Cross Country Hearts

by Suzanne August

  “Oh.” Jasper runs a hand over his wrist. He takes a deep breath. “They just mean… I’ve said in the past that my relationships with girls I’ve dated haven’t lasted because they can’t just be themselves.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “They’re always hiding something,” he clarifies. “They can’t just say what they mean, or they try to be something they’re not.”

  What he says hits almost too close to home and reminds me of what he’s accused me of before. Something in my chest cracks. I try to cover it up. My mouth opens, and I’m about to blow this off, to make fun of him. That will make this better, and it will help this awkward moment of something pass.

  But I can’t. I don’t agree with what he’s said. When I open my mouth this time, I say what I’m thinking. “That’s hypocritical.”

  Jasper’s eyes lurch to mine. “What?” he repeats.

  I square my shoulders, but when I do, it presses against his arm. My confidence deflates, distracted by his proximity. “No one ever really acts outwardly who they are on the inside. Everyone is flawed. The inside is always going to be different from the outside. That’s real.”

  He’s staring again, and his dark chocolate eyes are intense. They’re searching and thinking. His gaze lowers briefly to a spot right below my eyes, but just as quickly, he jerks them back up. My insides squeeze. His brown eyes are dark, not empty but so full like those dark chocolate Lindts.

  He says nothing. It’s a silence that’s uncomfortable. I squirm, but it’s impossible to do without knocking my foot against his or drawing my hand against his arm. There’s awkwardness. Darkness has fallen.

  I try to say, “This garden is nice.”

  He says, “Maybe.”

  Are we leaning too close? What does that mean?

  I can’t ask what his “maybe” means because his mouth is on my mine and mine on his. His hand is on my cheek, the other cupping my chin. Our noses hit awkwardly. Our heads tilt. I make a gasp of surprise, grab his shirt’s black fabric in a fisted ball of hands. Jasper pulls back, hesitant. Unsure. I lean forward. His mouth tastes like spicy Asian food.

  And there’s no time to think or overthink because red and blue lights flash. A siren blares.

  Twenty Two

  “What about me, Jasper?”

  There’s a crack in the wall. Correction: the cracks in the wall radiate from one center, which indents inward. Almost like the wall didn’t have enough strength against an angry fist. I feel like I could make another radius of cracks. Right now. Right next to the one I’m staring at.

  “It’s going to be okay, June,” Jasper says.

  He’s said that a couple of times now in the past few hours. I don’t know if I’ve said one word to him. I don’t even know if I would be able to describe the emotions that are coursing through my blood, my heart, or my head right now. The cracks stare at me, and I stare at the cracks.

  There’s a tapping motion to my right. I try to ignore it, but the constant tap of a pen hitting against wood draws my eyes to the culprit. It’s the police officer. Not the police officer that arrested Jasper and me, but it’s one of the officers who work at the station. Normally, I’d snap at anyone who’d be doing that, especially in an otherwise quiet room. Because it’s definitely quiet. There’s just me, Jasper, and the police officer.

  But I can’t feel any irritation. I wish I couldn’t feel anything. Where I wish there could be a vast emptiness in my chest and mind, there’s instead a crowded nest of emotions, all fighting to be the ones that get fed and nurtured and felt.

  I can’t feel any irritation because instead, there’s overwhelming fear, anxiety, anger, and… something. I feel that something every time I look at Jasper. I look at him now. He sees my head turn toward him, so he returns his attention to me too.

  I can’t look at him. I can’t. The cracks in the wall have regained my attention. But at long last, with Jasper’s attention still on me—I can feel it—I let out a long breath. My hands fist in my lap. They intertwine. They can’t stay still, so I hide them under my thighs, sitting on them, and say, “We shouldn’t have broken into the garden.”

  The pen taps. The cracks still radiate around the center. Tap, tap. Tap. Tap, tap. Tap. Cracks still there.

  Jasper says, “We were just having fun.”

  I bring my gaze to the ceiling. I can’t look at him. When I do, the emotions scramble from the nest. That something, that confusion—it overwhelms me. I try to suppress it. There can be anything else, I decide, but that one emotion I can’t, or rather won’t, identity. I push it down, and I let the others consume it.

  “What kind of fun?” I ask Jasper. I hate the edge my tone takes on, but it’s better than a stuttering, watery one that might reveal just how much I want to cry right now.

  I hear Jasper sigh. “What were the odds of getting caught, June? Everyone goes into gardens, parks… wherever at night. No one ever actually gets arrested.”

  The police officer snorts. I keep my gaze on the white, pristine clean ceiling. The sound of a chair scraping against the concrete floor bounces off walls and resonates. I no longer hear the sound of a tapping pen. I should feel some sort of relief, but if anything, my stomach twists even more painfully.

  “I’ll be back, kids,” the police officer announces. “Don’t get into any more trouble, all right?”

  I hear the laughter in the officer’s voice. The image of him winking at us is clear in my mind. I know immediately that the police officer who arrested us told his colleague everything, right down to the moment he caught Jasper and me sitting on the bench. He saw everything. He saw how close we sat, how our legs pressed together and how I leaned against him, how Jasper’s hands were on my chin, my shoulders, and how—

  I squeeze my eyes shut, and I am glad I’m sitting on my hands. I’d probably have pulled out half my hair by now if they were free. A door closes and shuts.

  I have a deep suspicion that the police officer left us alone on purpose, for whatever reason. There’s probably a camera. I bet he’s hoping we’ll start screaming at each other, and then this boring night of being a watchdog will at least get a little more interesting. We’d be helping pass the time. My teeth start grinding together.

  “It’s going to be okay,” Jasper repeats.

  I finally return my gaze to him. The ceiling is too white anyway, and I’ve been staring at the cracks too long. But I get the strength to look at Jasper from the intermingled emotions of anger and fear. “It’s not going to be okay, Jasper.”

  “My uncle is coming to get us.” He sounds miserable. He has to be as sad as I am.

  Of course, when they offered us our phone calls almost as soon as we arrived, Jasper went first, and I refused my opportunity because I knew who Jasper called. And when he came back in, face white and hands shaking, I knew I didn’t want to be on the receiving end of a screaming, furious mother. No, Jasper relayed the news, and I was too scared to inform anyone else.

  “That doesn’t make this okay,” I tell him. “It happened.”

  It happened.

  I was referring to the fact that we’ve been arrested, but the mistake I’ve made is that I hold his gaze when I say this. We’re both intense. I’m not the only one freaking out, and I’m not the only one right now, at this moment, remembering what happened right before the siren blared. And how right after we had pulled away, jumping back, Jasper froze. I fell into the grass. An officer said, “Hands up!”

  Jasper’s brown eyes are hard. I have no idea what he’s thinking or what he’s feeling. I want to say that his voice is just as characteristically blank as when he doesn’t want me to know what he’s feeling or thinking but knows it’s too hard. His words have a bite and edginess. “It happened?”

  I hope my eyes are as hard as his and not as emotional as I fear they are. “You know what I mean.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  Truly, even I don’t know what I mean. “You kissed me.”

  I throw it out
as an accusation, but it hurts to say. I almost regret it, but the anger that surges through me gains some steam as I finally find something to latch onto and makes me feel just a little better. There’s some clarity as I push some feelings back and let others take reign.

  “You returned it,” Jasper bites back.

  “I didn’t.”

  His hands clench. “You can say you didn’t, but I saw it in your eyes.”

  No, I can’t handle sitting next to him, however far apart we are, which is two feet at least.

  “Don’t lie to yourself, June,” he adds.

  I stand up and bring my hands to my hair. No, I think, don’t do that. They drop to my sides. “I’m lying to myself?”

  “Yeah. You’re upset.”

  “Of course, I’m upset!” I turn on him, shaking my hands. I’m wild. “We’ve ruined the wedding.”

  Jasper’s eyes are a bright glare on its target. “We haven’t ruined the wedding.”

  “No? Because I’m pretty sure my sister is furious. She’ll never forgive me.”

  “She will.”

  “She won’t.”

  “She will,” he insists. “Carlisle will forgive me too, but we have to get through this first.”

  I have the crazy urge to laugh hysterically. “And my mom, Jasper? She’s going to kill me.”

  “That’s important to you?” he asks. His words are as much an accusation as mine are. We’re throwing words and sparring. With every passing second, our voices are rising.

  “Yes,” I seethe. “And if I survive, every time I do something just a little wrong, she’s going to throw my police record in my face.”

  “You need to stop caring what other people think of you.”

  “It’s my mother.”

  He blows up. “Just be yourself, dammit! Stop caring what other people think, for once!”

  And if possible, it’s Jasper—who’s so cool, with his laid-back persona—who starts the shouting. It should surprise me that he’s the one to yell first. Maybe a few hours ago, it would have, but now it only fuels me.

  “You’re wrong!” My voice matches his intensity. “I don’t care what you think!”

  He shakes his hand at me, angry, almost mocking. “Oh, I think you do. I just think Melanie scares you more than I do.”

  “That’s your ego talking.”

  “No, it’s the truth, and you don’t want to hear it.”

  “You’re delusional,” I say. “You think you know everything about me, and you don’t!”

  “Oh, and what about me, June?” Jasper asks. “What do you know about me? I have a swimming scholarship! Did you know that? I’m going to lose it!”

  I start pacing the length of the jail cell. “Maybe you should have thought of that before suggesting we trespass.”

  “That’s rich, coming from you.”

  “And that’s another thing,” I shout. “You’re still judging me!”

  “Seriously, we’re going back to that?”

  “Yes,” I bite. “Even in the garden, your opinion of me was changing. It’s constantly changing. You’re still judging me at every turn!”

  “Everyone is always doing that,” he counters. “Everyone changes their opinion all the damn time. It’s nothing new.”

  And I realize something. I apologized to Jasper. I felt regret and responsibility for what I had done to him in the past. Jasper hasn’t.

  “I feel bad for what I did to you,” I say. My footsteps increase, my fuel of rising anger spurring me on.

  When I look at Jasper, he seems a little thrown off and says, “I said I forgive you. What, do you want me to say it again?”

  “That’s it, though! What about me, Jasper?”

  “What about you?”

  “Why don’t you feel bad about what you did to me!”

  “What I did to you?”

  “Why can’t you apologize?”

  We’re shouting. Our words hit walls and bounce and echo not in the space between us but in our minds. The fuel of anger is never-ending. We’re screaming, and no one is here to stop us.

  Jasper laughs. It’s cold and condescending. “What do I have to apologize for?”

  “For judging me,” I accuse. “For always, always judging me. So much that you painted me as a monster.”

  “Well, you seem like a monster right now.”

  His words hit me and penetrate at last. Hurt cracks into the anger. I can’t stifle it. “You’re such an asshole.”

  “I think you’ve got it turned around.”

  I want to hit him. From the hard look in his eyes and the way he shakes from anger, he might just want to strangle me himself. “We all have our mistakes, King. The difference between us is I’ve realized mine, and you haven’t.”

  He’s seething and silent. His hands are clenching, one grasping for the box of cigarettes that are gone—the same box the police officers confiscated. He shakes his head too fast and with too much power. “You think apologizing just erases what you did to me?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “It sounds like it!” His fisted hand punches his thigh.

  He’s probably completely and truly angry that the police officers stole his cigarettes. He probably wants to smoke one right now. I love that he’s denied even the possibility of choice.

  “It’s rare that anyone is ever completely innocent,” I tell him, lowering my voice to a cold, angry splinter. “And you’re not one of them, King.”

  Jasper stands, striding right up to me. “And when your senior year starts, Pierce, which unfortunate soul are you going to torture this time, now that I’m gone?”

  His words slap me. I rear back. I hate how he’s so tall and that this close, he’s almost touching me. I have to crane my neck to glare up at him. I hate his eyes and his bleached hair and his stupid black shirt. At this moment, I hate everything about him, and I won’t let myself think of what similar, polar opposite emotion is akin to hate. “If you think I haven’t learned anything this past week, you’re wrong.”

  “What have you learned?” He laughs again. “Right now, you’re blaming everything on me.”

  “No, I’m pointing out what you haven’t learned.”

  “I don’t need to justify my actions.”

  Why is he so damn tall? In intense anger, frustration, and hurt, I lift both hands, palms out, and push. Jasper stumbles back. I yell, “You want to know what I’ve learned? I learned that I’m a bitch! That I bully people and that I let other people’s opinions of me change me into something horrible! I hate myself. You make me hate myself!”

  Jasper is still regaining his balance, and when I refocus on him, he looks just as angry and frustrated, but his eyes are less hard, more emotional. Does he understand what I’m saying? I have no idea, but at this moment, he’s speechless, and I know exactly what words to form. The tables have turned, and I revel in it.

  “When I apologized to you, I meant it!” I scream. “I didn’t want anything in exchange, but I want you to realize that you’ve hurt me too, and your way of fighting back against me was just another way to bully!”

  Jasper is breathing hard. I think my words penetrate walls, but it’s questionable whether they get through to Jasper or not. He opens his mouth, but I have to let it all out before he cuts me off.

  “When I look at you,” I start, and I’m no longer screaming. I feel on the verge of crying. “It hurts, Jasper. It hurts to know what I did to you, but I see you, and I also see that painting of me as this ugly beast with claws and red, scary eyes, and I want to cry.” I almost cry as I say it.

  “All right, that’s enough, you two.”

  We both jump. I jerk around to see that the police officer has returned. He’s standing right on the other side of the cell’s iron bars, eyebrows raised as he observes us. Neither Jasper nor I heard him come in.

  Silence falls. It’s uncomfortable and thick and leaves things unsaid that would’ve been shouted if the police officer hadn’t intruded.

 
; Now not only do I want to hit Jasper, but I also want to punch the officer.

  The officer in question waves a hand. “I think it’s better if you two don’t say anything for a while.”

  “I want a different jail cell.”

  The officer considers me, bushy black eyebrows rising higher. His lips purse and his gaze slide to Jasper for a few moments. I refuse to look at the other cell’s occupant.

  “All right,” the officer draws out. He motions me forward, pulling some keys from his pocket.

  He slides the iron bars, and I slip through the small opening. I don’t look back. I hear heavy breathing but nothing else. As I settle into a jail cell next to the one I was just in, there’s only a thin wall that separates me from Jasper King, and I realize that I wish he’d said something, even with the officer there. I don’t know what I wish he would’ve said, but anything is better than the silence I got and still have.

  I crawl onto the narrow, hard bench in the jail cell and hug my arms across my chest. I feel deflated. The anger washes away, no matter how desperately I try to grasp onto it. I start to cry because I want to feel that anger instead of fear and anxiety. I don’t want the snake to squeeze my chest as it does now, taking away my breath and leaving me gasping desperately and silently.

  I refuse to think about Jasper, but I think about everything else. I imagine my mother’s beet-red face as she’s woken up and told her daughter was arrested. I think of April. I wish I wouldn’t, but I do.

  I’ve let down my sister. There’s no question about it. She trusted me, and I let her down just days before the biggest moment of her life. I’ve failed her. The tears pour out, and I stifle my face in my hands.

  Through the spaces in my fingers, I face the wall and stare. Cracks are radiating. When I look up, the ceiling is pristine white. There’s the roaring sound of a pen tap, tap, tapping.

  And my emotions are spiraling out in every direction, screaming, and strangling, and whispering horrible, hideous words.