Cross My Heart

  He remains still for a moment, motionless, face white as he searches mine.

  I suck in a quick breath, and wait.

  “I’m telling you that we’re over,” he finally confirms.

  The words slice through me, stinging. They leave that quick, gut-punch feeling in their wake. I let out a sarcastic laugh, feeling a sudden burst of arrogance. “What? What’s over? What have we started that you want finished?” I demand to know.

  “We can’t do this,” he says.

  “We can’t do it? Or you can’t do it?” I ask him. “Or maybe you don’t want to do it.”

  He steps back, expression flat.

  “Come on, Parker,” I continue, with the vain hope that something I say will make some kind of difference. “What’s the problem? If you don’t like me then tell me. If you don’t want us to go any further then fine, but I’m going to tell you something: that’s not what I want at all.” I fold my arms across my chest, feeling a raw shiver skitter up my spine. “And run away all you want, but you can’t hide anything from me. So stop pretending like none of this is a big deal.”

  His brow evens as his features relax, but he doesn’t respond.

  I laugh again. “I’m giving you the perfect out. Our project is almost over, we’ll be graduating, and we’ll never see each other again. If that’s what you want then say it!”

  The animosity returns. His jaw tightens. “That’s how it was supposed to be in the first place,” he manages bitterly, his troubled eyes locked to mine.

  “So what happened?” I ask, lifting my arms. “I don’t understand. What’s the problem here?”

  When he doesn’t answer, I continue. “I’ll tell you what happened. What happened is that . . . I fell in love with you, Parker. That whole thing about timing? You were right: there is no such thing as perfect timing. And this is the worst timing ever, actually, because you’re going to go on, you’re going to graduate and leave. And that’s fine, but I’m telling you, right now, at this moment, I think . . . I think I love you.” My voice breaks, cracking as I say the words. “I love you more than I’ve ever loved . . . anything. And you have been on my mind for weeks. And being late that day—you being my partner—is the best thing that ever happened to me. And forgive me if I thought that maybe you felt the same way. Was I wrong thinking that?”

  He swipes away the blood trickling from his nose with the back of his hand.

  “You can at least give me that much, Parker. You can run away, you can hide forever, but look me in the eye and tell me you don’t love me, first.”

  He shakes his head, and looks toward the gray, cloud-filled sky. “I don’t love you,” he mutters easily. “I can’t.”

  “You didn’t even look at me and say it!” I shout, infuriated. If he’s going to end things between us, I deserve to be told directly. “Look me in the eye, and tell me you don’t have any feelings for me. Or are you scared? You’re scared because maybe you do have feelings for me and could possibly want me as much as I want you.”

  Another cool breeze blows between us, raising goose bumps on my arms. I swallow, forcing the hard lump settling in the back of my throat away. “You know, I didn’t ask for this,” I go on after a few, silent moments. “My life was a whole lot easier before you came along. It wasn’t perfect, and yeah, it might’ve been boring, but it was manageable. But you did come along, Parker, and I can’t ignore that. You can push me away, and try to forget anything ever happened between us, but I can tell you that, for me, something definitely happened. At least I’m being honest. You said you never told a lie: so tell me the truth.”

  Parker stands, unmoving, silent. And for a moment: a flicker of weakening in his eyes, as if he’s about to give in. But then it vanishes—almost as quickly as it appeared.

  “It’s better this way. Trust me.”

  “For who?” I challenge.

  He doesn’t respond.

  “Look me in the eye, tell me you don’t love me, and I’m gone.” My teeth clench, grinding, jaw smarting from the pressure.

  “I don’t love you. I don’t have any feelings for you.” He speaks the words calmly and quietly, doing just as I asked. “I’m not one of your projects, and I don’t need you or your food or your sympathy.”

  Tears sting the corners of my eyes. I grapple for a breath that will satisfy, chest heaving, desperate for air. “Fine, Parker. Consider it a clean break. You can run away knowing you didn’t leave anything behind. Good luck with that.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  It’s easy to slip into the routine of being grounded. It’s calming, actually—not pushing forward, hurrying to the next thing. I have enough to worry about with school, our English project, and Daniel and Sarah’s wedding and house renovations. The future looms on the horizon, but it’s so vast and distant I can barely wrap my mind around it. And that’s fine, because I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to make any decisions or commitments—not to anyone. And so for now, I’m taking things the best way I know how: day by day.

  Blake and Parker and I are the topic: discussed between periods, analyzed over ham and cheese sandwiches and sodas at lunch. Rumors swirl surrounding Blake and Parker’s altercation in the parking lot. Blake ran Parker off after one blow. There wasn’t even a fight, because Parker clearly had the upper hand. Blake is going to press charges. Parker is going to jail. . . . All depending on who you want to believe. Blake and I aren’t speaking. Parker and I aren’t speaking. It’s all my fault. Those rumors are true.

  The day after the fight, Parker enters our English class, his head high, the faintest trace of a bruise along the bridge of his nose. The typical morning din hushes, an awkward, intense silence filling the room as conversation ceases, everyone watching. I can feel my cheeks growing warmer with every passing second, my pulse quickening as he makes his way to his seat. I force myself not to look at him, focusing instead on Ms. Tugwell, her lecture, and taking the neatest, most comprehensive notes on O. Henry’s use of irony ever.

  I don’t spot Blake until lunch time. Our eyes meet briefly as he crosses the cafeteria. The cut underneath his eye is taped, jaw and ego bruised. I sit with my back to the cafeteria window so I won’t be tempted to peek at Parker—if he’s even there—but in the end it doesn’t matter . . . because he isn’t.

  There’s something else, though. Something hovering over me: thick and burdensome and altogether consuming. Parker’s Secret. And my promise to keep it. That, and the fact our final project is due very, very soon.

  Parker and I finished our research and divided the tasks; all that’s left is to write our papers and present our oral report. I assume, since I’m working on my half, he’s working on his. Still, it’s hard—knowing I can’t bounce ideas around with him like before. I would’ve liked to hand him my essays for proofreading, because I know that has to be something he’s impeccable at—finding the flaws and helping to correct them. I would’ve liked to practice my speech in front of him. Because when it comes down to it, his is the only opinion that matters.

  It doesn’t help that every time I pull out my notes on Ethan and Mattie, he’s the first person I think of. Every time I walk into my closet I see those stairs out of the corner of my eye, and my mind wanders. When I sit on my bed, I remember him sitting there, too. Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, I see straight to the third floor. When I pass the library, I think of our table. When I look in the mirror above my dresser, my eyes automatically shift to the postcard of the Hamilton street where Parker and I ate, strolled, and shopped. He’s everywhere.

  But mostly, he’s inside: in the changes in me.

  I’ve overstepped so many boundaries already: climbing onto his motorcycle that night, not suppressing my feelings for him even though I had a boyfriend, letting him sneak into my house, skipping school with him.

  Looking back, it’s easy to see when I began to slip away, the path I took to lose myself. Or maybe. . . . Maybe I’m not lost at all.

  I don’t feel lost.
If anything I feel . . . found.

  That’s when I realize: I got it wrong. All wrong. This entire time? It wasn’t meant for me to change Parker, but for him to change me.

  * * *

  “Jaden, do you have a minute?” Ms. Stevens asks. I reach for my purse, ready to leave for the day. I want to tell her no. I want to go home. I want this day to be over.

  “Sure,” I reply, following. She shuts her office door behind us. It clicks softly, muffling the shouts and squeals and locker doors banging against one another. The leather cushion squishes as I sit down in the chair in front of her desk. I remove my elastic, smooth my hair, then put it up in a ponytail again.

  Ms. Stevens sits down, opens a manila folder, and adjusts her small, stylish glasses. “There are a few things I’ve been wanting to discuss with you, actually. In fact, I’m not really sure what to address first.” She glances over her notes.

  I suppress a sigh. I knew this was coming.

  “First, I think we should talk about your recent lapse in attendance.”

  “It’s okay. I skipped school. You can say it,” I reply.

  She hesitates before continuing. “It’s not like you. I was surprised to hear you didn’t have a note, that’s all.”

  I shrug.

  “You realize you no longer have perfect attendance.”

  “Yes.”

  “You also realize an unexcused absence is an automatic five demerits. That means a letter goes home.”

  “I know.”

  “So your parents are aware you skipped school?” she asks, eyeing me curiously.

  “If they didn’t know I probably wouldn’t be grounded right now,” I point out.

  Ms. Stevens clears her throat. “It was brought to the attention of the administration that you skipped school with Parker Whalen, only Parker brought a signed note the following day.”

  The blood driving through my veins seems to stop flowing. My hands grow cold.

  Parker. I can tell her. I can tell her what I know. What I saw. It’s what she’s here for. She could pick up the phone. Make a few calls. Everything would be okay. This isn’t something I have to keep inside. I can help.

  I open my mouth to speak, then close it again, biting my lower lip. Finally: “I don’t know Parker very well,” I lie, eyeing the floor.

  “The student body seems to think you do,” she insists.

  “Since when have you known freshmen to get anything right? And when were people not talking about Parker Whalen?” I answer calmly.

  “Okay. So you’re fine with the absence and demerits?”

  I smile. “Not if I can put in an appeal.”

  She lets out a tiny laugh. “You’ve already confessed.”

  “Well, in that case, I’m fine with it.”

  “All right. Moving on. This probably isn’t anything to be concerned about, knowing you’re grounded, but Mrs. Davis called and said you wouldn’t be able to continue your work with the annual walk for the food bank.”

  “No. I had to step out. Apparently being grounded means I’m not allowed to save the world until summer.”

  Ms. Stevens smiles, scribbles something on her sheet, then clears her throat, serious again. “There’s another issue I thought you should be aware of.”

  “Wow. This is getting better and better,” I mutter.

  “I’m not used to us having these conversations,” she confesses.

  I grab the leather armrests and sit up straighter. “Okay . . . what next?”

  “It’s about your chemistry class. Are you having trouble?”

  “No,” I reply, genuinely surprised. This is a question I’m not expecting. “Not even.”

  “Okay, because I talked to your teacher. There was apparently a quiz you made a C on, and a test where you scored a very low B.”

  I stifle a laugh. “I hardly call that ‘having trouble,’” I say, surprised at how Parker-like I sound. I know about the B and the C. I stuffed both the test and the quiz in my notebook without a second thought. The truth? The class is AP, and the material hard. With everything going on in my life, the best I can offer anyone at the moment is average.

  “No, you’ve done very well,” she says. “It’s just that this brings your A in chemistry down to a B.”

  “Okay.”

  “That brings your overall GPA down. Daniel Cho is now in the running for Salutatorian. It’s only by a few points, but I’m not sure if you can bring the average up in time. I planned to meet with him next week.”

  “Great.” I take in a lungful of stagnant, office air. I’m suffocating, that river rising, drowning me from the inside out. “You know I didn’t get into Harvard, right?” I ask. “Is that on your list, too?” I’m not trying to sound snarky, but. . . .

  She glances at her papers, creasing her brow. “It wasn’t on here, specifically, no. I was going to ask if you’d heard anything.”

  “I heard,” I state.

  “I’m very sorry. I know you were hoping for good news.”

  “C’est la vie.”

  “That’s life . . . right,” Ms. Stevens says, offering a sympathetic smile. “So what about your back-ups?”

  Already she moves on. No point wasting time being miserable over a rejection from the college of my dreams. “What about them? I got accepted everywhere else,” I reply, shrugging my shoulders.

  She pulls open one of her desk drawers. Pens roll inside, paper clips rattle against each other. “Have you planned any campus visits?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Well, I have a girl I want you to call and set something up with. She’s an admissions rep at NSU. You know they have a terrific medical school.” She scribbles the number on a little yellow Post-it note. “Her name is Reagan, and she’ll be able to tell you anything you want to know.” She reaches across her desk, handing it to me. I study the string of digits.

  “Sure, okay.”

  “You have a few weeks left, Jaden,” Ms. Stevens says, the office chair bleating as she leans back. “It’s not time to pack up yet.”

  “I know.”

  “You’ve worked hard to get where you are. I’d hate to see you blow it in the final days.”

  I stand and gather my things. “I think it’s safe to say I’ve already blown it,” I tell her, throwing my bag over my shoulder.

  She rolls her chair back. “I wouldn’t go that far,” she replies, rising.

  “Skipping class, demerits, not getting into my dream school . . . come on.”

  “Let’s just chalk it up to a case of senioritis. It happens to everyone.”

  “Not to me.”

  “It’s not over,” she reminds me. “So maybe you didn’t get into Harvard. You were accepted by a half a dozen other terrific colleges. Yes, you skipped school. What student hasn’t? And yes, you have a few demerits on your record. You know, I went back and checked your file. The last demerit you had was your freshman year. You had one—for chewing gum on campus. And I’ll bet it happened after school hours.”

  I raise an eyebrow.

  “And you were in the parking lot.”

  It was pretty unfair. I sigh.

  “My point is,” she continues, “you are a great student and person, Jaden. You’re going to figure this out.”

  I force a smile, only making it halfway. “Thanks.”

  “Make an appointment for you and your parents to visit NSU. Talk to Reagan, and let me know how it goes.”

  By the time I reach the hallway it’s empty; the only car left in the student parking lot is a white Civic. Mine. Alone.

  Tears blur my vision as I move toward it. I work to keep them from spilling onto my cheeks, stopping several times to wipe my nose against my sleeve as I fumble with the keys.

  Don’t cry, Jaden. Do not cry.

  The warm afternoon infiltrates the small space, and the air is heavy and stale. I suck in a huge breath, but it’s more stifling than refreshing, and my throat constricts, like someone is strangling me from behind.

&nbs
p; Don’t cry. Don’t. . . .

  But I can’t hold back anymore. I can’t do this. A piercing headache throbs behind my eyes. I lean back into the seat, covering my face with my hands, frustrated and angry and sad and embarrassed. Embarrassed for being called into my guidance counselor’s office. Embarrassed because half the school is gossiping about me because I skipped school with a guy I liked, who I thought could maybe like me, too. Embarrassed because I made a C on an AP Chemistry quiz, and now I won’t be Salutatorian and Danny Cho is going to take my place. Angry because I’m a terrible person for being upset over Danny Cho, because Danny is a really nice guy and totally deserves the honor. Angry because I didn’t get into Harvard, that I’m about to graduate, and I still don’t know where I’m going to college. Sad because my brother is getting married and taking Sarah and Joshua with him. Sad because I hurt Blake, because I hurt myself. Sad because I love Parker, and he doesn’t love me back. Sad because Parker hurts, and there’s a good possibility that his dad beats him. Angry because I want to help him but don’t know how. Because he doesn’t want to be helped. Because I promised. Frustrated because everyone expects so much more from me and I can’t deliver. . . .

  And it’s all my fault.

  Time passes as I sit, suspended, crying while my head aches, until there are no more tears. When I finish, I wipe away what remains of my eyeliner and mascara. Daylight streams through the window, sweltering and oppressive. Dust motes float listlessly, flickering in the sun. I reach for my keys to crank the engine, heart stopping when I see his silhouette framed in the side mirror, watching, moving closer.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  He raps on the glass with his thick knuckle. I glance over at the hulking figure shadowing the car and crack the window. What is he even doing here?

  “You look kind of upset. You okay?” he asks, leaning into me.

  I inhale deeply, wiping beneath my eyes, and my lungs shudder. “Yeah. Bad day. That’s all.”

  He laughs. “I can help with that.” He stuffs his hand deep inside his coat pocket. It’s too warm for a coat. I refuse to look at his face.