Cross My Heart

by Katie Klein

  He moves closer, eyes flashing, cutting through me. “I’m a slacker? Is that what you think?”

  I drop my arms, shrinking back. Isn’t that what everyone thinks? When I don’t answer, he shakes his head. “You don’t know people as well as you think you do.”

  “I’m not pretending to know anything about you,” I fire back. “I get that you must not like me or something . . .”

  “Not like you?” he interrupts. “Jaden McEntyre, there’s not a soul at this school who doesn’t just adore you.” He lifts his bag from the bathroom floor and slings it over his right shoulder. He can’t leave. We’ll never get anything accomplished if I let him slip past. Without a second thought, I leap in front of the door and lean against the frame, blocking him.

  “Do you mind?”

  “Yeah, I do mind, actually,” I begin. “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 . . .”

  His eyes narrow. “I don’t know you? Really? 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.”

  I choke back the huff perched in my throat. Oh My God. This isn’t happening to me. This shouldn’t be happening to me. I’m supposed to be in AP English this semester. Stupid Calculus scheduling conflict. The AP classes aren’t required to do this project. I shouldn’t be in the guy’s bathroom, with its profanity-laden walls and toilet paper strewn across the floor and its mildewy, locker room smell, arguing with Parker Whalen. I should’ve been on time to English. I should’ve picked my own partner. I mean, this is what I get for saving the planet? Whatever happened to good karma? I struggle to find my voice. “Are you serious?” I finally manage.

  “I don’t lie,” he replies, matter of fact.

  “Fine. That’s fine,” I sputter, working to regain my composure. “Either way, we’re partners. And we have a project to do whether you like it or not, so . . . get over yourself.” My fingers clench to fists, and my jaw smarts from the added pressure.

  But instead of firing back . . . Parker smiles. I think. I mean, the corners of his mouth turn up . . . like he’s amused. Maybe it’s more of a smirk. I don’t know. I sweep a few stray hairs away from my eyes, blinking, unsure.

  “That’s pretty harsh,” he says. “Especially coming from you.”

  “It’s not funny. You might not want to get a good grade on this project, but I do.”

  The scowl returns, sharpening his features. “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 three o’clock. I’m taking my list, and I’m choosing a book for our project. You’re welcome to join me . . . Partner.”

  I spin on my heel and storm out of the bathroom. I inhale deeply, seeking fresh air: desperate. Desperate for someone to come along and explain to me what, exactly, just happened. Desperate for someone to come along and tell me what to do about Parker Whalen, because our future together does not look promising. I shake my hands, trying to suppress the pent-up frustration swelling inside, and swallow back a primal scream.

  Chapter Four

  At exactly three o’clock I’m sitting at one of the round tables mid-library, just in front of a long window and nestled among rows and rows of metal shelves filled with stale books. Though my heart hammers in satisfaction, I force my head not to lift when a backpack thuds to the floor, or when a figure sits down just opposite me. A fresh wave of anger surges, left over from our previous encounter. “It’s about time,” I mumble, focusing on the sheet of project requirements, even as the words blur incomprehensively.

  “You said three,” Parker replies.

  I check my cell phone resting on the table beside me. “I have five after.”

  “I’m sorry. I assumed this was an informal meeting. I didn’t realize you were passing out tardies. Oh, wait. You wouldn’t know a thing about that, what with your infinite supply of ‘get out of class free’ cards and all.”

  I stare at him, open-mouthed. I can’t believe it. In less than thirty seconds we’re on the defensive. Like magnets. Opposing forces. Why is it that Parker and I automatically bring out the worst in each other? This is absurd, and it has to stop. I take a deep breath, then let out a massive sigh. I don’t want to argue with him. Not really. “Let’s just get this over with, okay? The sooner we pick a book the sooner we can get to work.” I slide the list of recommended books across the table. He stares at me without taking it, raises an eyebrow, then reaches into his pocket. After digging for a moment, he produces a blue sheet of paper, folded over twice, and opens it.

  “All right. I get it,” I say. “You’re prepared. I’m wrong.” I snatch my list back, sit up straighter, and tuck my hair behind my ears. “Okay. So,” I continue, “the question is do we want to stick with what we know and pick a book we’re familiar with? Or go for something entirely new.”

  Parker snorts. “What’s the point in doing a project on a book you’ve already read?”

  I flick my eyes at him, surprised, disbelieving, taking everything in—the black shirt and jacket, the dark hair—either brown or black—I’m not sure because it’s gelled in the front, and still has that “wet look” to it—and his piercing, obsidian eyes. There’s something strange and familiar about him all at once—his strong jaw line and the few, tiny freckles splashed across his nose.

  “Well?” he asks.

  I snap to attention, cheeks full of heat, and force myself to look away. “Um, yeah, okay. So we’ll pick something we haven’t read.”

  “Are you implying that you typically do projects on books you already know about?” he asks.

  “I’m just saying that if we pick a book we’re already familiar with then this project might not be so complicated. We’d at least have some vague idea of what we’re doing.” I skim the list of titles.

  “Are you saying you’re clueless? Because I don’t want an idiot for a partner.”

  I clench my teeth, ignoring this. He’s only trying to incite you. “How about Pride and Prejudice?” I suggest.

  His eyes narrow. “No.”

  “Why not?” I demand to know.

  He leans forward, folding his hands on the table. “Because you’ve already read it.”

  I scoff. Why is he doing that? Assuming. Thinking he knows me. “You don’t know that,” I mutter.

  “Please,” he says, rolling his eyes. “A senior girl in high school . . . somewhat . . . ‘bookish’ I guess you’d say . . .”

  “You can call me a nerd if you want,” I interrupt. “I don’t take offense.”

  “No . . . not a nerd, but ‘nerdy’. . . . Not that it’s a bad thing, so don’t go all hostile on me, all right?”

  “I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction.”

  “I’m just saying that you can’t expect me to believe you haven’t read one of the supposed greatest romances in all of literature. Even if your tenth grade Honors teacher didn’t assign it, you read it on your own.”

  It’s not worth it, Jaden. Just let it go. “Okay, whatever,” I say, giving up. “What about Jane Eyre?”

  He smiles, knowing. “You’ve read that one, too.”

  I toss the list onto the table and lift my hands in exasperation. “Then why don’t you start naming books you think I haven’t read and we’ll go from there.” I lean back in my chair and fold my arms across my chest. This is insane. Picking a book shouldn’t be this difficult. If this is any indication of what’s to come . . . we are totally screwed.

  Parker peruses the list of titles. “Books you haven’t read. . . . Let’s see.” He spouts off names. “Catcher in the Rye. The Color Purple. Lord of the Flies.” He glances at
me, staring beneath his lashes. “Am I getting warmer?”

  I refuse to answer, lips pressed in a firm line, but I can feel the color in my cheeks fading. I swallow, but it’s so loud. Like a gulp. Why is this place so quiet?

  “The Jungle. 1984. . . . Basically anything on this list that isn’t a romance you haven’t read. So we can throw out Austen, most of the Shakespearean Comedies, the Bronte sisters . . .”

  “Wuthering Heights is not a romance,” I interrupt.

  “That depends on how you look at it,” he replies, shrugging his shoulders.

  “Heathcliff is totally depraved. There are no redeeming qualities. None.”

  “His love for Cathy is a redeeming quality.”

  “He made everyone’s lives miserable. He’s insane.”

  “Maybe love drives people insane.”

  I scoff. “What are you smoking? Because I know of an awesome twelve-step program.”

  “Yeah, I’m aware of it. Thanks. I just don’t understand why it’s so hard to believe a person could love someone so much it would drive him insane.”

  “Because. It’s . . . it’s not. . . .” I wrack my brain, struggling to find the appropriate word. “Normal.” Lame. But it’s the best I can do, considering. Because then Parker laughs, and it’s light and musical. It reaches all the way to his eyes, lighting them. And suddenly they’ve lost that stony glare, and Parker seems . . .

  “And Mr. Darcy is what you’d call normal?” he asks.

  “Mr. Darcy is a gentleman,” I explain.

  “Mr. Darcy is a narcissist,” Parker replies.

  “Look, as much as you’d love to, I’m not gonna sit here and argue with you all afternoon. Pick a book, and let’s get out of here.”

  He stares at the creased, wrinkled sheet for a moment, studying the words. “Okay. I’m going to pick one randomly.”

  It’s better than nothing. “Fine. Go for it.”

  Parker shuts his eyes and runs his finger down the page. I watch him carefully, surprised at how peaceful he looks with his eyes closed, how relaxed. How is it that we’ve had English together all year and I’ve never paid him an ounce of attention? The idea of the two of us sitting in a library arguing over Jane Austen is mildly humorous. It’s shocking, even, because he’s never spoken a word to me before. I just assumed. . . . Maybe—just maybe—there’s the tiniest possibility he has more to say than I thought.

  “A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” he says.

  “A Shakespearean Comedy,” I inform him.

  “Meaning you’ve read it.”

  I fold my arms, offering a sarcastic smirk in response.

  “All right. One more time.” He repeats the gesture and opens his eyes. He closes them again.

  He’s cheating! “Wait! What was that one?”

  “What?”

  I nod toward his paper. “The book! You just picked one, and now you’re going to pick another. That’s not fair! I want to know what it was.” It’s not until after I say the words that I realize how juvenile I must sound.

  “Actually . . . if you must know . . . I missed. I landed on blank, blue space,” he says, forming the words slowly. “No book. And that doesn’t help us.”

  “Fine,” I reply.

  “Are you sure? I mean, do I have your permission to try again?”

  I roll my eyes. “Just go.”

  He runs his finger up and down the page. He stops, then opens his eyes, examining the title.

  “Ethan Frome,” he announces.

  “Ethan Frome,” I repeat, leaning across the table, studying the name just above his index finger. His fingernail, I notice, is practically non-existent—gnawed below the skin, his cuticle jagged and tearing. So . . . he’s a nail-biter. Nervous habit. I glance at my own fingernails—long, and carefully filed straight across. His look painful. And kind of gross.

  He eyes me warily. “You read it?”

  I shake my head. “No. You?”

  “No.”

  I leap from my seat and walk briskly past the aisles, heading toward the computer catalog. I type in Ethan Frome, find it was written by Edith Wharton, then weave in and out of the rows in Fiction until I’m at the W’s. I pull out two identical, worn copies of Ethan Frome and carry them back to Parker.

  “Here,” I say, tossing one of the books. It slides across the table, stopping just in front of him.

  Parker picks it up, flips it over, and scans the description on the back. “‘A novel of passion and unfulfilled longing.’ Wow, Jade, looks like you landed yourself a romance.”

  My head jerks up, surprised. No one calls me Jade. Ever. No one even tries. I’ve always been Jaden. To my teachers . . . to my friends . . . my family. Everyone.

  “What?” he asks.

  “Nothing,” I reply, slowly turning my attention back to the book. Jade? That would be like, a nickname. I’ve never had a nickname.

  But he’s persistent. “No. What is it?”

  I tuck a stray piece of hair behind my ears. “Nothing. It’s just that . . . you called me Jade. It was just . . . weird, that’s all.”

  “If you prefer Jaden. . . .”

  It doesn’t matter to me. “No. It’s fine.” I clear my throat, signaling us back to the task at hand. “So anyway, I wouldn’t call this a romance. It says here: ‘marked by tragedy.’ That can’t be good.”

  “Ah. Now it’s sounding better.”

  I stifle a laugh. “Of course it would. Coming from someone who thinks love can actually drive people to commit heinous crimes,” I mutter, still examining the flap copy.

  “It’s a matter of semantics.”

  “Great,” I say, standing. “We met, we picked out a book, mission accomplished. Let’s, um, just plan to read this and get together next week. Then we can divide up responsibilities and get this thing done.” I pause for a moment. “We have to do an oral report, you know.”

  “So?” he asks, gathering his things.

  “I’m just saying.”

  Parker rises to his feet, slinging his bag over his shoulder, standing taller than me by several inches, and I’m one of the tallest girls in my entire grade. “Don’t worry. I’m sure with all that practice for your future Miss America pageants, you’ll be a natural.”

  “I wasn’t concerned about me,” I say, sneering. And I have no plans to become Miss America.

  “Well don’t worry on my account. It’s insulting.”

  Parker moves toward the counter—each step assertive, composed—to check out his book. I stand there staggered, unable to move, watching in disbelief as the real Parker Whalen—prepared student of a thousand opinions and confident reader of Wuthering Heights—slowly begins to reveal himself.

  * * *

  Dinner is over; dishes are washed. I’ve played with Joshua, who is now bathed and in bed. My homework is finished, and I’m intrigued enough by my encounter with Parker earlier in the week to want to start Ethan Frome immediately. It’s a thin book, I’ve observed, so it probably won’t take long to finish.

  I stretch across my bed, a blanket tucked around me to ward off the cold, and open the novella to the first page. A syrupy, perfume-like smell permeates the air, and for a moment I wonder if it has anything to do with whoever checked the book out last, or if Parker’s copy smells the same way. I stop. Why do I care what Parker’s book smells like? Why am I even thinking about him? I force Parker Whalen out of my head and begin reading.

  I’ve made my way through most of the first chapter when someone knocks.

  “It’s open,” I call.

  Sarah is already dressed for bed—pink flannel pajama pants and a long-sleeved night shirt—and holding a magazine. A cold draft from the hallway follows her inside. I shiver.

  “I’m not interrupting, am I?” she asks.

  “No,” I reply, folding down the corner of the page I’m on.

  “It won’t take long. I just need an opinion.” Sarah sits down on the edge of my bed. It sinks with her, and I move closer, wrapping my blank
et tighter around my shoulders. “I’m trying to pick invitations,” she continues. “Tell me what you think. Honestly.”

  She passes the catalog over to me. I flip through, pausing at each page Sarah marked, examining the items she’s circled.

  “What’s the verdict?” she asks.

  I return to the beginning. “I like this one . . . and this one.” I show her the pages.

  Sarah laughs. “Daniel picked those, too.”

  “Imagine that,” I say, smiling. I like both of my brothers . . . as much as a baby sister can like them, I guess. Now that we’re older, when they aren’t harassing me (Phillip), or being completely overprotective of me (Daniel), we all get along pretty well. “Which are your favorites?”

  “Actually,” she says, turning a few pages over, “I think I like this one best.”

  “Really?” I ask, surprised. “I figured you’d go for something more modern. You know, simple and streamlined.”

  “Yeah, it would make more sense.”

  “No, no,” I say quickly. “I think this is gorgeous.”

  “I’m just not a swirly cursive kind of girl, I guess.” She sighs. “I don’t know why I’m trying for anything traditional.”

  I laugh. “Sarah, that’s not what I meant.”

  “I know, but you know how it is . . . white dress . . . swirly cursive invitations.” She shrugs.

  Daniel and Sarah started dating just before Daniel graduated high school. Sarah had two years left—she was in Phillip’s class. Daniel went to work for my dad, but he and Sarah continued to see each other until she finished school. Afterwards, she made plans to move in with a friend and get a degree in nursing from the community college.

  Things were going great. But then, after a year or so, she got pregnant. There was a huge blowout. She wouldn’t marry Daniel, which infuriated her parents. They decided they wouldn’t pay for her to finish school, or for her apartment. The problem wasn’t with Daniel, she later explained, it’s just that she always wanted the perfect wedding—to start things right. Daniel loved her, and she loved him, but they figured if they were meant to be together, they’d love each other just as much after they had their baby.