Cross My Heart

by Katie Klein

  Blake slants away from me. The shift is slight, but I notice it nonetheless. “I thought we picked partners.”

  “We did. Sort of. I had to stop by the office so I got to class late,” I mutter. “Partners had already been picked.” I shrug. It’s not like I had a choice or anything.

  “So the Tugboat put you and Parker Whalen together.” His jaw tightens, words sharp and spiteful.

  “Yeah. She did,” I reply, glowering at him. “And don’t call her Tugboat. It’s juvenile. And rude.”

  “Jaden had to do it. I mean, there’s not a person at this school who’d actually want him for a partner,” Ashley says, matter of fact, spooning a bite of yogurt. “He’s freaky. Jaden’s just nice enough to not let something like that bother her.”

  I’m not sure how I would define Parker Whalen, but freaky is a little extreme. Strange? Possibly. Eccentric? Maybe. A definite loner . . . but he doesn’t seem freaky to me . . . just . . . quiet. “It’s weird, actually. I don’t know anything about him. And he’s been coming to this school for what? Five? Six months?”

  “We know enough,” Tony says. “I heard his dad makes money off some illegal dog fighting ring—totally underground.”

  “I heard his old school kicked him out for marijuana,” says Savannah.

  “Which he was also arrested for,” adds Ashley.

  I roll my eyes. “We don’t know if any of those things are true,” I say, still chewing. “And just because he wears black and drives a bike? I mean, we don’t even know him.”

  “I saw him at Vince’s a few weeks ago. He was wandering around like he was scouting the place. The dude is a freak.”

  My ears perk up at this. Not what he said about Parker, but Vince. Because I think he means Vince De Luca, and if that’s the case. . . . “Wait. You went to Vince De Luca’s?”

  Blake’s cheeks flush. Busted. Vince De Luca graduated from Bedford High a few years ago. He lives a county over now, in an old rental, and his parties are fairly notorious. Vince’s reputation is anything but stellar. Never mind that he still runs with the high school crowd. He and my brothers used to hang out, and I’ve since been warned.

  “I thought we talked about that.”

  “We did,” Blake says. “I was with the guys. I swear we were only there for like, fifteen minutes. If that. Ask Tony.”

  I look to Tony for confirmation.

  “Fifteen minutes,” he agrees.

  “You know I do not like that guy,” I remind him. I set my sandwich on top of my bag; my appetite has mysteriously vanished.

  “Yeah, well, I don’t really like Parker Whalen,” Blake replies coolly.

  * * *

  At the end of the day, as I’m taking a quick trip to my car before I head to Mr. Connelly’s room, I see Parker again. He’s walking to the far end of the lot, where he parks his motorcycle. Blue and silver. A sport bike. Which seems perfect for him, actually. I pick up my pace, hurrying to catch up with him before he disappears. Rumors, reputation, or not, we have a project to do—a project to do together. The sooner we talk the faster we can get to work.

  “Parker!” I call out, crossing in front of a red Volvo. He straps his helmet beneath his chin, then mounts the bike, using his legs to back out of the space.

  “Parker Whalen!”

  Everyone’s eyes are fixated on me, it seems, as I weave in and out of cars and around groups of friends who’ve stopped laughing and chatting to wonder what, exactly, I’m doing. In the next moment he cranks the engine, and revs it a few times. The thunderous blasts shake my eardrums, vibrating the ground beneath me, pulsing. He peels out of the parking lot, tires squealing, not once turning my way.

  I remain cemented to the asphalt in the middle of the lane, watching in disbelief as he fades away, taillights glowing. A car horn beeps behind me, punctuating my stupor. I jump, and turn toward the line of traffic snaking around the lot. I quickly move out of the way, waving an apology to the driver. I wrap my arms tightly across my chest, hugging myself in an effort to keep warm, then jog to my car, feeling the icy wind as it bites my face and numbs the tip of my nose.

  I flash those still eyeing me a quick smile. Everything is absolutely under control. Parker Whalen is not avoiding me. Not on purpose, anyway.

  Chapter Three

  I sit down at the dinner table, watching as my soon-to-be official nephew, Joshua, shoves his hand deep inside a plastic dinosaur bowl, grasping and mashing. Oatmeal dribbles over the sides and plops onto the tray of his highchair.

  “I hope you’re eating some of that, young man,” my mom warns.

  Joshua grins, revealing the impossibly tiny baby teeth at the front of his mouth. With a smile like that? He’s the only one of us who can, quite literally, get away with everything.

  “Dinner!” Mom calls.

  My two older brothers materialize from the living room, still dressed for work, their white socks speckled with mud and their short, brown hair pressed flat against their scalps: what we generally refer to as “hard-hat head.”

  “Hey, little man,” Daniel, my oldest brother, says. “Gimme five.” He extends his hand.

  Joshua giggles, and smacks it several times.

  Daniel stares at the sticky, brown oatmeal splattered across his palm. “Great.”

  “Pass me those,” my other brother, Phillip, demands, nodding toward the baked beans.

  “No way. That’s the last thing you need,” I say, rolling my eyes.

  Phillip pushes his shirt sleeves up his arms, past his elbows, frowning. “Just hand them to me.”

  “I’m thinking about the collective good of this family.”

  “Shut up,” he replies, his voice rising, “and think about passing me that pot.”

  “Are you gonna say ‘please’?”

  He exhales loudly, stands, and leans across the table, snatching the stainless steel dish. A trail of steam chases as it moves.

  “Phillip, can you please not say that?” Sarah, Daniel’s fiancée, begs. “I don’t want Josh picking up those things. Because it would be pretty horrible to have to document his first word and it’s not ‘Mama’ or ‘Dada’ but ‘shup.’”

  The four of us watch as Joshua examines a glob of oatmeal on his fist, his eyes crossing momentarily. He shoves the entire thing in his mouth, then pulls it out, covered in spit.

  “Impressive,” Phillip says, mouth full.

  “Takes after his uncle,” I say.

  My dad, an older, grayer version of Daniel, sits down in his chair at the head of the table, scooting it closer as Mom enters with the rolls. I can’t quite pin-point when it happened—the wiry, gray wisps of hair and creases around the eyes—if they’ve always existed and I never noticed, or if becoming grandparents somehow triggered the changes automatically.

  “Is this everyone?” she asks, swiping her auburn hair (same shade as mine) away from her face. She frowns. “Phillip, can’t you wait for the rest of us?”

  Every seat at the table is occupied, and Joshua sits in his highchair between my mom and Sarah: a typical dinner at the McEntyre house. There are seven of us in all. My mom and dad, of course; Daniel, Sarah, and Joshua, who stay in the middle bedroom upstairs; me; and Phillip, who’s younger than Daniel by two years, and two years older than me. A true middle child. We’re nothing if not a full house.

  “Daniel, Phillip, how was work?” Mom asks.

  “Good,” Daniel replies. “The house on Oak Street is almost ready to be painted.”

  She stabs a pork chop with her fork, and passes the plate on to Sarah. “That soon? It went up fast,” she marvels.

  “Chalk it up to the good winter weather we’ve been having. I don’t think we’ve had to take off a single day,” says Dad.

  My eyebrow lifts instinctively as I reach for my sweet tea. I don’t know what he means by “good winter weather,” but the days we’ve been having lately—cold, dark, and miserable—are not good, in my opinion. I mean, I’m generally a glass half full kind of girl, but I can�
��t remember the last time I saw the sun shining. And since when did he ever take a day off?

  I clear my throat. “You know, Dad, the faucet on my bathroom sink is still kinda screwed up.” “Kinda screwed up” is an understatement. There’s a pipe instead of a nozzle protruding from the porcelain. I can’t get cold water unless I use a wrench, and who wants to brush their teeth with hot water?

  He reaches for his knife and cuts carefully, tearing off another piece of meat. “I know, sweetie. It’s on my list,” he assures me, chewing.

  My dad’s the owner of McEntyre Construction. It’s like, a family thing. His dad started it, my dad took over when he retired, and eventually, when they grew old enough, my two brothers climbed aboard. My grandfather could fix anything. He built houses by hand then taught my dad everything he knew. Only, when my dad became president, he adopted a “why do something yourself you could pay someone else to do?” attitude.

  Because of this, Mom and I change every burnt-out light bulb; replaced the front steps after Daniel stepped through one, splitting it completely in half; and took a flat-head screwdriver to all the windows painted shut by the family before us. This is why, even after living in our Victorian “restoration” home (where nothing is restored) for several years, I can still only get cold water by using a wrench. And even then there’s no guarantee I’ll be able to tighten the pipe enough to keep the faucet from leaking, which is a pain at two in the morning, when I awake to an incessant: drip . . . drip . . . drip. . . .

  This is why the hardwood floors in my bedroom still need bracing, why the front living room stays closed off during the winter (there’s an insulation problem, and the cold air seeps through the walls), and why my mom still doesn’t have the screened-in back porch she’s always dreamed of, even though we are, by definition, living in her “dream house.” At first, I assumed my dad and brothers would get around to making all of these little “improvements”—but it never happened, and at some point along the way I stopped holding my breath.

  I speak carefully. “I know . . . it’s just that . . . it’s been on your list for a while now, and it’s getting kinda hard to turn on with that wrench you let me borrow . . .”

  “Jaden,” he interrupts, a tinge of annoyance lacing his tone. “I’ve barely had a weekend to myself in months. The boys and I are stretched thin . . . the Bennetts are anxious to move in . . .”

  A cell phone rings, severing the conversation. My dad, Phillip, and Daniel all forage around their pockets, removing phones one by one, inspecting the screens. It’s Dad’s.

  “This is the painter with my estimate,” he explains. “I have to take this.” He stands and walks out of the room, pressing the phone to his ear just before he disappears. “McEntyre Homes,” he says. Business Friendly.

  “Who’s supposed to be calling you?” I ask Phillip.

  “None of your business.”

  “I can tell you,” Daniel teases, a mischievous grin plucking at the edges of his mouth, reaching all the way to his eyes. “Unless Phillip would rather do it.”

  Phillip tilts his head back, groaning. “You remember Becky Summerlin?”

  “Wasn’t she a year behind you?” Mom asks.

  “She graduated last year,” I confirm, picturing the shy girl who’d been part of the yearbook staff, her mousy brown hair and comfortable eyes. “She was quiet, but she seemed really sweet. What does she want with you?”

  He rolls his eyes. “Ha. Ha. Anyway, we ran into each other last week. She was visiting her parents. We decided to meet up next time she came to town,” he explains. “That’s it.”

  “Why is she calling you, then?” Sarah asks. “Why aren’t you calling her?”

  “I did!” Phillip answers, shoulders squaring. “I left a message. Now I’m waiting for her to call me back.”

  “How long have you been waiting?” I ask.

  He shrugs, forearms propped against the table, pushing those baked beans around the plate with his fork. “A day or two.”

  “Or three,” Daniel adds.

  Sarah laughs. “Well if you don’t hear from her by this weekend you might wanna give her a call back.”

  “Or leave her alone,” I mutter.

  The grandfather clock in the corner of the room strikes the hour. We eat in silence for a few moments, listening to the chimes.

  Finally, Daniel clears his throat, grabbing our attention. Sarah glances over at him. “What?”

  “Are you gonna tell them?” he asks, nodding toward us.

  Her eyebrow lifts. “Tell them?”

  We watch this exchange closely, waiting for someone to speak up. The last time they had something to tell us, I became an aunt. A wintry draft passes through the dining room window, stirring the curtains and raising goose bumps on my skin.

  “Are you going to tell them?” he emphasizes.

  A wave of recognition crosses her face. “Oh. Oh! Yeah. Sure.” She turns back to us. “Daniel and I wanted to tell you that we set a date.” Her cheeks flush.

  “It’s about time,” Phillip mumbles.

  “Yay!” I cry, clapping. “When?”

  “Well, we’re thinking about the second week in June. At the gazebo in the park.”

  “Oh! The park will be beautiful that time of year!” Mom affirms. “The flowers will be blooming. . . . Let me know if you need any help planning.” She jumps out of her seat. “I should get you the number for my florist.”

  “Is that day okay for everyone?” Sarah asks. “I mean, you guys don’t have anything important planned do you?”

  “My graduation is that Friday, but it’s not a conflict or anything.”

  A flash of remembrance lights her face, and she lifts her hand to her mouth. “Oh my gosh. Graduation. I didn’t even think about that. We can move the wedding back a week or two. It’s no big deal.” She looks to Daniel for approval.

  “No, no, no,” I say quickly. “I swear. There’s no conflict. I think the second weekend in June is perfect.”

  “You have to think about the rehearsal dinner, though,” my mom says, returning from the kitchen with a card from her Rolodex. “That’s typically the night before the wedding.”

  “Well,” Sarah begins, “I don’t think we were planning on anything too formal for that. Maybe we can do it earlier in the week. Like on Wednesday or Thursday. I don’t want anything to overshadow Jaden’s night.”

  I smile. “You guys are not going to overshadow anything. It’s just graduation. Protocol, even. It’s no big deal.”

  “Jaden,” Sarah chides. “Stop being so selfless. God.”

  “Not a big deal?” says Mom. “The fact that my baby girl is graduating and heading off to Harvard in the fall happens to be a very big deal.”

  “Wait,” Daniel interrupts, eyeing me curiously. “You heard from Harvard?”

  “No,” I mutter, my cheeks searing. I poke at my pork chop, jabbing it with the fork prongs, frowning. “Mom’s assuming.”

  My dad bursts back into the room. “The painters are going to over-charge us. We’ve used them for how many jobs?” He grabs his glass and lifts his plate of food from the table, still full but almost certainly lukewarm by now. “Anyway, I have a few phone calls to make, so I’m going to take this in the office.” He leans down and kisses my mom on the cheek—quick, sweet, but not exactly a compelling replacement. “Dinner was great,” he says, vanishing for the last time that night.

  * * *

  The next day I find myself in the hallway just before school ends. One of the perks of my last hour office aid job is that, if I finish my work, the secretaries let me leave early. The thing is, I have a reputation at school. A good one, actually, and I’ve discovered a good reputation is generally advantageous . . . in an “ask and you shall receive” kind of way.

  I linger at my locker, arranging books and adjusting photographs. In the uncharacteristic calmness of the hall the fluorescent lights hum, flickering, casting a sallow light on everything they swathe. Nearby, a class erupts in l
aughter. I breathe in the stuffy school air and brush my fingers across the Harvard crest I printed from my laserjet at the beginning of the school year. A good luck gesture. I swallow hard, suppressing the tiny butterflies in the pit of my stomach: the ones that flare up every time someone mentions the word “Harvard,” or “college,” or “future.” Any day now.

  I’m examining a photo of Blake and me from last year’s prom, our first formal together, when I notice movement at the far end of the hallway. My heart races, and I press myself tightly against the lockers, the metal cool against my legs. It’s Parker, bending over the water fountain. The vent kicks on, the buzz ricocheting off concrete walls as he finishes, and I watch him wipe his mouth with the back of his hand before disappearing inside the guy’s bathroom.

  He avoided me in English, never responding to the note I passed him asking what literary work we should pick for our project. He didn’t show up to lunch. . . .

  Without thinking, I slam my locker door shut and dash after him, my Mary Janes thwacking against the floor tiles, bag and purse bouncing behind me. I pause for a moment just outside the bathroom door, hesitating. This may be a huge mistake, but I lack options at the moment. I need him. It’s do now or die trying.

  I suck in a quick breath, push through, and enter the men’s room, stumbling. Parker stands in front of the sink, washing his hands. He recoils when he sees me, startled. A flash of surprise, then confusion, crosses his face, quickly replaced by a hard scowl. His jaw tightens. “What the hell are you doing?”

  Too late to back down now.

  I scoff, working to right myself, spine stiffening. “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.” I fold my arms across my chest. “What is your deal?”

  Parker shuts off the faucet, then shakes his hands, sprinkling the mirror with tiny drops of water. “I don’t have a deal, Miss McEntyre,” he says, words smothered in sarcasm.

  “Then why are you avoiding me?” I ask. “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.”