by Katie Klein
When I arrive at lunch an incredible wave of guilt washes over me. Not only because I let a guy I barely know sneak up to my third floor attic after everyone was asleep, but because I liked it . . . and would do it again if I knew there was no way I could get in trouble. Here I am, sitting beside my cute and incredibly sweet boyfriend (over-protectiveness and jealousy aside) who always puts me first, knowing I spent one of the most amazing times of my life with another guy. And then not being able to tell Savannah or Ashley? A few weeks ago I was open and honest; now one of the most important parts of me is locked up, vaulted. I have secrets.
“God, Jaden, you look awful,” says Savannah.
Leave it to my best friend to employ brutal honesty to prove a point. “Thanks,” I mutter, opening my lunch bag and pulling out my sandwich. I glance out the window . . . just to see if Parker is there . . . and eating. He is. A quick surge of pleasure warms me from head to toe.
“Jaden,” Savannah says. She waves her hand back and forth to get my attention. “Earth to Jaden.”
I snap back to reality. She throws me a look—a strange look, a subtle warning. I’m staring, and it’s obvious. Or maybe I’m reading too deeply into it; the world, it seems, is becoming much harder to interpret. Skewed in part by the massive dilemma that is Parker Whalen.
I clear my throat. “Yeah?”
“What’s wrong with you today? You look tired . . . or sick or something.”
“I am,” I say. “I mean . . . I’m not sick, but I’m tired. I didn’t sleep well last night. I tossed and turned. . . .” I can’t even finish the sentence. You’re such a liar, a tiny voice sings. Like my conscience isn’t already in overdrive.
“You’re not still worrying about Harvard, are you?” Blake asks, draping his arm around me, planting a soft, wet kiss on my temple.
Savannah eyes me carefully. She has to know. It must be some best friend sixth sense or something. I refuse to meet her gaze.
“I’m not. I mean, I’m not trying to let it consume me,” I clarify. It’s definitely better to let them think I’m losing sleep over Harvard, not that I’m sneaking random guys up to my attic.
“Well, you look awful,” Ashley confirms.
“I used concealer.”
“No, it’s not just that,” she goes on. “It’s your eyes. They’re not even here. Like you’re really preoccupied or something.”
“Okay, Ashley,” Savannah mutters. “This was not a segue for you to remind everyone you’re taking that college-level psychology class online this semester. And by the way, three months of Intro to Psych doesn’t give you the right to go around analyzing the rest of us.” Her blue eyes roll dramatically.
“I wasn’t analyzing anyone,” Ashley retorts. “And you should consider taking that class. You might learn something.”
Savannah lifts her hand, stopping her. “I told you: no college. Thirteen years of school is enough, thank you.”
In an instant the conversation shifts, and it’s not about me or the bags under my eyes, or being stressed out about Harvard . . . it’s like any other day. That is, until the final bell rings.
I should’ve known something was happening the moment I pushed through the double doors and stepped onto the sidewalk. People stand outside; some stop mid-parking lot. Smiling. Laughing. Some wander around as if in a daze, shielding their eyes. It takes me a minute, as I head toward my car, to get it. But then I see—beyond a thin stretch of wispy clouds—a reflection of light in my window: a hazy orb hanging low, floating mid-air. I turn and gaze at the bright blue sky, squinting. It’s like surfacing for air after giving up hope, after resigning to drown, suffocating. My shadow spreads like a canopy across the pavement. Instinctively, I tuck my hair behind my ears, and watch it replicate the motion. After months of darkness and clouds, and rain and cold and winter . . . this is what I’ve been dreaming of. The breeze is still chilly, but the clouds are finally dissolving: the sun is out . . . and it shines, brilliant.
* * *
To go to a restaurant, my family needs a formal, operational mission plan. We’re heading to a steakhouse in a town about twenty minutes away. We’re meeting Phillip, who’s picking up Becky Summerlin (who is apparently returning his calls now) from her parents’ house. Daniel and Sarah are in her car, with Joshua in the backseat. Mom insisted I bring Blake along, if only to make things more comfortable for Becky, so the two of us are in my car, and she and Dad are in his truck. Four vehicles to get one family to dinner. Sometimes I wonder why my mom never invested in a minivan.
I ease into the road behind Daniel and Sarah, following them down the street. I check my rearview mirror.
“I’m glad you called,” Blake says. “I haven’t seen everyone in a while.”
“I know. It’s just that, with school, and the wedding . . . things have been really busy. This is the first time we’ve done anything in like, a month,” I explain. “And we probably wouldn’t be,” I continue, flipping on my left turn signal, “if Mom wasn’t so adamant about us officially meeting Phillip’s new girlfriend.”
He grabs the handle above the passenger window. I glance over at him, fingers gripping the steering wheel. I hate when he does that. Holding the handle, I mean. It’s like he’s implying I’m a terrible driver; that, in addition to his seatbelt, he needs something to hold on to. It reminds me of driving with my dad.
When I was practicing for my driver’s test, I could always see him out of the corner of my eye, mashing brakes that didn’t exist—like I wasn’t stopping fast enough or something. It was annoying. Though Mom assured me that Dad treated Daniel and Phillip the same way, it was decided early on that, if at all possible, she or Daniel would ride with me.
“Why are they going this way?” I wonder aloud as I continue to follow Daniel and Sarah. “We should’ve stayed straight.”
We turn down a side street full of oak trees and little bungalow-style houses. Daniel presses his brakes and pulls over, parking at the curb. “What is he doing?” I mutter, pulling in behind him. Leaves and branches and other street debris crunch beneath my tires, the car gliding to a stop. I shift to park and roll down the window. Daniel climbs out of the car. “What are we doing?” I ask him.
Dad pulls over beside us.
“What’s going on?” Mom asks through the open window.
“Just park for a minute,” Daniel replies.
I roll my window back up and unbuckle my seatbelt. “It looks like we’re stopping here,” I inform Blake. “At least temporarily.”
We climb out of the car, shut the door, then cross the street, where Daniel is waiting on the sidewalk. Sarah and Joshua are right behind us.
“What’s going on?” Dad asks Daniel.
“Sarah and I thought you guys might want to take a look at our new house.”
“What?” Mom cries. Her hands fly to her mouth. “When did this happen?”
“We closed on it last week,” Sarah says. “We didn’t want to tell anyone just in case it fell through.”
For the first time I notice we’re standing in front of a little bungalow with a contract pending sign in the yard. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell us!” I say, taking in the huge trees, the tiny front yard, the cracked sidewalk, and the house—Daniel and Sarah’s house.
“It was hard, believe me,” she confesses.
Dad and Daniel walk toward the front porch; Blake grabs my hand as we follow, squeezing it lightly. It’s cooler than mine, and damp somehow.
“I made sure we got an inspection,” Daniel is telling Dad. “There’s a lot of work to do. It’s a definite fixer-upper, but structurally, everything is great. I figured it wouldn’t take too long to renovate, even if Sarah and I did most of the work ourselves.
“And, you know, if others want to help we won’t turn anyone away,” Sarah teases.
“Of course we’ll help,” Mom says. “And if there’s nothing for me to do I’m always happy to watch my baby boy,” she continues, reaching out to take Joshua.
&
nbsp; Daniel pulls a key out of his leather wallet and unlocks the front door. The house could use some work. The porch needs bracing; it sags slightly in the middle. The screen door needs replacing, and the entire exterior is in desperate need of fresh paint. The current coat is chipped and peeling, leaving the distressed, gray wood showing in many places. What isn’t flaking has turned a dingy, spotted brown.
“The good news is the last owners installed a central heat and air system,” Daniel says as we walk inside. “That was the only thing we were really concerned about.”
The six of us walk around, assessing the floors, peering out the windows, taking in the two, small bedrooms and the bathroom, which boasts hideous, avocado subway tiles.
“Hey, Sarah,” I say. “Nineteen-seventy called. It wants its bathroom back.”
She groans. “I know. We have so much work to do. The bathroom is as good as demolished. We aren’t keeping anything. We’re thinking about new carpet in the bedrooms, and hardwood floors in the entryway and living room, and updating the kitchen. Everything needs new paint . . . ,” she trails off, overwhelmed by the sheer amount of work the home needs.
“You’ll have us to help,” I assure her. “I know how to paint. And Daniel . . . God, he grew up doing this stuff.”
Sarah smiles at me. “I’d really like to get us in here before the wedding, so we have just over two months.” She gazes around the room, at the old carpet, the cracked walls, the dust. “It’s like, where do we even begin, you know? I’m sure we’ll be here every weekend from now on.”
“Oh, it’ll be fun. The paint and carpet samples? Actually having a reason to go to Home Depot? I think it’s awesome.”
Blake fixes his arm around me. I flinch, having forgotten he was even here. “I’m sure Jaden will be a lot of help, anyway. This is her kind of project.” He squeezes my side, pulling me close before letting go and heading over to the kitchen, where my dad and Daniel are discussing laminate versus engineered stone countertops.
“This is really great, Sarah,” I say, watching as he strolls away, his steps sure, confident. “I’m so happy for you guys.”
“Yeah, things are finally starting to come together for us. Can you believe at one time I thought my life was falling apart? I didn’t think we were ever going to make it to this.”
“It’s hard . . . not knowing, I mean,” I muse, examining the few, brown water stains on the ceiling.
“Tell me about it. I don’t know how I’m going to handle it all. Planning a wedding, renovating this place. . . . I’m totally asking for a nervous breakdown.”
“It’ll work out,” I promise her. “It always does.”
I walk through the little house, arms folded to keep warm, taking in the random cracks in the walls and ceiling, the dents in the baseboard—superficial things that, in a few months, will be completely erased.
Outside, the trees cast dark shadows over the street. Blake reappears beside me. “They definitely have their work cut out for them.”
“Yeah, but it’ll be fun. Making something new again. Breathing life into this place,” I say, caressing the jagged edge of the window moldings.
“I knew this was your kind of thing.” He moves behind me, running his fingers through my hair—a move he learned early on that I enjoy. I close my eyes.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I mumble.
“You know, the way you’re always helping everyone. Trying to make things better.”
“Saving the world,” I add, sarcastic.
“There’s nothing wrong with saving the world,” Blake says. “Not what can be saved, anyway.”
“What are you saying? There are things that can’t be saved?”
“Can’t be. . . . Don’t want to be. You know.”
He moves his hands to my shoulders, massaging them gently. Lips inching closer to my neck.
A gruff voice punctuates the stillness. “Hey, you. Break it up.”
My eyes fly open. Blake jumps back, jerking his hands away.
I spin around and glare at my brother, eyes rolling. “Seriously, Daniel.”
Chapter Eighteen
I slam the car door shut, sucking in a breath of fresh air, feeling the sun warm my shoulders. The days are getting longer, the entire world painted in bright, new greens.
I jog up the street and move toward the mailbox, stopping to check it out of habit. I’m surprised, when I pull the door open, to actually find mail inside. The driveway is empty. Mom must’ve taken Joshy somewhere. I remove the pile of mail, then flip through it. Bill, bill, bill, a credit card offer for Phillip, a couple of catalogs. . . . And there, hidden away in the stack, is something addressed to me. I glance at the return address on the crisp, white envelope, and I recognize the crest immediately: VE RI TAS. Truth.
For a moment, my heart stops beating. It picks up again, pounding harder, blood roaring in my ears.
This is it.
I take a ragged breath, stuff the envelope in my backpack, and move to the front porch. No one answers as I open the door and call out, my heart striking one, suspended beat after another. I run into the kitchen and dump the rest of the mail on the counter, race upstairs to my bedroom, and shut the door. Shaking and out of breath, I open my bag and pull out the letter, then toss it onto my bed. I stare at it for a moment, my body warm but my hands freezing and clammy, as if my own temperature can’t regulate itself properly.
I take a deep breath, sliding my damp palms across my jeans, trying to steady my nerves. I’ve waited forever for this moment. Knowing the answer is two steps in front of me leaves my head spinning. I reach out and pick up the envelope, then carefully tear it open. An excited smile pulls at my lips as I remove the letter. Even the paper feels official—soft and thick. I open the folds. Dear Miss McEntyre. . . .
I skim ahead, reading quickly. Although we were very impressed by your academic achievements . . . your active involvement in important . . . only a small number of applicants who applied . . . We Regret To Inform You.
“We regret to inform you,” I mutter aloud, collapsing on the edge of my bed. I let out a tiny, barely audible laugh. A gasp. “I didn’t get in.”
The blood completely drains from my head; my heart hammers in my chest.
They didn’t accept me.
A gigantic swell rises inside, stomach churning, like a river flooding its banks, the current seizing everything in its path. My plans, my aspirations, my dreams: swept away. It was Harvard or nothing . . . and here it is, my entire future in front of me: nothing. The letter in my hands living proof. A heavy numbness washes over me, as if to protect me from this new information, this knowledge, myself.
How could this happen? I did everything right. I took Honors and AP classes. I’m involved in every freakin’ activity known to man. I’m up for Salutatorian for God’s sake: number two in my class. I’m going to med school; I’m going to make a difference. What did I do wrong?
And then a new realization: what am I going to tell my parents? My hands shake, the letter trembling with them. Tears materialize in the corners of my eyes, stinging, blurring my surroundings. I suck in a shallow breath. What am I gonna tell Blake? And Savannah? What about my teachers? Everyone is expecting me to go to Harvard. How do I explain this? What do I even say?
Do not cry, Jaden.
The front door opens and shuts. I freeze.
“Jaden?”
Mom.
“I’m upstairs,” I say, springing into action. I force the letter back into the envelope, fingers struggling clumsily, then wedge it inside a random book perched on top of my desk.
“Would you mind helping with the groceries?” she asks. “I’ve got Joshua with me.”
I hurry to my bathroom, check my face and eyes. Though red, they look more tired than anything, and my face isn’t at all splotchy. It is, however, pale. A ghastly white.
I fan my eyes so the first of my tears will disappear, and pinch my cheeks, resuscitating them. I can’t say anything—not yet. I h
ave to figure this out.
As soon as I’m fully composed I head downstairs, meeting Mom in the foyer. “If you could bring the rest in, that would be great.”
“Sure,” I reply, faking a smile.
A few minutes later I enter the kitchen, arms full of cloth grocery bags. “Good day?” she asks me, sifting through the stack of bills and magazines.
“Yeah,” I reply, without hesitating. “Always.” The enthusiasm sounds false, even to my own ears.
“Good. Thank you for picking up the mail.”
I remove a carton of eggs and carry it to the refrigerator. “No problem.”
“Did we get anything special?”
“I didn’t see anything,” I answer, pulling on the handle.
It’s too easy, keeping my news a secret. Dad takes his dinner to his office, and wedding plans and house renovations dominate the conversation at the table. Everyone is consumed with their own projects. I help with the dishes then head to my room, citing “a lot of homework” as my excuse for not being social. On my way inside, I touch that Harvard sticker out of habit. When I remember, I rip it off the wall, pulling a strip of paint with it, exposing the gray drywall. I crumple it into a small, sticky ball and hurl it across the room. It smacks against my closet door before crashing to the floor and rolling, vanishing beneath my bed.
Don’t cry.
Later, I step into the shower. The scalding water transforms my pale skin to glowing pink—steam spewing to the ceiling, filling the room. My lungs are paralyzed, and the heat burns my throat. I can’t swallow or breathe or think.
Don’t cry, Jaden. You cannot cry.
When the last of the hot water vanishes, I emerge into the thick fog, my dark hair dripping puddles down my back and onto the floor. I wipe the haze off the mirror with my towel, barely recognizing the girl who appears, staring back at me.
* * *
“Jaden, honey, you look exhausted.”
Mom is feeding Joshua his breakfast at the table. I’m running behind, which is unusual. Everyone else has already left for the day.
I thought sleep would take away the redness and puffiness around my eyes, but even after applying a religious amount of concealer, the traces of suffering linger. I did my best, but it obviously isn’t good enough.