Cross My Heart (11 page)

So he
’
s never been in love before, and he doesn
’
t seem to care if I know it.

“
What about you?
”
he asks.

I lean
back,
hugging my elbows
. “Why
do you
wanna
know
?”
I challenge
.

“Because you asked me. It’s only fair, right?”

I
barely hesitate before answering.
“No, I don’t think so.
” I turn
my attention back to my notebook.

Parker snorts
. “It’s not fair? Or you’ve never been in love?”

“Love,
”
I clarify.

“Not even with Blake Hanson?”

My chest seems to collapse
on me
, and i
mages of Blake
rip through my mind,
thoughts tangled.
Prom. H
is basketball jersey.
A
red and white chec
kerboard tablecloth
between us
as we share
dinner
, laughing.
Blake. I forgot
about Blake
.
A sharp
intake of
breath.
Of course I’m
in love with Blake
.
Although . . . I’ve
neve
r told him I love
him. But he’s never told me he loves
me, either.
Sure I love him . . . but then, does
that mean I
’m
in
love with him? I
s there a difference?

I think
about what Parker said about love—how it
materializes when
least expected
.
I
picture
fireworks and sparks and passion.
Blake and I have
been friends
since our sophomore year. He asked me to
our junior
prom. We
just sort of . . . happened
, and have
been happening ever since.

“I’ll take that as
a resounding no,” Parker replies
,
interrupting my racing thoughts,
his dark eyes taunting
me
.

“Of course I love Blake,” I say
quickly.

“You didn’t say you did.”

I shake
my head
, voic
e higher than usual
. “I don’t have to. It’s understood.”

“I asked if you’d ever been in love, and you said no.”

“I love Blake,” I reaffirm
,
cringing
,
feeling the awkwardnes
s of these words as they escape
my lips.
I love Blake. I love him.

“Then why didn’t you just come out and say it? Why did you even have to think about it?”

Why does it matter? Why does this even concern him?
“I have a right to think about it.”

“If you really love someone you shouldn’t have to think about anything. You should
want
to say it. It’s not difficult.
”

My face f
lushes
,
the slow burn
creeping
up my neck
and
to my cheeks. “That’s absurd
. I’d know if I was in love, right?”

“I would th
ink that you should,” he says
dryly
.

“Okay
,
then.” I roll my eyes and pretend
to scan my notes. Out
of the corner of my eye
I can
see Parker watching
,
one of those sarcastic smirks plastered across his face—like he
freakin
’
kno
w
s
it all.
And behind us, that clack
clack
clack
of the keyboard filling my head with
its
obnoxious
racket
.
My body tenses
.
“
Why are you doing that?” I ask
, flustered
,
m
y face
flaming
.

He laughs, and I swear I see
dimples. “What?”

My
fists tighten
beneath the table
,
those
perfectly manicured
fingernails
biting
my pa
lms. I thro
w him a dirty look
, eyes narrowed
. “That. Laughing at me.”

“Why are you
getting so defensive?” he asks
, his smile showcasing a set of straight, white teeth.

“I’m not defensive,” I reply
,
hating
I
actually noticed
Parker’s nice teeth.

“Do you love Blake? It’s a simple question. I don’t know what the b
ig deal is.”
He
slouche
s in his seat, arms folded,
wiggling in satisfaction
.
“Yes or no, Jade?”
he teases.

“Yes . .
. No . . . I mean. . . .” I do
n’t know what to say. I let out a frustrated sigh.

Mission accomplished. He
shakes his head lazily
. “You don’t love Blake Hanson. In fact, you don’t even know why you’re with him anymore.”

“Really,” I say
. “Then tell me
,
Parker. W
hy am I still with him? Please. Enlighten me.” I rol
l
my eyes for effect. There’
s no way
Parker Whalen
can
know he’
s getting to me.

“You’re with him because
he’s
safe
. You’re happily stuck in your little comfort zone. You’ve been with him for so long you don’t even know why yo
u’re together anymore, but you’ll
never let him go because he
’s so dependable. It’s a relationship
of pure convenience.” He tilts
back in his chair again
and let
s
out a sarcastic laugh. “The cheerleader and head basketball player. I mean . . . can you
get
any more stereotypical
? I bet you go out for pizza every Saturday night, too. And sometimes he calls just to tell you good night.”

My muscles tighten
,
pulse racing
,
unsettled
.
How dare he?
I hate
him for calling me out lik
e this
. Angry because he thinks he kno
w
s
me.
A
ngry at myself for thinking
he
smells
enticing. Parker Whalen
does
n’t know
anything
. Parker Whalen
i
s a jerk. “I don’t cheer for basketball,” I
say
.
The other things
I don’t deny
. Yeah, we eat
pizz
a on the weekends, and Blake
call
s
to tell me good night . . . sometimes.
He usually texts
.
That does
n’t
mean we’
re cliché. 

“It’s basic, Jade. What you need is a little excitement in that monotonous life of yours, and I doubt Blake Hanson provides that for you.”

“Blake is a nice guy.
He
’
s . . . perfect.
”

“Perfect. Really,
”
he says,
skeptical
.

“Yes.
”

“Blake is boring.
”

“Yo
u said I was boring,” I remind
him.

“My point exactly.”

My head turn
s
in
utter
disbelief,
temples throbbing in aggravation. This incessan
t banter—this back and forth—I’ve
n
ever felt so
annoyed in my life
.
Even Phillip does
n’t illicit
this kind of reaction, and he’
s relentless.
I’m totally losing my cool.
Over
Parker Whalen
.

“How did we even g
et on this?” I wonder
aloud
, working to control my quiet rage
. “I thought we were talking about
Ethan
Frome
.”

“We were
. . . until you asked me if I’ve
ever been in love.”

Fine. I got us on this topic, I can get us off.
I clear
my throat. “What di
d you think of the cat?” I ask
, changing the subject.

“C
reepy,” Parker replies
. “Like
Zeena
incarnate.”

Whatever i
s go
ing on between Parker and me does
not exist outside
the library, or our project.
After my
conversation
s with him
,
I think maybe something will
change, or be different
—like
maybe he’ll
actually a
cknowledge my presence—but I find when I arrive
to English
the
following
day
things ar
e the same as
always. It’s not that I expect
him to jump out of his seat or anything,
and it shouldn’t matter
,
but a little wa
ve, or a smile, even, would be nice. I’d smile
back, anyway.

But Parker remains
as
inaccessible
as al
ways,
an impenetrable stone wall.

I steal
a quick glance
in his direction;
his head hangs low as he scribbles
in his noteboo
k. I si
t back in my seat, exhaling,
determined to focus on Ms.
Tugwell
and her lecture
.
I take
a few
, carefully outlined notes
before
my thoughts
begin to drift
.
I keep
my head still, peeking
at him
out of the corner of
my eye. Still writing. A
f
rustrated sigh
wells
up inside
.
It’s like
I’m not
even on his radar.
It consumes me. And I can
not
figure out why it matters. W
hy I even care. Because I don
’
t
care
.
Not really.

Occasionally, I catch
a glimpse of h
im in the hallway. The moment i
s f
leeting—a quick vision in black,
his leather jacket
or his dark hair—and then he’
s gone again.
He
’
s
like an apparition, appearing long enough for me to notice him, and kee
p me watching for him when I do
n’t.

*
  
*
  
*

On Thursday
afternoon I’m
working in one of the back offices with the secretary t
o the guidance counselor, who’s away at a conference. It’
s nearing
time for the final bell
when
she
tells me she’
s heading to the workroom to drop something off and take a diet soda break.

“W
ill you be okay here?” she asks
. The
dated
copier
, smudged with dirty traffic fingerprints,
continu
es
spitting out page after
page; the smell of warm toner ha
ng
s
suspended in the air around us.

“Yeah,” I assu
re
her. “Take your time.”

I glance
around the room, surveying
my surroundings—desks covered in paper clutter, staplers and plastic paper clip holders
; lost and found boxes full of jackets and sunglasses and jewelry; an old leather chair with a gash down the middle, white wooly stuffing oozing out. But then, as
I fi
nd myself alone in that back office, with no one around, my curiosity
ta
k
es hold, and then takes
over
. I have
at least fi
ve or ten minutes—maybe longer—
and
so I
quietly
slither
inside the guidance counselor’s office.
The room i
s
dim and shadowy
,
lit only by the faint glow of a cloudy day through the
cheap, plastic
window blinds. The
metal
file cabinets stan
d tall behind the door
,
t
he silver key protruding from the lock
. I reach
out and, hand shaking, slow
ly turn it. The lock clicks
open, the noise reverberating through the empty office. I
hold my
breath and
peer
around the door. S
till al
one. T
he copier continues
to whirr and click, coughing up pages
.