Cross My Heart

by Katie Klein

  Mom stands, facing me. “Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll hear something soon.”

  “This is just crazy, you know?” I lean against the counter, pressing my weight into it. “I mean, how long do we have to draw this out? Make a decision and tell me already. I’m so sick of waiting.” I tip my neck back and stare at the cracks in the ceiling.

  She turns the timer off and opens the oven door. A burst of hot air fills the room. “Well, you never were very patient.”

  I tilt my head toward her, eyeing her uneasily. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, realizing a moment too late that I might not want to know the answer.

  “Oh, you know,” she says, sliding the tray out with her oven mitts. “You’re not really the type to sit on the sidelines. You’d rather be out there getting things accomplished.”

  “What she’s saying is that, as the brat of this family, you have control issues,” Phillip announces, entering the kitchen. “Dinner ready?”

  “Yes, and congratulations: you can pour drinks,” Mom replies.

  “I do not have control issues,” I say, jaw smarting as it tightens.

  Mom finishes stirring a pot of green peas, clinks the metal spoon against the side, then replaces the lid. “What he’s trying to say, and not very well,” she adds, throwing Phillip a serious look, “is that you have a ‘take-charge’ attitude. Think about it—when was the last time you weren’t planning a fundraiser, or walking for a cure, or raising awareness about something?”

  “Cycling for the safe neutering of cats,” Phillip throws in.

  “Pet over-population is a serious issue. There are seven cats for every one human in this country,” I inform them, folding my arms across my chest.

  “I think this Harvard thing has you bothered because you aren’t in control,” Mom continues.

  This sounds awfully rational. Too perfect to be coincidental. “Did you guys have some sort of family conference about me or something? Is this an intervention?”

  Phillip snickers, but neither of them responds.

  They did. They’ve been talking about me behind my back. “Being in control is not a bad thing,” I remind them.

  “Being a control freak is,” Phillip mutters.

  My teeth clench together, eyes narrowed. “Shut up, Phillip.”

  “Phillip,” my mom warns, shaking her spoon at him. “You’re not helping. Fix the sweet tea.” She turns her attention back to me. “Patience, sweetie. It’s going to be fine. And sometime in the next few weeks or so you’ll wonder why you were even worried.”

  “I’m not worried,” I mumble. “I’m concerned. There’s a difference.”

  “Control Freak!” Phillip sings, removing the ice cube trays from the freezer door and slamming it shut.

  Scowling, I pick up one of Mom’s oven mitts and whack Phillip on the back of the head. “And I’m not a brat.”

  “Ow!” He flinches, and one of the trays slips from his hand. A dozen ice cubes fall to the floor, shattering.

  “That didn’t even hurt,” I insist, dodging shards of ice as I back away.

  “Phillip!” Mom cries.

  “It wasn’t me!”

  He snatches the mitt from my hand, then pulls his arm back, ready to hit me with it. I leap out of reach just as Dad walks into the kitchen, kicking an already melting ice cube across the floor as he steps between us, sending it sliding before it crashes into the cabinets.

  “Phillip! Stop tormenting your sister,” he bellows. “I thought you two were past that.”

  “She started it,” he says.

  “He said I was a control freak,” I tell him, flustered. “And a brat.”

  “Are you two regressing?” Dad asks. “It’s like you’re eight and ten again, and believe me when I say that’s not something I want to relive.” In the next room, I hear Sarah’s low laughter. “Relax. Both of you. Phillip? Clean up this mess. And Jaden? There’s nothing wrong with being a control freak.”

  Chapter Eight

  If you’re desperate for pizza in Bedford, you go to Guido’s. The restaurant, located just off Main Street, is a run-down, hole-in-the-wall establishment that should’ve been condemned decades ago. Still, it’s the only pizza place in town, and therefore a popular hangout. This pleases Papa Guido—whose real name is Don Smith—who has no qualms about making a complete idiot of himself—even growing a completely unnecessary, bushy, black mustache and adding “oh” and “ah” as suffixes to every other word—Italian or not. For instance, on Friday night, as Blake, Ashley, Savannah, and Tony and I waltz inside the already crowded restaurant, he greets us with a spirited:

  “Buon giorno! Welcom-ah to ah Guido’s! Find-ah yourself an emp-ah-ty table. Hmm?”

  I coerce my lips to turn up in a polite smile as Blake grasps my hand and steers us across the restaurant. We weave our way between tables covered in red and white checkerboard cloths, each topped with a silk, red rose in a translucent, Dollar Store vase, stepping over crumpled napkins and pizza crust crumbs.

  “I swear,” Ashley mutters as we slide across the gummy, vinyl seats of an empty booth in the back, “Valerie Smith must be so embarrassed. I mean, I remember when Don was a Realtor.”

  “You know that’s why you never see her here, right?” Savannah says.

  I reach for the paper menu and wipe down my space with a napkin. “Come on, guys. The man is harmless. Look, the town loves him.” I nod toward the kitchen area, where “Guido” is balancing a salt shaker on its end for a table of customers: his signature (and only) trick. I can hear him: “You see-ah? It float-ah like magic!” The family at the table applauds warmly. It’s probably the hundredth time they’ve witnessed this mind-blowing display of dexterity. At least they’re good sports about it.

  “I’m starving,” Ashley says. “What are we getting?”

  “The usual?” I reply. “Blake?”

  Blake straightens beside me. “Sure. Two larges: one pepperoni. You’re cheese only, right Jaden?”

  I nod, smiling. I tuck his shaggy, dirty blonde hair behind his ear. He smiles back, eyes sparkling. When I first noticed them—his eyes, I mean—they reminded me of this aquamarine I saw on a field trip at the Natural History Museum in Hamilton. I stood there for a while, watching the gemstone change with every blink: from light blue to clear gray to almost colorless, depending on the light. I didn’t even know it was an aquamarine; at first I thought it was a diamond. It was beautiful, at any rate, and I remember it whenever Blake’s eyes shimmer like this.

  We’ve been dating for months, and we’ve never said “I Love You”?

  And then Parker is there, at the table with us, voice echoing in my head: declaring that Blake and I are only together because it’s convenient—because I’m too scared of the unknown to break up with him. I’m thankful for our waitress, who returns with our drinks—happy for the interruption.

  “Honestly, Jaden,” Ashley begins, “I don’t know how you drink water with pizza.”

  “Water is good for you,” I remind her. “You don’t wanna know how many empty calories are in your soda.”

  “Good. Because it’s the weekend, and tonight I’m indulging.”

  “Girl, when are you not indulging?” Tony asks Ashley. She throws him a dirty look.

  “Jaden has attitude about sodas,” Blake explains, to no one in particular.

  “Water is the better choice. And forgive me if I believe that artificially-colored, fizzy drinks aren’t good for your body,” I tell them, pulling the paper away from my straw and sticking it into my cup.

  “But they’re good to my body,” Tony says.

  I roll my eyes. “They can take rust off a car battery. That can’t be a good thing. Besides, you’re supposed to be athletes.”

  “That’s just an urban legend,” says Blake.

  “What? That you guys are athletes?” Ashley asks innocently.

  A chorus of “ooh’s” erupt. I laugh, and high-five Ashley across the table.

  Blake shakes hi
s head. “You know, that doesn’t make me feel bad, because this is the best season we’ve ever had.”

  “That doesn’t make you any good,” Ashley teases.

  “All right, you guys. Blake? Tony? You’re awesome. Headed straight for Regionals. Maybe even State,” I say, disrupting their little battle. “Anyway. You will be thrilled to know we’ve raised five hundred dollars with our raffle so far.”

  “That’s awesome, Jaden,” Blake says. His knee knocks against mine beneath the table.

  “I know! I was thinking maybe we could set up at your last home basketball game. . . . You know. Get some of the parents involved.”

  “Are you sure you don’t have some outstanding arrangement with Parker Whalen?” Tony asks.

  My cheeks fill with heat. Why did he even go there? I pinch my face, trying to act repulsed. “No.”

  “So, what’s he like?” Ashley asks.

  “What?”

  “Parker. I mean, is he as strange in person as he seems from a distance? Because you know, I don’t think I’ve ever heard the boy speak, and we had like, two classes together last semester.”

  “I bet he stutters,” Savannah says.

  “No . . . I mean, he’s nice,” I stammer. “Minus the whole not wanting to be my partner thing. And he doesn’t stutter.”

  “Well, he better not cause any problems,” Blake mutters, half under his breath, as he reaches for his soda.

  My shoulders square, blood running cold. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I challenge.

  “You’re just working on this English project, right?”

  “Yes,” I reply.

  “Good.”

  “I’m not following,” I say, after a moment of heavy quiet.

  “What I’m saying is if the boy tries anything stupid he’s mine,” Blake explains.

  I can’t quite put my finger on it—what’s wrong with his smile. It’s not right: it’s harsh, and it makes my skin prickle.

  “Half the school would have your back, man,” says Tony.

  Blake snickers, running his finger around the edge of his glass, wiping away the condensation. “What are you talking about? I won’t need half the school. The guy is a pansy.”

  I glower between them, grappling for some kind of understanding. “Why would you need anyone to back you up? Parker hasn’t done anything,” I remind him.

  “It’s the reputation that precedes him,” Tony clarifies.

  My heart squeezes out an extra beat, temper sparking. I flash a scowl in his direction. “What do you know about his reputation?” I ask, voice escalating. “You don’t know anything about him.”

  Tony leans back in his seat, casual, collected, eyes trained on mine. “I know what I’ve heard, and that’s enough for me to stay away.”

  My pulse quickens, fury coursing through my veins. “Unless what? You’re jumping him?”

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

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

  Blake wraps his arm around my neck and drags 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.”

  Chapter Nine

  On Monday, I hurry through the cafeteria before Savannah or Blake or anyone else arrives, checking over my shoulder, praying 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 always. Part of me craves to 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, is his choice. A simple preference. I admire 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 thinking, instead of meeting in the library, you could come to my house . . . or . . . something.” We don’t have to meet at my house, just somewhere away from 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 bite into it, waiting for his response.

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

  My bag slides from my shoulder to the wooden bench. Another icy gust passes through as I unzip it, whipping my hair around my face. I rip out a sheet of notebook paper and write down my address in my loopy, cursive script. The town is 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 the cafeteria window. The room is dim, and it’s hard to see inside. They could be watching. Already 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 brown, paper lunch sack and pull out the extra bag of Sun Chips I stuffed inside earlier that morning. I toss it on the table in front of him. A peace offering.

  Our eyes align and 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 tugging 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 meet my usual friends, to eat my usual lunch, to sit at my usual table. But even though my steps are sure and full of purpose, I find 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 is 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 replies: “No, not today.”

  At the refrigerator, I remove two bottled waters 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 turning 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 like 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 asks, the surprise in her voice almost tangible.

  I sigh. Apparently 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 conversations, until everyone thinks they know exactly who he is. “Yes. Why?” I ask.

  Mom shakes her head slowly, brows furrowing. “Jaden . . . honey.”

  My pulse edges a degree. I was counting on her having no clue who Parker Whalen is. 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 wrong 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 doesn’t approve of this—not at all. “I’m just concerned about 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, you sound like Blake,” I mutter, half under my breath.

  “What?”

  But the doorbell rings, 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.” Traces of his body spray linger in the air as he enters, walking past. It reminds me of the ocean. Warm 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, only this time she wears a nice, noticeably fake, smile. Business Friendly. “This is Parker. Parker, this is my mom and my nephew, Joshua.”