Cross Country Hearts

by Suzanne August

  I take comfort in the fact that I’m next.

  He nods at me. “You, June? You try hard. You’re Melanie’s soldier, and she’s the commander. She wants you to do something, and you’ll do it. You’ll help her make someone’s life a misery. If she wants to start a rumor, you’ll be the first one to spread it. You’re a coward, June. You’re willing to change who you are to become what? Someone people want to hang around? You’re so willing to wear an ugly persona, someone who enjoys harassing me because Melanie enjoys it. Because she wants revenge on me, you do too. For her.”

  Jasper’s gaze is hard and intense, pulling me unwillingly into his canvas of words with a force I didn’t think he could have over me. “I painted you because that’s a cowardly personality. It’s not your real one. It’s an ugly, deceitful one. It’s made you into a person people dislike almost as much as they don’t like Melanie.”

  It’s the finality in Jasper’s last words that tell me his brush has swiped the last stroke on the canvas. He’s done with his painting of words. His eyes lock on mine, but I have to be the one to look away, my hands fisting on my hips.

  I feel like he’s ripped me apart and examined thoroughly the person I’ve been for years since the day I met Melanie in the sixth grade. And he’s someone I don’t even know.

  It’s shocking because not even Georgia has ever said anything like that to me, even though she’s been the one to see how I’ve changed to become someone Melanie approves of. How could Jasper see me like that—know me like that? Does being an artist who paints portraits of who he perceives people are on the inside mean he can see right through their charade?

  Is that even possible?

  But my shock and anxiety melt into anger, and it’s this anger that gives me the strength to bring my eyes leveled to his again. He’s done, and now it’s my turn. I cross my arms over my chest, staring with what I hope is a gaze as intense and angry as his own.

  “What I don’t like about you, Jasper,” I begin, “is that all the paintings you’ve made have been of people you don’t know. And that’s it. That’s why I don’t like you. You don’t know me, and didn’t when you painted me. But you judged me.”

  My words are the steel that can puncture any flimsy canvas of words he’s painted, and I take strength in that as I finish. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I do change myself to fit in better, but you don’t know me. You don’t know why I am the way I am. You don’t have any right to pass judgment on me when I have no chance to defend myself.”

  My explanation is shorter than his, but I see that my words of steel, stronger than any brushstroke of paint can ever be, have gotten across to him. His chin raises a little and not in a defiant way. He understands something, and what that exactly is, I’m not sure. But it’s something I’ve gotten across to him about why, exactly, I criticize his portraits.

  Quietly, he asks, “So why are you the way you are?”

  I think about answering. I know why. I’m reminded of my sister and our father. I remember my mother wearing a yellow, flowery dress in a black mass that was our family on a rainy day. I think about how I wore black too, and I was barely old enough to understand what was going on.

  No, my sister is the only one who can understand fully, so I shake my head. There are things even I don’t talk about with Georgia or Melanie. “We told each other why we don’t like each other. That’s enough for now.”

  Last night it was Jasper who escaped to his room, but tonight it’s me. His eyes linger on mine as I walk past him, almost close enough to bump my shoulder against his as I pass. I leave him standing in the lobby, and I don’t wonder what he’s thinking. He can think whatever he wants.

  I understand now why he painted me. I understand it was a way to fight against the bullying and I was—or am—one of the bullies. I know that.

  But now he understands too.

  Eight

  “Then I talked to my sister.”

  When I wake up the next morning, I feel like I’ve made the worst decision of my life to go on a road trip. I feel like an idiot, and I wonder why the hell I haven’t gotten to Jacksonville yet.

  My mother is going to be disappointed in me yet again, and my sister is probably going to hate me. Her fiancé will resent me for the rest of my life for upsetting her, and Jasper will make me go to jail for his murder.

  Except, I don’t feel like murdering him. Right now, I only feel a kind of resentment toward him. The same question keeps repeating itself: how has he seen through my facade all these years?

  It’s not that I have a facade, either, but I do push away feelings and thoughts that go against what Melanie says and does. Whenever I’m with her, and she says something negative about what someone wears or what someone does, I agree with her and push thoughts of unease about what I’m doing to the back of my mind.

  For the entire night, I tossed and turned before I could fall asleep. I thought of all the times Melanie had spotted Jasper—it didn’t matter where. Maybe he was across the hall or sitting at a corner table in the cafeteria. When she saw him, she would take a longer route to class or to our table for lunch. I never noticed. At least, I wouldn’t notice until whoever was her target was in hearing distance.

  And when it came to Jasper, she’d say to me, or to Georgia, or Kylie or whoever was with her at the time, “I wonder who he’s going to harass next with those stupid portraits” or, even better, “I wish he’d just drop out of school already.”

  It was true that in the few classes I’d had with Jasper over the years that he skipped often. My theory was that he only showed up enough times so that he wouldn’t get kicked off the swimming team. And when he did show up to class, he never spoke. He never took notes. Instead, he sat in the back of the class, notebook open, pencil swiping and arcing across the page. He was sketching.

  I always agreed with Melanie. And then I’d add something mean. At first, it was hard to stomach saying horrible things about people. I knew it was wrong, and it felt, in the pit of my stomach, so wrong to do.

  Over time, I stopped thinking about it.

  When I finally fell asleep last night, it was with the memory of one time when Jasper had lifted his head to look up at us. Usually, he gave no sign he heard anyone or anything around him. It was after something I’d said when his head raised, his dull brown eyes locked to mine, and all the while, his hand kept moving, sketching those lines across the page. His gaze had darkened, become a stone as hard as diamonds. Our eyes had held for only a moment—a moment so quick I almost missed it—and then he returned to whatever he was drawing. His hands gripped the pencil, and his sweeping arcs became angry dashes.

  A week later, my portrait appeared on social media.

  It’s because of those memories and the fact that everyone in my life besides Georgia will be angry with me that, as I’m dressing for the day, I conclude that Jasper and I shouldn’t continue with this little charade. We have a wedding to go to. As a bridesmaid and Jasper a groomsman, why would we risk ruining it by going on a road trip? If we were guests, maybe, but these are our families, and we must put them before what we want.

  I’ve always wanted to go to Hersheypark, but it’s going to have to wait. I have the rest of the summer to do it, anyway. Besides, my mother will probably want me to drive the car back to Boston.

  That thought alone makes me groan.

  When I exit my room, I find Jasper leaning over the railing that looks over the highway behind the motel. A phone presses against his ear, and he’s muttering a goodbye to someone when he sees me. He lowers the phone, swiping to end the call, and turns, so he’s fully facing me.

  “Morning,” he says.

  His greeting is quiet, bordering on solemn, and surprisingly he doesn’t exactly meet my eyes. I know it’s not because he’s embarrassed or ashamed of our confrontation last night. That’s not who Jasper King is. He seems to be thinking again; that blank expression with its minutia cracks once again appearing.

  He’s wearing, yet again, an
other black shirt. When he sees me eyeing his unlit cigarette—seriously, why have them if you’re not going to smoke?—he takes it out and flicks it over the railing. When he meets my eyes, he’s opened his book enough to let me know he’s wondering if I’m going to be angry about last night or civil.

  To be honest, my first reaction would be anger. I don’t like that Jasper can see through me so well, but I don’t want to be angry. I’m tired of being angry, and I’m tired of our arguments. Besides, although it hurts to admit it, Jasper was right. I’d never say it aloud, though.

  I walk forward, closer to him, and lean my back against the railing beside him. He’s still leaning over it, head turned to face me. I meet his gaze. “Morning, King.”

  He nods, turning so he’s facing the highway, effectively hiding his face. “I was just talking to my cousin.”

  I tense. “Carlisle?”

  He bobs his head.

  I raise my gaze to the ceiling overhead. “Did you—I mean, does he know that we’re not going to be back today?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Was he mad?”

  “A little,” he says. “He told me that as long as I’m there before the dinner Friday night, it shouldn’t be a problem. As for you… well, I think your mom will be calling soon.”

  I sigh. “Look, about this whole road trip. I don’t think… I think we should focus on getting to Jacksonville. No more detours.”

  Jasper glances at me, his brown eyes revealing nothing while he studies me. His shoulders lift briefly, then fall back down, and he looks away. “If that’s what you want to do.”

  “It is.” But even as I say the two words, I’m not sure I believe what I’m saying.

  He nods for the third time, and just like that, he moves on. “My cousin called you Judith.”

  His tone only holds curiosity, but I still feel a sudden urge of irritation. No point in denying it. “June is my nickname.”

  “Judith is your real name.”

  I scowl. “I think of it as a prank my mother pulled on me. Everyone calls me June.”

  “I thought your mom named you and your sister after months as a theme.”

  I roll my eyes. “She did, sort of. But she’s crazy. I got the better end of the stick, though. Out of me and April, Judith isn’t as horrible as her real name.”

  Jasper arches one of those eyebrows. “What’s her real name?”

  And even though I’m talking to one Jasper King, a smile tugs at my mouth. “Aphrodite.”

  Aphrodite, the goddess that the month was named after. So, of course, April is my sister’s nickname, both because she’s embarrassed over her real name and was actually born in April.

  This time, both of Jasper’s eyebrows raise. “Wow. Carlisle never told me that.”

  “She’s sworn him to secrecy. She hates her real name more than I hate mine.”

  “Judith isn’t that bad.”

  “Bullshit. I have the name of an old woman.”

  “You know there’s a girl at our school named Judith.”

  I do. She’s going to be a sophomore this fall. “That doesn’t change anything. That girl and I are going to suffer our entire lives.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Just because your name is Judith—”

  He’s cut off by a shrill tune. I pull my phone from my sweater pocket and suck in air when I see the ID.

  “Who is it?”

  I groan. “My mom.”

  Jasper tips his head to the side, but his expression remains blank. “I’ll go get some breakfast downstairs. See you there?”

  He’s going to give me privacy. I nod an affirmation and turn away from him, bringing my phone to my ear and heading for the safety of my motel room. I don’t even get the chance to finish saying hello before my mother starts in on me.

  “What are you thinking?”

  I grimace. “Mom, let me explain—”

  “Do you think I want to hear from Carlisle that my daughter and his cousin have gone on some whack road trip?” she interrupts. Whereas two days earlier she sounded worried and a little disappointed, I know without a doubt that at this moment, my mother is furious.

  I imagine how red her face must be right now, as she says, “You are the most irresponsible person I have ever known your age, Judith Rae.”

  I drop my head into my hand. “Mom.”

  “Please explain this to me. You’ve been doing so well. You haven’t been skipping school, and you got a track award last month. I’ve been so proud of you, and now this? You’re eighteen!”

  “No,” I start, desperate, my breath catching. I don’t think my mother has ever said she’s proud of me, and now I hear it when I’ve messed up so clearly, and she’s so angry. What have I done? “No, I didn’t think that. Mom, Jasper and I—we’re not going—”

  “I thought I could finally start to trust you, June.”

  I suck in air. She’s never said that to me. “You can trust me. If you’ll just listen. Jasper and I aren’t going to go on the road trip any—”

  “What I’ve given you the past weeks has been a gift. I’ve let you stay at home alone with my car. I thought this might be a good step, but obviously, I shouldn’t have done that.”

  Anymore, I finish in my head. We’re not going on the road trip anymore. We’re getting to Jacksonville as fast as we can.

  When my mother starts talking again, her tone is low. “Why are you doing this?”

  But I don’t know how to answer. All my life, I’ve tiptoed around my mother, whether that was when she lay in bed for days and months when I was only ten years old, and she couldn’t look at me the entire time, or when it was April she smiled at because she got an A+ on an exam while I failed my own.

  How could I explain that I’ve always tried to please her or April at the expense of myself? Where were the words to clarify that yesterday, when I was clearly out of my mind, all I could think was that this was for me? “Mom…”

  “Forget it,” she says, and gone is the anger. It’s replaced by the all too familiar disappointed tilt. “I don’t want to hear your excuses.”

  I want to tell her that Jasper and I are getting down there as fast as possible. That we’ve decided not to go through with this crazy idea anymore. Yet, I know that that’s not going to help me. I feel trapped. More than that, I feel angry, resentful, and miserable.

  “I don’t want to ruin April’s wedding,” I tell her, and the misery is clear cut in my voice.

  Before my mother responds, there’s rustling on her side of the line, like she’s shifting and moving the phone. “Well, here’s April now. She can tell you herself how much you’ve messed up.”

  My heart drops, and dread fills the empty space. I squeeze my eyes shut, my hand pulling my hair from its roots. I can’t talk to her right now. I can’t. I can’t face how angry she’s going to be with me. No matter how much rage and disappointment my mother throws at me, April’s anger is a thousand times worse because I would never want to hurt or disappoint my sister.

  The dread in my chest starts to pound against my ribcage when I hear April’s voice on the other line. Our mother is saying something to her—probably about how it’s the world’s worst sister on the other line. April replies, and her voice is calm. That doesn’t mean anything. April’s calm when she’s angry.

  “June?”

  My breath catches. “April—”

  “Hold on,” she interrupts. There’s no emotion in those two words. I hear her mumble something to Mom, and then I hear a door open and close. A few seconds later, April’s speaking again. “June, what are you thinking?”

  It’s the exact words our mother used when I answered the phone, but coming from April, it sounds genuine. Like she wants to know what’s going on in my mind.

  I grip the phone in my hands and blurt it all out. “I’m so sorry! I don’t want to ruin your wedding. I’m not planning on ruining your wedding! I swear. I’m not trying to be selfish. It’s just that Jasper made me take him to the Met, and he was
like, why not go on a road trip? And I only thought, you know, that we have five days before we need to be there. Please believe me, April! I didn’t think I’d be ruining your big day. I swear, I’m going to be there!”

  I’m trembling by the time I finish, and it only worsens when April doesn’t immediately respond.

  When she does, she says, “I thought you hated Jasper. That’s what Mom said.”

  I pull back, my free hand freezing in its mad grip on my hair. “I do—did, I mean. Actually…” I groan. “I don’t know. He’s not that bad.”

  “Well, okay then.”

  I gape. “April, aren’t you… angry?”

  “Are you planning to be back here on time? By Friday evening?”

  “Well… obviously,” I reply, after some hesitation. Is she tricking me?

  I hear her sigh. “June, while you’ve let me down sometimes, when it comes to things like this… you never do. You’re always there for me. I know Mom’s angry. And honestly, when Carlisle told me ten minutes ago, I was too. But I know you, June, and I know you’d never ruin my wedding.”

  “What are you saying?” I ask, slowly, cautiously.

  “I’m saying do whatever you want as long as you get back here by Friday evening, on time for dinner.”

  For a few moments, I’m at a loss for words. “So, you’re not mad?”

  “I was,” she admits. “But like I said, I know you won’t let me down.”

  My hand drops from my hair, and I stare at the motel room’s dull wall, eyes wide. “Um… okay.”

  “You’re not going to thank me?” she teases.

  “Oh, right,” I sputter. “Thanks. Thank you.”

  “All right, now hurry up and get this stupid road trip over with. I want you here! I miss you!”

  I blink. “Okay.”

  “And June,” April adds. “If you are so much as one second late, I will let Mom loose on you.”

  Considering our mother, I’m going to take her word for it. “I promise!”