Cross My Heart (14 page)

He shrugs
. “Not a fight I’d want to miss.”

“Well, it’s not like that,” I sa
y
, twisting
my straw around
the cup,
ice jingling. “He’s a good stude
nt. He practically has a four point zero
GPA
. He’s smart. He
has . . . good ideas.” I shift
in my seat,
annoyed and
unc
omfortable,
wondering why I feel
the need to defend Parker
in front of my friends
—
why
he needs
defending at all.

Blake wraps
hi
s arm around my neck and
drag
s
me closer to him, interrupting
my thoughts. “It’s fine, Jaden,” he says, planting a quick kiss on my temple.
“
All I’m saying is if he lays a hand on you, he’s mine.”

On Monday
,
I hurry
through the cafeteria before Savannah
or Blake or anyone else arrives
, checking ove
r my shoulder, pray
ing no one
followed
.
Parker
sits
outside at his usual table—hard and gray and weathered—a perfect parallel to the afternoon sky: cold and weak and overcast as a
lways. Part of me craves
t
o invite him inside, where it’
s
nothing if not warmer
. But then
, that’s not how Parker operates
. Eating among friends and
noise and
laughter: that’s me. Sitting outside, alone, i
s his choice. A
simple preference. I admi
re
him for his audacity.

“Hey,” I say
, stopping just in front of him
, breathless
.
A low wind sweeps between us, rustling the pages of his notebook.

He
flattens them
and
continues
writing, not lifting his head. “Hey.”

“I, um,
was wondering if you want
to get together and talk about our themes after school. You know, for
Ethan
Frome
?
”

Without hesitating:
“Sure.”

“Okay,” I reply
, surprised he answered so quickly
.
“And um, I was think
ing
, instead of meeting in the library, you
could
come to my house . . . or
. . .
something.” We do
n’t
have
to
meet at my house, just somewhere away fr
om the library . . .
away from school . . . away from
people
.

He glances
up at me
,
eyes static,
his expression impossible to read.

I
lick
the inside of my bottom lip, then
bit
e
into it
, waiting for his response. 

“
Yeah
,” he finally says. He turns
his attention back to his wor
k. “I’ll need directions
.”

My
bag slid
es
from my shou
lder to the wooden bench. A
nother
icy
gust
passes through
as I unzip
it,
whipping my hair around my face
. I rip
out a sheet of
notebook
paper and wri
te
down my address
in my
loopy, cursive script
. The
town
i
s small
—a few streets off Main and he’ll
find me, no problem.

His eyebrows arch.
“So. Your friends giving you trouble? We have to hide out now?”

“No,” I say
,
a fiery blush creeping to my cheeks as I hand
him the directions. “Why do you ask?”

“You are a
horrible
liar,” he says
, smirking,
eyes brightening.

I smile
,
shrugging innocently,
glancing at t
he cafeteria window. The room i
s dim, a
nd it’
s hard to see
inside. They could be watching. A
lready waiting.
“I have to get to lunch, but um, maybe I’
ll see you around three-thirty
?” I hate
the uncertainty
in
my voice, like I’m
depending on him showing up or something.
It’s just a project.

“Yeah,” he replies
.

“Great.”
I take
a step, ready to leave, before
I remember
: “Oh, these are for you.” I
open
my b
rown
,
paper lunch sack and pull
out
the extra bag of Sun Chips I
stuffed
i
n
side
earlier that morning. I toss
it on the table in front of him. A peace offering.

Our eyes align
a
nd that electric current surges
,
shimmies up my spine.

“Aw, Jade. You were thinking about me.”

“Don’t be so sure,” I reply
, forcing away the
tingly
feeling
inside
and the
smile
t
ugging
at my lips
. “I’ll see you later.”

I
stroll
toward the cafeteria
,
taking short, shallow breaths—
the
dead, winter grass
crunching beneath my Mary
Janes
—
to
me
et my usual friends,
to
eat my usual lunch,
to sit at my usual ta
ble. But even though my steps a
re
sure and full of purpose, I fi
nd myself stealing a glance at Parker
,
suffocating in
the flat, brown
and
gray
world around him
,
just before pushing
through the metal door.

*
  
*
  
*

I bound
into the kitchen
that afternoon, where
Mom i
s
sitting at the breakfast table
holding Joshua and flipping through a magazine.
The disappointment swiftly fades
when I ask
the daily:
“Any mail for me?” and Mom re
plies
: “No, not today.”

At the refrigerator, I remove
two
bottled water
s
and one of Phillip’s sodas for Parker
, just in case
.

“Hey, Mom?
I have a friend coming over to work on a school project. Is that okay?”

“Of course,” she replies
, licking her finger and
turn
ing to the next page of her magazine. “Do
I need
to set a place for her at dinner?”

I sift
through the contents of the pantry
, searching
for an extra bag of chips. “Actually, it’s not a she. It’s a
he
. And you can ask him, but he’ll probably say no. He doesn’t really seem li
ke the ‘stay for dinner’ type.”

She looks
up from her magazine. “He? Do I know him?”

I hope not.

“Probably not,” I say casually.
“
His name is Parker Whalen. We’re in English together.”

“You’re
doing a project with the Whalen
boy?” she a
sks
, the surprise in her voice almost tangible
.

I sigh
. A
pparen
tly Parker’s reputation precedes
him at home, too. Of course the entire town would know him—the rumors abounding at school slowly trickling their way through dinner conversations, and then casual conve
rsations, until everyone thinks th
ey know exactly who he is. “Yes. W
hy?” I ask
.

Mom sha
k
es
her head slowly
, brows furrowing
. “Jaden . . . honey.”

My pulse edges a degree. I was counting on her hav
ing no clue who Parker Whalen i
s.
I shut the cabinet door. “Look
,
Mom, I know what you’re going to say. He has a reputation. He’s trouble. He lives on the wr
ong side of town . . . if,
you know, he even lives in town. I’ve heard it all, okay?”

Her head continues
shaking
,
as if to tell me that, no,
she d
oes
n’t approve of this—not
at all. “I’m just concerned a
bout his influence on you
. If you’re working together . . .”

“His
influence on me?” I interrupt
, annoyed. “You act like I’m twelve years old.
Look:
I don’t know very much about him, but we’ve talked
, and he seems like an okay guy.
”
My stomach constricts, and I can feel the weight of her stare pressing down on me.

“Fine,”
she
acquiesces
, emitting a huge sigh. “Just . . . be careful. Keep it to schoolwork.”

“God, y
ou sound like Blake,” I mutter
, half under my breath.

“What?”

But the doorbell ri
ng
s
, saving me. “Never mind.
Just be normal, okay?” I beg
, heading
to the foyer.

I open
the door
and
Parker
is
standing on my front
porch. The cold, winter air rushes
inside, raising
goose bumps on my arms. I pull
my sweater tighter, hugging my elbows.
How does he sit
outside
in this every
day?
 

“Hey,” he mumbles
.

I smile
. “Hi. Glad you found it.” T
races of his body spray linger in the air as he enters
, walking past
.
It reminds
me of the ocean. W
arm sand between my toes.
I close
my eyes for a moment
, breathing it in
.
He’s Parker. He does NOT
smell good
, I remind
myself.

“Wasn
’t too hard to find,” he says
.

“Small town,” I agree
.

I close the door and motion
for
him to follow me
. “Mom?” I call
.

My mother sits
exactly as I
left her, onl
y this time she wears
a nice,
noticeably fake, smile. Busines
s Friendly. “This is Parker.
Parker, this is my mom and my nephew, Joshua.”

Parker reaches
out to shake her hand. “It’s nice to m
eet you, Mrs.
McEntyre
,” he says. It surprises
me to see this,
actually . . . not because I think Parker i
s
n’t
polite. . . . Well, yeah, I guess that’s e
xactly what I
was
think
ing
. He seems
like the kind of guy who avoids parents, and prefers
head nods or . . .
fist bumps or something. I can
add “reserved politeness” to t
he growing tally of things I’m
wrong about concerning him. I’m not above admitting I’m wrong. In fact, in
this case
, I’d
rather
be wrong.