out the small package of tissues I keep tucked away for emergencies. I blow my nose, then reach for the visor and lift the mirror. My eyes are red, but tearless, and the only remnants of my hugely public emotional breakdown are the little black flakes of mascara sprinkled below my lashes. I rub beneath them with my fingers, working to make them disappear.

  “You okay?” Parker asks.

  I take a deep breath, my lungs shuddering. “Yeah,” I reply. “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re sorry? For what?” His brows furrow.

  “For that. Back there.”

  He glances over at me. “You don’t have to apologize. You have every right to be upset.”

  “Jaden McEntyre doesn’t get upset. Not in front of people, anyway,” I mumble.

  “Apparently she does.”

  I frown, the fields and pine trees and telephone lines blurring past.

  “It’s not a bad thing, you know,” he goes on. “It’s okay to cry. To let people know you’re hurting.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m the one who’s supposed to keep it together.”

  “No. You’re not. The only person who expects that is you.”

  I bite into my lower lip. “Still.”

  “No. Not still.” He pauses for a beat. “Anyway. It doesn’t change anything. You’re still the same, boring Jade.”

  I glance over at him, feeling the smile tugging at the corners of my lips, and our eyes meet.

  “If anything,” he goes on, “it makes you more real.”

  We continue driving until the Hamilton skyline appears in the distance. “Wow. When you get away, you really get away, don’t you?” I muse, gazing at the wide expanse of buildings.

  Parker smiles. “Well, I figure if you’re gonna screw things up by skipping school, the day better be worth it.” He glances over his shoulder and changes lanes, picking up speed.
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  “So you’re saying you’re a pro. At skipping school, I mean.”

  “Something like that. The difference is that skipping school to get trashed leaves you with a mad hangover and feeling worse at the end of the day—and nothing to show for it on top of everything else.”

  I sigh. “I wouldn’t know a thing about that.”

  “Yeah, well, I do. That’s why today will be different.”

  “I’m all for getting trashed,” I confess.

  “I’m sure you are, except I’ll clue you in on a little something: when it’s over, your problems still exist.”

  “All right. What do you suggest?”

  “The zoo,” he states, matter of fact.

  I turn my head, eyeing him strangely, wondering if I misheard, if he’s speaking in some sort of weird boy code. When he doesn’t explain or elaborate, I clear my throat. “The zoo?”

  “Yeah,” he replies, glancing over at me, eyes meeting mine. “That’s okay, right? I mean, you aren’t allergic to chinchillas or anything, are you?”

  “No,” I reply, laughing.

  He turns his attention back to the road, smiling wryly. “See? It’s working already. It’s impossible to have a bad day when you’re at the zoo.”

  It’s no surprise, when we pull into the parking lot of the Hamilton City Zoo, that it’s nearly empty. A few school buses are parked at the front, and two vans from a retirement village, but other than that the place is deserted. The morning sun shines brightly overhead; a cool, spring breeze blows past, tousling my hair. I zip my jacket to my neck as we climb out of the car.

  “Do you come here often?” I ask as we head toward the ticket booth. A colorful sign advertises a new penguin pavilion.

  “No. I’ve never been here before,” he confesses. He clears his throat, hesitating. “It was just this thing with my mom. When I was a kid, we fit in this low-income bracket that made us eligible for discount tickets to the zoo. I got in free and Mom got in half-price. It was cheaper than going to the movies, even, so whenever times were tough, and we couldn’t spend a lot of money, we’d go to the zoo. If things were really bad it was the library, because that didn’t cost a dime. I actually saw the library more than I ever saw the inside of the zoo, to be honest.”

  “So that’s how you became a Wuthering Heights aficionado,” I tease.

  “I like good stories,” he says. “And there’s something great about a guy who can take himself from nothing to something.”

  “I can’t believe you like Heathcliff,” I mutter.

  “I can’t believe you like Mr. Darcy. Two adults, please,” he says, leaning toward the speaker at the glass ticket window. He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet.

  “You don’t have to pay for me,” I say, opening my purse. Parker is faster, though, and slips a twenty across the counter before I manage to locate my wallet among the lip glosses and sunglasses and tissues.

  “Please,” he replies, rolling his eyes as he passes me a ticket. “Don’t go all feminist Nazi on me. It’s a gesture. Accept it.”

  I snatch the ticket. “Fine. Gesture appreciated,” I mumble.

  We stop just inside the gate and pick up a map highlighting the various exhibits.

  “Where to?” he asks.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well . . . we can go left, or right. Your call.”

  Left or right. Two directions. Two different paths leading to the same finish. One not necessarily greater than the other. Just . . . a simple choice. A random act of preference.

  I study the map. If we go left, we’ll hit the reptile room first. If we go right, the African Savannah.

  Parker clears his throat.

  “I know. I know. I’m thinking,” I say.

  “No. It’s not that.”

  I glance over at him. “What?”

  “It’s just . . . your hair.”

  “My hair?” I repeat.

  “Yeah,” he says. His hand inches closer, fingers carefully brushing the strands away from my face. “It’s really red today.”

  “Oh. I know. It’s the, um. . . .” I glance up at the sky, swallowing hard. “The sunlight. It’s auburn, so when I’m inside or in the dark, or it’s cloudy outside, it looks brown. But when I’m in the sun . . .”

  “It’s almost copper,” he finishes quietly, the corners of his mouth twitching, amused.

  Our eyes meet and I smile. “Yeah. It is.”

  He watches me for another beat before clearing his throat and stepping back. “So. Which way?”

  “Right,” I answer. “Lions, elephants, and antelopes.”

  “Oh my,” Parker says, eyes wide.

  “You’re so corny.” I punch him playfully on the arm, smiling brighter as we begin walking.

  * * *

  Our next stop is downtown Hamilton. We pass under the skyscrapers: massive office buildings towering above, like a world in themselves, dwarfing the rest of us. We drive through the NSU campus and into the historic district, which boasts little cafes, gift shops, boutiques, bookstores, and art galleries.

  “Where are we?” I ask, opening the car door after we park.

  “You’ve never been down here?”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “Come on.” He waves me over. I walk around the car and meet him in the street. He grabs my hand as we dash across, eluding the oncoming traffic. “There’s a sandwich place,” he continues, “You haven’t lived until you’ve eaten here.”

  My hand remains relaxed in his as we head down the tree-lined sidewalk, passing students and shoppers and businessmen and women in dark suits. It surprises me how natural it seems, how comfortable my hand feels wrapped around his—my fingers tucked safely between his fingers. His hand isn’t too cold, or too warm. It’s not sweaty or clammy. It’s . . . perfect. I work to appear unmoved by his touch, even as my pulse ratchets, and my shoulders fall a little when he finally releases me.

  He pushes open the door to a deli, a little bell jingling as we pass through. Inside it’s darker, and the tables are full. There’s the buzz of conversation and the occasional shout of the cook as he yells out a number; the sizzle of meat frying on the grill; great whooshes of smoke rising to the ceiling; the sound of the stereo overhead, the strains of a guitar, something alternative.

  “I’m recommending the cheesesteak,” Parker says, stepping back.

  “Sounds good to me.”

  He glances around. “It doesn’t look like there’s any room in here. Do you want to grab a table outside?”

  I raise an eyebrow. “And let you pay for my lunch, too?” I reply, crossing my arms.

  “God, Jade. Don’t make this so complicated.”

  “It’s just that, instead of playing hooky it looks like this is a date. I wish you’d let me pay for my own food.”

  “Well, the way I see it, we drove your car, and you’re going to have to fill up when we get back to town,” he explains. “My paying for the zoo and your lunch is like you paying for my gas to get here.”

  I consider this.

  “That’s what I thought. I’d call it even. What do you want to drink?”

  “If you have to ask, you don’t know me as well as you think you do.” I smile and turn on my heel, heading for the exit. The little bell jingles again as I wander outside, moving toward the wrought-iron patio tables set up along the sidewalk.

  The three and four-story buildings impede the sun; it’s cooler in the shadows. Goose bumps rise to the surface of my skin. I pull my jacket tighter and sit down at a table for two. There’s an art gallery and studio space across the street, a little gift shop, a night club, a clothing shop, a coffee house. . . . A banner advertises APARTMENTS FOR RENT.

  “I like this place,” I tell Parker when he arrives with our food.

  “Great, isn’t it?” He passes me a bottled water, then sits down across from me.

  “Hey. What happened?” I ask, reaching for his wrist. Parker pulls back, tugging at the sleeve
of his leather jacket, covering a dark bruise.

  “God. It’s my stupid dresser,” he explains, smile collapsing. “It’s parked right by the door. I hit it at least once a day.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Tell me about it. Anyway. I like this part of town—the whole vibe. It’s artsy and fun. It would be a great place to live,” he continues, nodding toward the building across the street.

  “Yeah, I saw that there were apartments,” I reply, gazing up at the fourth floor windows.

  “And it’s walking distance to campus. See that building right there?” he points to the far end of the street. “That’s the Language and Literatures building.”

  “Are you trying to tell me something?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

  “Just conveying the obvious.”

  I open the wrapper of my cheesesteak. “Good, because for a minute there I could’ve sworn you were trying to convince me to go to NSU.”

  “What’s wrong with that? Didn’t you apply here?”

  “I did,” I reply mechanically.

  “Didn’t you get in?”

  “With a scholarship.”

  “Don’t they have a med school?” He presses.

  I sigh. “Yes. Your point?”

  “They actually have a pretty good med school,” he states, matter of fact. “Best in the state.”

  I roll my eyes. “Again. Your point?”

  “My point is: life doesn’t end just because you didn’t get into Harvard. You can still go to med school, you know . . . still make a difference.”

  “I know,” I reply, picking at the soft bread of my sandwich, the inside steaming hot. “It’s just that . . . Harvard was important to me. And I thought I did everything right. I mean, I was nervous about getting in, but that’s just because I wanted to know what their decision was. I never really sat back and wondered what I would do if I wasn’t accepted,” I confess. “It’s like, the biggest fail ever.”

  “You know what the problem is?” He doesn’t give me a chance to answer before going on. “And don’t take this the wrong way,” he warns. “It’s just that I don’t think you’ve been told ‘no’ very often. You’re the baby of the family, the only girl, the teacher’s pet. You’re used to getting everything you want when you want it.”