Cross My Heart

  “It wasn’t romantic, that’s for sure,” I say. “I hated that Ethan kept tiptoeing around his feelings. So you love her: tell her already.” I turn to a clean sheet and write the date at the top.

  “I don’t think it was that easy for him,” Parker says. “The guy was already married . . . and you’re not exactly supposed to go around with feelings for your housekeeper when you have a wife.”

  “I guess not,” I say, pausing for a moment. “But you know . . . Zeena wasn’t much of a wife. I mean, she was sick all the time, and spending money on medical treatments she didn’t even need. It’s so obvious she was jealous. And the way she just jumped up and took care of Mattie like nothing was wrong with her? It totally pissed me off! I mean, if she would’ve done her job in the first place none of it would’ve ever happened. Ethan probably wouldn’t have fallen for Mattie.”

  “You think it’s Zeena’s fault,” Parker clarifies, after I finish my spiel.

  “I don’t think she helped.” I write a few notes down on my paper, scribbling quickly. “Let’s go over our impressions today, and maybe in a day or two we can meet back here and work on our themes.” I stop. Maybe Parker didn’t come to the library to talk about Ethan Frome today. Maybe he’s busy. Maybe he has other plans. “Unless, you know, another time is better,” I swiftly add.

  “No. It’s fine.”

  It’s fine. He wants to stay. “Okay. So. . . . What did you think about Ethan?” I ask, eyeing him cautiously.

  “I don’t know. I kind of felt sorry for him.”

  “I know. I mean, I hate that he and Mattie couldn’t be together. They deserved to be happy, you know?” I think for a moment before continuing. “I couldn’t imagine not being with the person I had feelings for. And then not being able to tell people about my feelings. It would suck.”

  “Yeah,” he replies. “But it’s more than that. He was smart. He had plans. He wanted to get out of town and actually be somebody. Then his parents get sick and he has to come home and take care of the farm. When they finally die he’s lonely, so he marries Zeena to keep him company. Everything is cold and sad. I don’t know. You have to feel bad for a guy who wanted so much for himself and ended up with nothing.”

  I listen to Parker, digesting what he’s saying. The truth is I never really paid attention to Ethan outside of Mattie. To me, the story is tragic because nothing ever comes of their feelings for each other. To Parker, the story is tragic because Ethan has potential he never lived up to. Same story. Two entirely different interpretations.

  “Wow,” I finally mutter.

  “What?”

  “It’s just that . . . that was really insightful.”

  He smirks, eyebrows lifting. “You’re surprised I’m capable of thought-provoking conversation.”

  “No,” I reply, smiling back. “So . . . they’re poor,” I continue, writing down Parker’s comments.

  “Zeena is sick and crabby,” Parker adds.

  “Mattie is Ethan’s only happiness.”

  Parker leans back in his seat, clasping his fingers behind his head. “You know . . . I don’t think Ethan did it on purpose.”

  “Did what?”

  “Fell for Mattie.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I just don’t think he did. I don’t think you can control something like falling in love.”

  How could something like falling in love be uncontrollable? “You think it just happens?” I ask, curious. “Unplanned? Unannounced?”

  “I think you fall in love with someone when you least expect to. When it’s the last thing you want. That’s what’s so great about it.”

  My heart skips a hit or two at this—my insides going all fluttery on me. The idea that Parker Whalen would even think about falling in love this way . . . about it being great. . . . It’s just . . . not a typical boy attitude, I guess. He leans forward; a trace of his aftershave, or some kind of body spray, hovers in the air between us. It’s awfully enticing, and I find myself migrating closer to him—drifting—like he’s some sort of black hole, sucking me in. I clear my throat, trying to ignore this, curious. “Have, um, you ever been in love before?”

  As soon as the words escape my lips, I regret having asked them. It’s not even any of my business, not something I need to know. It only makes me look . . . desperate. Like I’m actually interested. Which I’m not, obviously.

  His eyes narrow. “Why do you ask?”

  “Insight,” I say, shrugging casually, working to keep my tone level. “I was just wondering if you were speaking from experience.”

  He pauses for a beat. Two beats. But he answers. “Nah.”

  So he’s never been in love before, and he doesn’t seem to care if I know it.

  “What about you?” he asks.

  I lean back, hugging my elbows. “Why do you wanna know?” I challenge.

  “Because you asked me. It’s only fair, right?”

  I barely hesitate before answering. “No, I don’t think so.” I turn my attention back to my notebook.

  Parker snorts. “It’s not fair? Or you’ve never been in love?”

  “Love,” I clarify.

  “Not even with Blake Hanson?”

  My chest seems to collapse on me, and images of Blake rip through my mind, thoughts tangled. Prom. His basketball jersey. A red and white checkerboard tablecloth between us as we share dinner, laughing. Blake. I forgot about Blake. A sharp intake of breath. Of course I’m in love with Blake. Although . . . I’ve never told him I love him. But he’s never told me he loves me, either. Sure I love him . . . but then, does that mean I’m in love with him? Is there a difference?

  I think about what Parker said about love—how it materializes when least expected. I picture fireworks and sparks and passion. Blake and I have been friends since our sophomore year. He asked me to our junior prom. We just sort of . . . happened, and have been happening ever since.

  “I’ll take that as a resounding no,” Parker replies, interrupting my racing thoughts, his dark eyes taunting me.

  “Of course I love Blake,” I say quickly.

  “You didn’t say you did.”

  I shake my head, voice higher than usual. “I don’t have to. It’s understood.”

  “I asked if you’d ever been in love, and you said no.”

  “I love Blake,” I reaffirm, cringing, feeling the awkwardness of these words as they escape my lips. I love Blake. I love him.

  “Then why didn’t you just come out and say it? Why did you even have to think about it?”

  Why does it matter? Why does this even concern him? “I have a right to think about it.”

  “If you really love someone you shouldn’t have to think about anything. You should want to say it. It’s not difficult.”

  My face flushes, the slow burn creeping up my neck and to my cheeks. “That’s absurd. I’d know if I was in love, right?”

  “I would think that you should,” he says dryly.

  “Okay, then.” I roll my eyes and pretend to scan my notes. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Parker watching, one of those sarcastic smirks plastered across his face—like he freakin’ knows it all. And behind us, that clack clack clack of the keyboard filling my head with its obnoxious racket. My body tenses. “Why are you doing that?” I ask, flustered, my face flaming.

  He laughs, and I swear I see dimples. “What?”

  My fists tighten beneath the table, those perfectly manicured fingernails biting my palms. I throw him a dirty look, eyes narrowed. “That. Laughing at me.”

  “Why are you getting so defensive?” he asks, his smile showcasing a set of straight, white teeth.

  “I’m not defensive,” I reply, hating I actually noticed Parker’s nice teeth.

  “Do you love Blake? It’s a simple question. I don’t know what the big deal is.” He slouches in his seat, arms folded, wiggling in satisfaction. “Yes or no, Jade?” he teases.

  “Yes . . . No . . . I mean. . . .” I don’t know what
to say. I let out a frustrated sigh.

  Mission accomplished. He shakes his head lazily. “You don’t love Blake Hanson. In fact, you don’t even know why you’re with him anymore.”

  “Really,” I say. “Then tell me, Parker. Why am I still with him? Please. Enlighten me.” I roll my eyes for effect. There’s no way Parker Whalen can know he’s getting to me.

  “You’re with him because he’s safe. You’re happily stuck in your little comfort zone. You’ve been with him for so long you don’t even know why you’re together anymore, but you’ll never let him go because he’s so dependable. It’s a relationship of pure convenience.” He tilts back in his chair again and lets out a sarcastic laugh. “The cheerleader and head basketball player. I mean . . . can you get any more stereotypical? I bet you go out for pizza every Saturday night, too. And sometimes he calls just to tell you good night.”

  My muscles tighten, pulse racing, unsettled. How dare he? I hate him for calling me out like this. Angry because he thinks he knows me. Angry at myself for thinking he smells enticing. Parker Whalen doesn’t know anything. Parker Whalen is a jerk. “I don’t cheer for basketball,” I say. The other things I don’t deny. Yeah, we eat pizza on the weekends, and Blake calls to tell me good night . . . sometimes. He usually texts. That doesn’t mean we’re cliché.

  “It’s basic, Jade. What you need is a little excitement in that monotonous life of yours, and I doubt Blake Hanson provides that for you.”

  “Blake is a nice guy. He’s . . . perfect.”

  “Perfect. Really,” he says, skeptical.

  “Yes.”

  “Blake is boring.”

  “You said I was boring,” I remind him.

  “My point exactly.”

  My head turns in utter disbelief, temples throbbing in aggravation. This incessant banter—this back and forth—I’ve never felt so annoyed in my life. Even Phillip doesn’t illicit this kind of reaction, and he’s relentless. I’m totally losing my cool. Over Parker Whalen.

  “How did we even get on this?” I wonder aloud, working to control my quiet rage. “I thought we were talking about Ethan Frome.”

  “We were . . . until you asked me if I’ve ever been in love.”

  Fine. I got us on this topic, I can get us off. I clear my throat. “What did you think of the cat?” I ask, changing the subject.

  “Creepy,” Parker replies. “Like Zeena incarnate.”

  Chapter Seven

  Whatever is going on between Parker and me does not exist outside the library, or our project. After my conversations with him, I think maybe something will change, or be different—like maybe he’ll actually acknowledge my presence—but I find when I arrive to English the following day things are the same as always. It’s not that I expect him to jump out of his seat or anything, and it shouldn’t matter, but a little wave, or a smile, even, would be nice. I’d smile back, anyway.

  But Parker remains as inaccessible as always, an impenetrable stone wall.

  I steal a quick glance in his direction; his head hangs low as he scribbles in his notebook. I sit back in my seat, exhaling, determined to focus on Ms. Tugwell and her lecture. I take a few, carefully outlined notes before my thoughts begin to drift. I keep my head still, peeking at him out of the corner of my eye. Still writing. A frustrated sigh wells up inside. It’s like I’m not even on his radar. It consumes me. And I cannot figure out why it matters. Why I even care. Because I don’t care. Not really.

  Occasionally, I catch a glimpse of him in the hallway. The moment is fleeting—a quick vision in black, his leather jacket or his dark hair—and then he’s gone again. He’s like an apparition, appearing long enough for me to notice him, and keep me watching for him when I don’t.

  * * *

  On Thursday afternoon I’m working in one of the back offices with the secretary to the guidance counselor, who’s away at a conference. It’s nearing time for the final bell when she tells me she’s heading to the workroom to drop something off and take a diet soda break.

  “Will you be okay here?” she asks. The dated copier, smudged with dirty traffic fingerprints, continues spitting out page after page; the smell of warm toner hangs suspended in the air around us.

  “Yeah,” I assure her. “Take your time.”

  I glance around the room, surveying my surroundings—desks covered in paper clutter, staplers and plastic paper clip holders; lost and found boxes full of jackets and sunglasses and jewelry; an old leather chair with a gash down the middle, white wooly stuffing oozing out. But then, as I find myself alone in that back office, with no one around, my curiosity takes hold, and then takes over. I have at least five or ten minutes—maybe longer—and so I quietly slither inside the guidance counselor’s office. The room is dim and shadowy, lit only by the faint glow of a cloudy day through the cheap, plastic window blinds. The metal file cabinets stand tall behind the door, the silver key protruding from the lock. I reach out and, hand shaking, slowly turn it. The lock clicks open, the noise reverberating through the empty office. I hold my breath and peer around the door. Still alone. The copier continues to whirr and click, coughing up pages.

  The U-Z drawer rattles as I pull it out. I thumb through the W’s until I reach the file I’m searching for. Whalen, Parker. I extract the thin manila folder and flip it open.

  All right, Parker. What are you hiding?

  Parker stares back at me, barely a smile, in his senior portrait—a very nice photo of him, actually. Black and white. But that’s not what I need. I lift the photo and skim the information sheet behind it. There’s his date of birth, his address, and notes penciled in by the guidance counselor.

  I read quickly. Disruptive at previous school. Open concerning prior recreational drug use. One arrest with community service fulfillment. Divorced parents. Possible trouble at home. Quiet. Good student. Seems lacking true ambition. Suspensions: None. Detentions: None.

  I work to calm my racing pulse, heart thrumming. The rumors floating around about him? It looks like some of them are true.

  I flip the page over and find Parker’s progress reports. There are plenty of A’s, with a few B’s sprinkled here and there: mostly in math and science. He’s acing his English and history classes, and is doing well in Spanish. He’s even taking a few AP courses. Not quite satisfied, because the information raises more questions than it answers, I close the folder and cram it back in the drawer. I double check to make sure everything is left exactly as I found it, then duck out the door.

  * * *

  I ease my car along the curb later that evening. It’s already dark, and everyone else is home from work and school. The dining room is illuminated, beams of light reflecting on the front lawn, raindrops glittering. I watch the shadows of figures moving inside—setting the table, shuffling plates of food—a stellar first impression. Everything seems so . . . perfect: the painted shutters and pitched roof. But it’s what can’t be seen—what’s inside—that matters. Two families, one struggling to get on its feet; hectic schedules; broken nozzles and splintered floorboards. . . .

  I sigh.

  Even though it’s late, and I know at least four people have done the same thing before me, I open the mailbox at the end of the driveway. I can’t see anything, so I stick my hand inside and pat the frozen metal, just to make sure it’s empty. One day—any day, really—a letter from Harvard will arrive. My fate stamped and sealed and waiting for me.

  Getting into Harvard has been my life’s purpose since before I knew what college really was. And even though I’ve applied to a few back-up schools, I hardly put any effort into those applications. Everything—my future, my forever happiness—is riding on the decision of a little school in Massachusetts that only accepts like, one out of every twenty freshman applicants.

  I inhale deeply as I head up the driveway, sucking in a lungful of cold, wet air. The concrete glistens under the streetlight from the earlier rain shower, the icy puddles left sparkling. I sigh. I hate winter. I hate the cold and
the monotony. Waiting makes it insufferable.

  I push open the front door and walk inside. The smell of my mom’s pot roast and potatoes permeate the air, luring me to the kitchen. Sarah is already sitting at the dining room table, feeding Joshua strained carrots and soggy peas. In fact, the only edible things on his tray are those little cut-up peaches—the ones he’s mashing between his fingertips.

  “Ew,” I say, entering into the room.

  “I can’t believe he won’t eat these anymore,” Sarah complains. “It’s like, we find this great routine, and the second we’re comfortable he throws everything out the window. He used to love sweet potatoes.”

  “Those are sweet potatoes?” I ask, picking up the jar of orange baby food and peering inside. I sniff it. My nose scrunches in disgust. “Smart kid. I wouldn’t eat this stuff, either.” I pass the jar back to her. She sighs.

  “Hey, Joshy,” I say, ruffling his fuzzy, blonde baby hair. He ignores me and continues pushing the peaches around his tray with purpose, fingers covered in shiny syrup, as if, at that moment, they’re the only things that matter.

  “I wonder if he’ll eat some of your mom’s potatoes,” Sarah wonders aloud.

  I head into the kitchen, welcomed by a surge of heat, and drop my bag to the linoleum floor. It’s stained, and discolored in places, and pock-marked with dents. Something else on the list that needs replacing. Mom peeks at dinner through the oven window.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Hi, sweetie,” she replies. “How was your meeting?”

  “Fine. We’re throwing around fundraising ideas for the elementary school library. Any mail for me?” I push aside a stack of coupons and find a spread of bills and papers scattered across her desk. I finger through them.

  “No, baby. Not today.”

  Another sigh.