Cross My Heart

by Katie Klein

  More than anything else, I wonder what I’m going to do, because I’ve discovered something I’m not supposed to know. Something hidden for who knows how long. A secret that isn’t mine to tell. A secret I promised to keep.

  * * *

  The strange looks, the stares, the hushed conversations—it begins the moment I emerge from my car. I tuck my hair behind my ears, and bite into my lower lip, avoiding gazes.

  There is nothing I cannot handle.

  “Hey.”

  I turn toward the familiar voice. Savannah.

  “Hey,” I reply.

  “I thought you could use some back-up,” she says, shrugging.

  I smile. She links her arm in mine, and we cross the parking lot together, because everyone knows two heads are better, two ropes stronger, and anything is bearable with a best friend—even glares and gossip.

  There’s no morning text message from Blake. But then, I wasn’t really expecting one.

  Parker is almost late arriving to English. I glance over in time to see him slip the brown paper bag I left on his chair inside his book bag. He doesn’t smile, or look at me. An acknowledgement is all I want—a yes, I was there last night; yes, I was with you; yes, I feel the same way; yes, you know my secret. I want you to.

  But he never lifts his head from his notes. Not once. It’s reminiscent of the weeks prior, when I couldn’t get him to come near me at all, and I wonder how we could have been so close to . . . something, and back at the beginning within a matter of moments. When the bell finally rings, dismissing us, Parker bolts. I watch him, disappointed, as he disappears into the hallway.

  Lunch will be better. I’ll talk to him then.

  Only Parker doesn’t show up to lunch. He’s nowhere to be found. Not at his table . . . not at another table . . . not at all. A heavy lump forms in the back of my throat because I know, for a justifiable fact, he’s avoiding me.

  Sunlight bathes the picnic tables, kissing the back of my neck. The air is moist and sweet. The Bradford Pears lining the sidewalk are blooming, their ivory petals falling from branches like snowflakes. A light dusting of yellow pollen covers the tables and cars. I take a deep breath, inhaling the sweet air, and sit down. The wind rustles the leaves, blowing my paper bag across the table. I brush my hair out of my eyes and gaze at the sky. A thick stretch of gray clouds hovers on the horizon, as if they have every intention of moving in and ruining what’s turning out to be a gorgeous spring day.

  “You can’t sit out here by yourself,” a voice calls as I take the first bite of my sandwich.

  Savannah and Ashley sit down across from me.

  “Hey.”

  “So . . . where’s Parker?” Savannah asks. “I thought I should meet him. I have to approve, you know.”

  I laugh quietly. “Your guess is as good as mine. I was hoping I could talk to him today. I kinda wanted to know how he feels about me, but I think it’s obvious.” I look around. “I mean, when has he not sat out here?”

  “He’s probably just confused,” Savannah says. “This has to be pretty crazy for him.”

  “At least before he was slightly invisible,” Ashley adds. “Today the whole school is talking about him. I’d be hiding, too.”

  “Everyone talked about him anyway,” I point out.

  “Because he was mysterious,” explains Savannah. “The idea of the two of you together . . . well, that’s an entirely different story.”

  “High drama,” Ashley agrees.

  “And you know half of these people have nothing better to do than stick their faces into other peoples’ business.” Savannah rolls her eyes.

  I don’t tell them there’s something else—this isn’t just about skipping school together, or making out with him in my attic. Parker isn’t avoiding me because he’s confused about us. There’s more.

  “So . . . what about Blake?” Ashley asks.

  “He’s avoiding me, too. We haven’t talked yet, but I have to break up with him. I mean, if he doesn’t dump me first. It’s not right anymore.”

  What I felt with Parker last night? I’ve never experienced anything like that with Blake. Parker was right all those weeks ago. I was never really in love with Blake. I liked the idea of us, but that didn’t mean I loved him, and it wasn’t fair to anyone to pretend I did.

  I hate myself for not realizing it sooner. I hate Parker for being right. Again.

  “I can’t believe your mom is making you miss prom,” Savannah says. “It’s like, the last big party of our young lives.”

  “Trust me: prom is not very high on my list of priorities right now,” I tell her.

  “I know. It’s just that graduation is almost here, and everyone is doing their own thing. . . . We deserve one last big night.”

  I feel something like sadness, just a twinge, tugging at my insides. She’s right. After graduation, there are no guarantees. “We’ll still see each other,” I say, thinking positively. “I mean, we’ll still have breaks and holidays.”

  “I know.”

  “We’ll still text each other during class,” Ashley offers.

  “And talk on the phone,” I add. “And you’ll be busy with work and all.”

  “Oh . . . right,” Savannah mutters. “About that. . . .” Ashley and I watch her for a moment, waiting for her to go on.

  “Yeah?” I urge.

  She coughs, mumbling into her hand.

  “What?” I ask.

  She pulls her hand away from her mouth and shuts her eyes tightly. “I’m going to college!” she confesses.

  “What? Shut Up!” I cry. “Oh my God! Savannah! Why didn’t you tell us?” I ask.

  She speaks quickly. “Because I wanted to see what would happen, first. I didn’t want to jinx anything.”

  “But that totally goes against everything you believe in,” Ashley says. “In fact, I specifically remember you saying something about being ‘dragged kicking and screaming’ and over your ‘dead body’ and other such irrelevant, melodramatic clichés. What on this planet could have made you change your mind?”

  “Tony, I guess,” Savannah says, shrugging. “He got a scholarship to play basketball for a Division II school. He printed out the application for me.” She names the college, halfway across the state—a good five or six hours from home. Excited, she sits up straighter and brushes her blonde hair aside, gathering it at her neck. “I mean, I wasn’t really thinking when I filled it out, I was just doing it to get him to shut up. But something happened . . . and I actually got in.”

  I laugh. “I can’t believe it. You were so anti-college!”

  “I know!” she cries. “I even got a partial scholarship because of all the volunteer work I helped you with. Apparently that’s like, a huge deal to them.”

  “Apparently.”

  I’m happy to see my best friend showing some initiative—taking responsibility for her life—even as a pang of jealousy stabs at my insides over the fact that, at this point, she’s further along in the process than me. I’ve been mapping and preparing, planning my future for the last four years. She filled out an application at the last minute, on a whim, and is already ahead.

  “So what are you going to do? I mean, what are you going to study?” I ask, forcing the negative feelings away.

  “I have no clue. But I mean, the first two years are like, basic education, right? I have plenty of time to decide.”

  I stare at her for a moment, shaking my head in disbelief. As many conversations as we had about at least applying to the community college, and as many times as she’s blown me off, all it took was some guy to hand her an application and say: “Let’s see what happens.”

  “So you’re following Tony to college,” Ashley says, confirming my thoughts aloud.

  Savannah smiles brightly. “I’m following Tony to college.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  WE NEED TO TALK. The words are written in black Sharpie and smell fresh when I pull the note card out of my locker just before last period. Pa
rker’s handwriting is neat and calculated, and I spend the next few moments staring at the letters, trying to decode their hidden meaning. I study them, overanalyzing every line and curve. This could be good news. But it could be bad. Worse. When I’m absolutely certain I have no idea what his message means—other than he wants to see me—I head toward the office.

  The hour drags on. After finishing my typical errands for the office staff and stuffing the day’s mail in the teachers’ boxes, one of the secretaries hands me a newsletter—printed on the front and back—to make a couple hundred copies. I wait until she walks away before checking the time on my cell phone, rolling my eyes. What would it feel like to tell someone no for a change? To not do every little thing every time someone asked.

  As I stand at the copy machine, waiting forever for the letters to print, I watch the trees on the front lawn of the school sway in the breeze, the wind picking up speed. The gray clouds have moved in, the sun vanished behind them. The entire atmosphere seems whacked out—intense—like the sky is going to burst at any moment.

  When the bell rings, ending the day, the copies still aren’t finished. According to the digital screen, there are more than forty left to print. I exhale loudly and check the clock for the thousandth time, watching as the copy machine slowly spits out each page, one . . . by one . . . by one. I pace around the room, looking for a distraction, palms sweaty. The tap dancing in my stomach intensifies with each passing moment.

  When the machine finally stops, I grab the stack—still warm—and hurry to the front office. I don’t even bother changing out the canary-colored paper. That’s going to piss someone off, but I’m not sure I care anymore.

  The crowd has thinned by the time I push through the library door, the sounds and smells transporting me straight to the afternoons I spent with Parker, talking, discussing, debating. Becoming . . . something. I hurry past the rows of bookshelves, searching the tables. They’re empty. I stand back for a moment, taking it all in.

  Parker never mentioned where, exactly, he wanted to meet me. I assumed it would be the library. I take a deep breath, trying to suppress my racing thoughts. Maybe he couldn’t wait anymore. Maybe he planned to meet me later—at my house, after midnight. Maybe this is his way of making things right.

  I move toward the window, gazing across the parking lot. A few cars and clusters of students are scattered about. Parker’s motorcycle is parked at the far end, in his usual space.

  He waited.

  My pulse quickens.

  My eyes drift a few spaces over, to my Civic. I smile and relief pours through my body. There he is. Leaning against my car. Waiting. I watch him turn. Something catches his attention; someone calls out to him.

  Blake.

  The blood empties from my body, spiraling downward, leaving my head spinning. My pounding heart reverberates in my ears, like a hammer wrapped in cloth. I can’t hear anything above it, not even the “Oh my God,” I know I mutter before bolting across the library, running for the rear exit. Not the crash of the metal bar as I collide with the door, pushing through and stumbling onto the lawn.

  Everything moves in slow, liquid motion. Like one of those crazy, out-of-body experiences where I can’t control my own actions. Though rubbery and wobbly, somehow my legs propel me forward. I run beneath the Bradford Pears, the white petals swirling around me—a pungent, ephemeral blizzard. Dodging students. Rushing past a group of underclassmen.

  “Stop!” I cry. But even the words fail, so all I can do is scream them over and over again in my head. Stop! Stop! Stop! My temples pound in rhythm with my feet as they strike the pavement.

  I fling my bag and purse to the ground and throw myself at Parker, pushing him away. Protecting him.

  “Stop!” I finally manage, gasping for air, lungs on fire. I turn as Blake, jaw bruised and a cut bleeding beneath his eye, moves toward us. I reach out to hold him back. “Blake, stop it!”

  “What are you waiting for, asshole?” he yells, looking around me at Parker. It takes both of my hands and all of my strength to keep him from moving any closer.

  “Blake, stop it!” I demand, my strength crippling, hands shaking. “What . . . what are you doing?” I ask, barely able to form the words, my heart thundering and head spinning, as if the entire universe is reeling with me.

  “Giving this asshole exactly what he deserves,” he says, trying to maneuver around me.

  “No!” I yell, pushing him back with all the force I can muster. And then there’s Tony, grabbing Blake by the arms, wrenching him away, helping me. “Stop.”

  Parker snatches his motorcycle helmet from the ground, blood spilling from his nose, the rusty drips spattering the pavement. I follow him, reaching for his arm, but he shrugs me away, fastening the strap beneath his chin. I stand back, watching as he climbs on his bike.

  “Parker, wait,” I beg.

  “No. I’m done. Just keep something in mind for me, okay Jaden? Perfect people? They’re always hiding something.” I stare at him, blinking, trying to make sense of what he’s saying, lost. He glances quickly at Blake. “Ask your boyfriend where he was Saturday night,” he mutters.

  In the next instant, the engine ratchets, and he’s off.

  “I can’t believe you!” I yell at Blake over the roar of the motor, which fades, even now.

  “Me? I can’t believe you, Jaden! You ditched school for him?” Anger weaves itself in his features—the tension in his neck, his flushed cheeks. There’s something else, though. In his gray eyes. Like hurt.

  I grab my bags, jaw tightening. “I did. I’m not gonna lie.” I tear through my pocketbook, searching for my keys.

  “Wait,” he says, moving closer, eyes narrowing. “You’re not actually going after him.”

  “I am, Blake. I’m sorry. I should’ve said something sooner.”

  He steps back, mouth gaping. “Tell me you don’t have feelings for that asshole!” he yells, pointing at the empty driveway.

  My eyes fill with tears. I work to steady my breathing. “I’m not. Because I do. We have to end this, Blake,” I say, shaky and uncertain and trying to ignore the onlookers. “Us, I mean. I’m sorry.”

  His brows furrow. “You’re breaking up with me? For Parker Whalen?” He spits out the name like it’s some kind of poison.

  I apologize again, reaching for the door.

  “You know what?” he says, voice rising, stepping back, confident. “It doesn’t even matter, because we never had anything.”

  I stop, frozen, my heart stuttering.

  “I was never yours, Jaden. Never. You know . . . I tried. I kept waiting for you. Holding on. Hoping you’d come around. But I always took a back seat. To your projects. To Harvard. It was always about you and what you wanted. I was temporary. Someone to . . . to pass the time with. And no matter how hard I tried I could never see any kind of future with you, because I knew, deep down, all you could see was that Harvard finish line. I knew you’d get in, break up with me, and then forget all about us. And what’s worse? I knew it wouldn’t even bother you. I was never what you really wanted.”

  I suck in another breath, the words paralyzing me.

  “I tried, Jaden, but it was never good enough. You never gave us half the effort you put into everything else.” His eyes flash, angry.

  And suddenly, I get it. I get all of it.

  The one thing I centered my entire life around . . . and it doesn’t even matter anymore. And in its place . . . nothing. There was no second place. Ever. No room for anyone or anything else.

  Until now.

  “Where were you Saturday night?” I ask, my voice low.

  He stares at me, eyes cold, hard. “I was with the guys.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yes, Jaden, that’s it. I was with the guys. We grabbed some pizzas.” He laughs, shakes his head. “You know, that’s not it. We stopped by Vince’s. There was a party, and we all went. Because that’s what people do, Jaden. They go out, and they have fun. And you know? I f
elt bad about lying to you, but not anymore. Because after everything you’ve done, you’re no better than me right now.”

  Perfect people.

  “I know,” I whisper after a few, quiet moments, voice cracking with release, even as the tears threaten to spill over.

  “And you can ask your friend how he knows I was there, because he was there, too.”

  I study Blake Hanson carefully before climbing into my car, leaving him behind, reeling over what might be the worst break-up in human history.

  I catch up with Parker in town. I keep my eye on him, following as he turns down a country highway, where he finally picks up speed. I don’t know where he’s going, or if he knows I’m following. All I want is for him to stop so I can tell him I’m sorry.

  He doesn’t stop, though, not until he pulls into the yard of an old, dilapidated singlewide trailer that should’ve collapsed a decade ago. The yard is full of stuff—junk—rusted cars and old tires. Garbage bags heaped together in piles. The grass overgrown and weeds and vines clinging to the outer walls, creeping to the sky. I’m sure that, inside, there are pots and pans scattered throughout, ready to catch the drops of rain leaking through the brown, spider-like cracks in the water-stained ceiling. The stench of alcohol and unwashed dishes. Contents of cereal bowls turned fuzzy gray. Cans of beanie weenies and spam . . . lots of empty cans.

  Parker rips off his helmet.

  I step into the yard. “Parker!” I call, slamming the car door.

  He makes his way up the front steps, ignoring me.

  “Parker, please wait!” I beg, following him.

  He turns around to face me, eyes fierce. “We’re not doing this, Jaden.”

  “Is this about Blake? Because if it is I’m so . . .”

  “This has nothing to do with him!” he interrupts. He skips down the steps, meeting me in the yard. His dark hair falls into his eyes, his nose bruised and bleeding.

  “Then what’s the problem?” I shout, as if he can’t hear what I’m saying, though he’s standing two feet in front of me. “You wanted to meet me, remember?” I remind him. “What do you want to say to me, Parker?”