Collateral Damage (3 page)

I watch her right herself, heart hammering in my ears. The halls are supposed to be empty. Everyone's in class.

Then it hits me: Jaden McEntyre is in the men's room.

"What the hell are you
doing
?" I demand to know, half outraged, half curious.

Uncertainty plaits itself in her features—her eyebrows as they pull together, the frown tugging at her lips—as if she was hoping I could tell her. She straightens, chin lifting in an effort to appear more confident. Composed. I still have a good half a head on her. She's tall for a girl, but I'm taller.

"What am
I
doing? I'm sorry, but I have a major research project due in two months, and for some unfortunate reason my partner has decided to go all AWOL on me." She folds her arms across her chest, defiant. "What is your deal?"

I shut off the faucet and shake my hands dry. "I don't have a deal, Miss McEntyre," I reply, matter of fact.

"Then why are you avoiding me? We're supposed to be partners and you're not even speaking to me. We haven't picked a book...or decided our topics. You may not care about your academic future, but I
have
to get a good grade on this."

Avoiding
her?

Then I realize: she's pissed about the note—the one she passed in English this morning. The one I didn't actually read until second period. The one that read:
Want to meet after school to work on our project?
in loopy, cursive writing—a little heart above the "n" in her name. The note I crumpled and tossed into a trashcan in the hallway on my way to third.

Yes, by all appearances I'm avoiding her. But I can't work on this project today.

Conference call.

I mistakenly assumed she'd get the hint by my lack of response.

Wait. Did she just say that I don't
care
about my academic future?

"I'm a
slacker
? Is that what you think?" When she doesn't answer, I swallow back a laugh. "You don't know people as well as you think you do."

"I'm not pretending to know anything about you," she argues. "I get that you must not like me or something..."

"Not like you? Jaden McEntyre, there's not a soul at this school who doesn't just
adore
you." I move for the door, reaching for the handle, but she's faster, planting herself directly in my path. Her green eyes are darker than before. Angrier. "Do you mind?"

"Yeah, I do mind, actually. If you're so
miserable
being my partner...which, I might add, is the stupidest thing I've ever heard since you don't even
know
me..."

"I don't know you? Really?" I interrupt. "Jaden McEntyre. Daughter of a general contractor. Cheerleader. Human rights activist. Best friend of Savannah Wainright. Girlfriend of Blake Hanson. Volunteers for Cancer Walks. Gives blood. Raises money for the poverty-stricken children of Bangladesh. Straight A's. Ivy League bound. The safest...most
boring
person at this school."

What I fail to mention is that I know she wore a blue dress to prom last year, that she keeps her locker organized by class, and that she always has an extra ChapStick on hand.

And I can't help but feel there's some sort of cosmic karmic balance at play. She's five minutes late to first period—saving the world, no less—and here I am: the last possible person she would ever want to be paired to work with.

We didn't pick partners. Partners picked us.

For a second she appears stunned—mouth gaping—shocked that I have nailed her existence so perfectly. But the scowl returns, and that resentful spark in her eye. "Are you serious?"

"I don't lie," I answer easily.

"Fine. That's fine," she sputters. "Either way, we're partners. And we have a project to do whether you like it or not, so...get over yourself."

Get over myself?

I can't help it. The corners of my mouth lift in a smile. This girl is a hundred pounds of pure attitude. Kind of scrappy.

I like it.

"That's pretty harsh," I say. "Especially coming from you."

She pushes the hair away from her eyes, tucking it behind her ears, and studies me, confused, as if she doesn't know what to make of the Parker Whalen who smiles. "It's not funny. You might not want to get a good grade on this project, but I do."

I force my eyes not to roll.

Again with the slacker thing.

"You're so presumptuous. Assuming that I don't want good grades."

"Okay...whatever. Here's the thing. I'm going to the library tomorrow afternoon. I'll be there at 3:00. I'm taking my list, and I'm choosing a book for our project. You're welcome to join me...
Partner
."

She spins on her heel and yanks the door open. Storms out.

When it closes I'm alone again, everything burning. I tug at the collar of my jacket. My neck is on fire. Sweat prickles along my skin.

I struggle to wrap my mind around what just happened. Jaden McEntyre, busting up men's bathrooms? That's the kind of shit that only happens in dreams. Random, inexplicable dreams.

On second thought, my
dreams
aren't even this weird.

I grab the hall pass off the sink.

Part of me wants to go after her—to ask her what the hell she was thinking. But when I reach the hallway, she's already at the other end, disappearing around a corner. She doesn't stop. She doesn't turn around. She doesn't even glance back at me.

But that's the point, right? To get through this year unnoticed?

I have a
problem with authority
. I am
unfocused
and
undisciplined
.

A
slacker
.

Parker: One.

Jaden: One.

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

"Please?" my mom begs, her voice echoing throughout my usually quiet kitchen—on speakerphone. "You know how important these dinners are to the family."

Every six months it's the same spiel:
Come to the family dinners, Chris. My aunts and uncles won't be around much longer, and everyone loves to see you.

Like I need the guilt trip—the threat of people dying—to visit my own family.

"I know they are, but it's a really bad time," I remind her.

"It's only for a few hours. You can bring Callie and announce your engagement. Everyone will be thrilled!"

"I would, Mom, but I wasn't even planning to come home this weekend. I have some things to take care of here. We'll do the dinner in August. I promise."

I turn down the heat on the stove, lift the lid on my pot of spaghetti, and check the time on the microwave. Callie will be calling any minute.

"You can't even come up Sunday for a couple of hours?" she presses.

I run fingers through my hair and squeeze my neck, feeling the tension. Even now, all grown up, it's hard to tell my mom
no
. "As much as I'd love to drive an hour and a half one way for lunch, I have to pass this time. I'm sorry."

"Okay," she replies. But it's not okay, and we both know it.

"We'll make it up to you when things settle down," I promise. I check the time again. "What's Dad up to?" I ask, changing the subject.

"He's watching the game."

"Oh."

I don't ask which game. God. I don't even know who he's pulling for these days. So I ask about my sister, instead, and when Mom finally says goodbye, she doesn't sound quite so disappointed in me.

When I disconnect the call, there are two new voicemail messages. I dial Callie's number without even listening to them.

"Sorry, Cal. It was Mom."

"No biggie," she replies. "How was your conference call?"

I stir the pot of boiling spaghetti one final time. "Anderson is on my jock. He wants another locker search."

"I thought the last one didn't turn up anything."

"It didn't. But he doesn't care." I tilt the pot over the sink, draining the water. "There's a problem in that town, Whalen," I mock, doing my best Chief Anderson impression. "We sent you in to get the job done, so get it done."

Callie laughs.

"I'd give anything to do an actual car search. I know there's a point of entry, but I don't know where. It's weird. Teenagers are
never
this careful."

"Maybe they aren't as stupid as we were," she points out.

"If someone was dealing on this campus I'd know it. They would've screwed up by now." I wish someone
would
screw up, then I could move out of this hell-hole, get back to Hamilton, and move on with my life.

My weekday apartment is about twenty minutes from Bedford. Anderson wanted me close, but not too close. The apartment is sparse, on a good day. I have enough pots and pans and plates to get by. A couch in the living room that doubles as a bed, though I'm usually too lazy to set it up. The bedroom is empty. Mom loaned me one of Grandma's coffee tables, and I brought the TV from my room back home. It sits on the floor.

There is no artwork on the walls. There are no pictures.

The apartment mimics my story.

The story is that I'm trouble—that I hate my dad and barely speak to my mom. It's all fleshed out on a dozen or more four by six cards I memorized before moving in.

I keep a wireless printer in one of the cabinets, and I have a laptop that pulls double duty: schoolwork and real work. The bedroom closet is half-filled with clothes, and the top shelf is home to the helmet I bought for Callie right after I got my motorcycle.

It's never been used.

"So we have this project to do in English," I continue, "and the teacher assigned partners. So I get stuck with the class...." I trail off, unsure how, exactly, to classify Jaden. Nerd? Loser? "I don't know what to call her. This girl is just, super motivated. Permanently set at one hundred and fifty percent, you know?"

"You should like that. She'll practically do the project for you."

I remove a jar of spaghetti sauce from the cupboard. "You say that like I can't handle a few literature essays."

"I've been your partner before," she reminds me, voice teasing.

It's not like that anymore
, I want to tell her. But she'd never get it. She has no idea that I could ace these classes if I wanted—that I could've aced them the first time around if I would've given a shit.

I dump the spaghetti and the sauce into a bowl and stir, mixing it all together. "Anyway, we're meeting tomorrow after school. This is going to be a long freaking semester."

"Well, I have something that will cheer you up," she says, voice lifting. "I got us a dinner reservation for Saturday night at Winnfield. You know, the plantation outside of Hamilton?"