Cross My Heart

  When was the last time I even looked at my planner? I wrack my brain. Not since lunch, at least. I couldn’t have. I spent the entire afternoon walking around in a fog, thinking of one thing: seeing Parker. And look what happened. I was so freaking distracted I missed the most important meeting of my entire week. Parker Whalen should not have this kind of effect on me.

  “I think you’re being a little hard on yourself,” Parker says.

  “No. I’m not,” I reply harshly, angry at him for screwing up my entire schedule, but angrier at myself for letting it happen. “You don’t sign up to do something and then bail on everyone. People are counting on me.”

  “Well there’s no point going now. It’ll be over by the time you get there.”

  “Thank you for conveying the obvious,” I snap.

  “Look, Jaden,” he says, leaning back in his seat, voice calm. “It’s one meeting. It’s not the end of the world.”

  It’s easy for him to say this. He doesn’t do anything. He has no idea. I hoist my backpack over my shoulder, hands trembling. “Maybe not to you, but it’s the end of my world. I don’t miss meetings. I don’t sign up to do something and not follow through. I’m better than that.”

  “Please keep your voice down,” the librarian says.

  “I am keeping my voice down,” I reply, defensive.

  I can feel. . . . I swallow hard. No, Jaden. You cannot cry.

  Parker stands, shaking his head. “Jaden . . .”

  Do not cry. Not here. Not in front of . . . “I have to go,” I insist, words breaking in my throat. “We can do this tomorrow. At my house. I’ll, um . . . I’m really sorry.” I jog toward the door and pull on the handle, stumbling into the hallway, fighting back the stubborn tears marring my vision.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Any mail for me?”

  “Not today,” Mom replies.

  “Of course not.” I inhale deeply, reminding myself that I am not a control freak, despite what Phillip or anyone else may think.

  I head to the refrigerator and pull out a soda and bottled water. “Parker is on his way,” I remind her.

  An audible sigh rises from where my mom sits at the kitchen table. My cheerful mood deflates a little, and I roll my eyes.

  Sarah enters the kitchen, Joshua planted on her hip. “Hey, you,” she says happily. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “Yeah, I’m here.”

  “I’m going through dress catalogs. Since you’re a bridesmaid you have a vested interest. Wanna help?”

  I smile. Friday is Sarah’s slow day—no classes, and clinic until lunch.

  “I would, but I have a friend coming over to work on a project,” I explain.

  Sarah walks over to the cabinet where my mom keeps Joshua’s baby food, and pulls out a jar of bananas. “Is this the Parker guy everyone’s been talking about?” she asks. The door bangs shut.

  “The one and only,” I reply, giving my eyes a hard roll. “How did you hear about it?”

  “Daniel.”

  “Great,” I mutter. “How did he hear about it?”

  “Well . . . apparently he heard you two arguing last night,” she replies, nodding toward my mom. “He asked if I knew anything about it. I told him no—I had no clue. At first he thought it had something to do with you and Blake.”

  “No.”

  Mom sighs, and stands from her chair. “It wasn’t an argument. It was a discussion,” she says. “From what I hear, this Parker has a shady past, and I don’t want Jaden involved with a bad crowd this close to graduation.”

  “He’s hardly a crowd,” I mumble under my breath.

  Mom ambles over to the counter, pulls open the silverware drawer, and fishes around for one of Joshua’s spoons, metal tinkling against metal. She passes one to Sarah.

  I hear the growl of a motorcycle moving closer: its motor humming, rumbling. It’s the last thing I need—my parents knowing this “troublemaker” I’m involved with drives a bike.

  “What Mom doesn’t know,” I continue, distracting them from the noise, “is that Parker is a nice guy. He makes good grades . . . he’s just . . . quiet. He keeps to himself. Yeah, he might have a shady past. I mean, who doesn’t, right? I haven’t seen anything I should be concerned about, and I consider myself a good judge of character. You know I would never screw things up this close to graduation. Please trust me on this.”

  The doorbell rings.

  “If I was concerned, I wouldn’t bother,” I finish, heading for the door.

  When I open it, Parker is standing on the other side. I take a deep breath. “Look, I just want to say I’m sorry about yesterday. You know, um, leaving early.” He was right. I missed my meeting. By the time I got to the elementary school the parking lot was empty. I spent half the night crafting apology emails to everyone in my group.

  He shrugs. “No big deal.”

  “Okay. Because I didn’t want you to think I was bailing on you or being rude. I just. . . .”

  And then my eyes settle on him, and I can see him. Really see him. The leather jacket and dark jeans are such an established part of his ensemble I barely notice them anymore. Today, however, he’s wearing blue: an azure, collared polo shirt that compliments his olive skin. My breath catches, sending flutters deep into the pit of my stomach. It’s beautiful. It makes him. . . . I can’t even describe it. It’s bright and cheerful and so unlike Parker that I blink a few times, trying to make sense of it.

  “Can I come in?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

  I snap back to reality, heartbeat erratic. God, I’m so rude. Leaving him standing on the porch? “Yeah. Of course. Sorry.” I move aside.

  A smile lifts a corner of his mouth on the way in, as if my thoughts are splayed across my forehead for everyone to read. “Hey.”

  My stomach tumbles to the floor, cheeks flaming in embarrassment. “Hi.”

  Parker follows me, hands stuck deep in his pockets, as I return to the kitchen. My mom is back in her usual seat, Joshua is strapped in his high chair, and Sarah is sitting beside him, spooning banana mush into his mouth. He slaps the tray of his chair happily.

  “You remember my mom,” I say, relieved for the distraction, that we can move on. “And this is my soon-to-be-official sister-in-law, Sarah, and Joshua.”

  “Nice to meet you,” he says, nodding.

  Sarah smiles. “Likewise.”

  “Soda?” I ask, passing him a can.

  “Thanks.”

  I grab my drink and our chips, and head out of the room. “We’ll be upstairs if you need us.” I can almost hear my mom sighing. I shake the sound away.

  Again, I notice Parker lagging behind as we make our way up the stairs, taking in the family photos.

  “This one is my favorite, I think,” he says, gently tapping the frame of an old, school photo. I remember the day it was taken. It rained, and my bangs had frizzed. By picture time they were like a puff of auburn cotton. My bony, angular arms are positioned at uncomfortable right angles, hands in my lap. And then there were my braces, tightened the day before and aching so that every time I smiled it felt like I’d been struck in the mouth. I chose blue and green bands because they were the colors of my crush’s favorite baseball team. I thought he might notice. He didn’t. And, looking back, I understand why.

  I groan. “That was eighth grade,” I say, as if this explains everything. “It was a tough year for me.”

  Parker grins, suppressing a laugh. “I can see that. I’m actually kind of sorry I missed it.” He fixes his eyes on me, and they sparkle against the blue of his shirt.

  “Shut up,” I say, turning back to the stairs, emotions tangling.

  We reach my bedroom, and I run my fingers across the Harvard sticker by the door.

  “You did that last time I was here,” he says, nodding toward it.

  I look at the sticker, my face flushing. Does anything get past him? “Oh. I know. It’s just this weird thing. I put this up after we moved in. For motivation. After I
sent out my application, though, I started touching it every time I came in or left the room. Good vibes. You know.”

  He nods.

  I open my mouth, then shut it. “There’s one in my locker, too,” I finally say, triggering a nervous laugh. “I guess you could say I’m obsessed?”

  “Apparently. So what happens if you don’t get in?”

  My eyes flick to him, the blood in my veins running cold. “Why would you ask that?”

  His confidence slips, expression guarded. “I’m not saying you’re not, obviously,” he clarifies. “It was a hypothetical question.”

  I pull my hair away from my face, tucking it behind my ears. “Oh. Well. In that case, it’s not an option. I’m getting in.” I clear my throat. “You know, it’s strange,” I go on, changing the subject. “We take a lot of the same classes, but we’re not in any together.”

  “What’s so strange about that?” He stops. “Wait. How do you know what classes I’m taking?” he asks, eyeing me suspiciously.

  I wrack my brain. How would I know what classes he’s taking? Who do I talk to that would even know? I struggle to conjure up a decent answer, something other than the truth. But in the end this proves unsuccessful. “I, um, work in the office last hour and happened to see your schedule the other day,” I mumble, keeping it as vague as possible. I turn away and busy myself, opening our Sun Chips.

  “You just happened to see my schedule? How did you manage that?”

  My cheeks grow warmer. Of course he’d ask for details. “I just saw it, that’s all.” I hold the bag of chips open in front of him. He reaches out and takes a handful.

  “I got that part. I’m just trying to figure out how, exactly, you managed to see it.” He shoves one of the chips into his mouth.

  I replace the bag on my desk and sigh. “Your file, okay? There’s a copy of your schedule in your student file. That’s how I know what you’re taking. Are you happy now?”

  A narrow smile appears as Parker chews, crunching loudly. “I thought student files were off limits,” he says, mouth full.

  Of course they are. I cough into my fist. “Not for me,” I mutter, plunking down on my bed across from him. I re-tuck my hair, wishing there was some way to get out of this conversation.

  “Apparently,” he replies.

  “It was just this stupid thing,” I confess. “I was curious. I mean, I saw you in English and at lunch, but that was it. I didn’t know anything about you, so yes: I looked in your student file.”

  “You know that’s illegal, right?” A full smile crosses his face, lighting up his eyes. And again I’m startled at how they glimmer—how different they look reflected in blue. I force the thought away. He does not have sparkly eyes.

  “You’re not going to report me, are you?”

  “I’ll have to think about it. So, we’re in the same classes?”

  “AP Chemistry, Biology, Spanish III,” I say, naming the courses I remember. “You know, you could be Harvard Med.”

  “What, you saw my grades, too?”

  “What makes you think I saw your grades?” I ask.

  “It’s just that you must think I’m doing pretty well if I could hack it at Harvard,” he replies, matter of fact.

  I exhale loudly, flustered. “Yes. I saw your grades. And yes, believe it or not, I’m not the only one in this room who could be headed to an Ivy League school.” It’s the truth, at any rate.

  “Nah,” he replies, shaking his head, reaching for his notebook.

  “Why not? Your grades are stellar. You’re in AP classes. You could probably get into any college you want.”

  He smirks, hearing this. “College is not on my agenda.”

  “Really?” I ask, surprised. “Why not?”

  “That’s kind of a personal question, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe, but why wouldn’t you want to? Going to college is the fastest way to get out of this town.”

  “Maybe I like it here,” he argues, leafing through pages.

  I furrow my brow, tipping my head sideways, staring at him, skeptical. “No offense, but you don’t really seem like the type of guy who’d want to stick around after graduation.”

  “None taken. And you’re right: I’m gone the moment my diploma is in my hand.”

  He looks up and our eyes meet, closing the distance between us.

  “The very moment? Like, you’re headed out in your cap and gown?” I tease, smiling.

  “The very moment,” he confirms, expression serious. He’s not kidding.

  A shivery jolt races up my spine. I can see him in my mind, shedding his scarlet-colored cap and gown as he passes through the hall. Stuffing them into a trash can on his way out. Picking up his bag, which contains not books, but a couple of changes of clothes, whatever worldly possessions he cherishes. Sliding the straps over his shoulders. Walking out. Climbing onto the back of his motorcycle. Leaving things behind. . . . Forever.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Don’t know,” he replies, shrugging casually. “Somewhere. Anywhere but here.”

  We sit quietly for a moment, and I wonder if I should go on: if I should take the information he’s offering, coupled with what I already know about him, and try to make sense of it. I clear my throat. “Does this have anything to do with your dad?” I finally ask.

  He snickers. “I guess my student file mentioned there’s trouble at home,” he says, emphasizing the words.

  “Vaguely.”

  He hesitates for a moment before continuing. He won’t look at me. “Well, believe me, I’m not the problem.” He reaches inside his jacket and pulls a pen out of his pocket. He unfastens the cap. Flicks it to the bed.

  I watch him, curious, wishing he would elaborate; that he would tell me about his family, and his dad. His life. I want to know what “trouble at home” means. I want to know why he was arrested and kicked out of his old school. I want him to talk to me . . . to tell me things.

  Instead, Parker begins writing, as quiet and reserved as always, somehow different from the Parker I’ve grown accustomed to lately. Shut down. Closed off. Barricaded. His gaze flat and his lips pressed in a thin line. Focused.

  From where I sit, I can see his carefully written outlines and definitions—the pages full of information he meticulously copied from Ms. Tugwell’s lectures. The work and the effort he’s put in, for nothing.

  Something catches in my throat, and I swallow hard. “You should at least apply to Northwestern State,” I say, grappling against the silence hovering between us, desperate to find the footing that will take us back to the way things were. “It’s not too far away, and they’ve got awesome programs.”

  He shrugs. “Yeah. Whatever.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “Friday’s game, right? We’re still on to set up our table?” Savannah asks when I sit down at lunch on Monday.

  “Yeah. I’ve already confirmed everything with the athletics director. He said we could set up by the snack bar.”

  Blake puts his arm around me, pulling me closer. My eyes drift toward the window out of sheer habit. And there’s Parker. He smiled at me earlier, when I tossed him a bag of Sun Chips and a soda. But even this is unlike me. I’m always nagging Blake and Savannah about their sugar-drink consumption. I give them to Parker like they’re nothing. It’s what he likes, I rationalize. I doubt Parker gets what he wants very often. Now, watching him as he sits outside in the cold, eating what little I can offer, and going over notes for classes which don’t even matter, technically, since he isn’t going to college, I feel a pang of sadness for him. I’m getting these a lot, lately.

  He’d freak if he knew this. Parker thrives on the whole “I’m fine” vibe. To know someone feels sorry for him, well, he’d probably go ballistic. It’s why I’m bringing sodas and an extra bag of chips to school every day now, and why I always act like it’s no big deal.

  “Hello? Earth to Jaden!” Savannah says, waving her hand in front of my face. I snap back to attention.


  “What? Sorry.”

  “Wow, you really spaced there for a minute,” she says.

  “Yeah.” I dunk a cold carrot into ranch dressing. It crunches loudly as I bite into it. I apologize again, wiping a drip of dressing off my lip with my finger. “There’s a lot going on.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I notice Ashley mouthing something to Blake, “heard from Harvard?” is the only thing I can make out. Beside me, Blake shakes his head.

  I roll my eyes, cringing, and pull my hair back from my face. I’d put it in a ponytail, but I don’t have an elastic with me. I picked a great day to forget it. I let my hair fall past my shoulders. “Jesus, you guys, I’m right here.”

  “Sorry,” Blake mumbles.

  “It’s fine. No, Ashley, I haven’t heard from Harvard. But it’s not a big deal. You can ask. Or better yet, when I find out, you all will be the first to know, I swear.”

  “It’s just that we know how important it is to you,” Ashley explains. “We’re worried.”

  I let out a tiny laugh, reaching for another carrot. “Please, don’t waste your time.”

  “You’re not acting like yourself, lately,” Savannah adds.

  I scoff. “Maybe because I’m waiting for the most important letter of my entire life. Forgive me for being a bit anxious, k?”

  Blake shifts uncomfortably beside me. I close my eyes and inhale deeply, trying my best to remain centered. To not lose it. Because Jaden McEntyre never loses it. Ever.

  “Look, guys,” I continue, plastering a smile on my face. “It’s okay, I swear. Yes, I’m nervous, but it’s no big deal. I’m the same Jaden . . . just a little on the apprehensive side, that’s all.” I muster as much optimism as I possibly can, making the words sound cheerful. “Plus there’s the library fundraiser and the walk for the Food Bank. Once our raffle is over I have to start thinking about that. . . .” I trail off, lightheaded, overwhelmed by the sheer number of demands on my to-do list.

  “Always making sure the world is fed,” Blake teases, leaning in to kiss me. The stubble on his chin scratches against my cheek. I wince, a wave of guilt washing over me. He has no idea, at that moment, how true this is.