Cross My Heart (7 page)

“Because. It’s .
. . i
t’s not. . . .” I
wrack my brain, struggling
to find the
appropriate word
. “Normal.”
Lame
. But it’s the best I can do, considering. Because then Parker laughs,
and it
’
s
light and musical. It reaches all the way to his eyes, lighting them. And suddenly they’ve lost that stony glar
e, and Parker seems
. .
.

“And Mr. Darcy is what you’d call
normal
?”
he
asks
.

“Mr. Dar
cy is a gentleman,” I explain
.

“Mr. Darcy
is a narcissist,” Parker replies
.

“Look, as much as you’d love to, I’m not
gonna
sit here and argue with you all afternoon. Pick a book, and let’s get out of here.”

He s
t
ares
at the
creased,
wrinkled sheet for a momen
t,
studying the words.
“Okay. I’m going to
pick one randomly.”

It’s better than nothing.
“Fine. Go for it.”

Parker
shuts
his eyes and ru
n
s
his
finger down the page. I watch
him
carefully
,
surprised at
how peaceful he looks with his eyes closed
,
how relaxed
.
How is it that we’ve had English together all year and I’ve never paid him an
ounce of attention?
The idea of the two of us sitting in a lib
rary arguing over Jane Austen is mildly humorous. It’
s s
hocking
, even, because he’s
neve
r spoken a word to me before. I
just assumed. . . .
M
aybe—just maybe—there’
s the tiniest possibility
he has more to say than I thought
.

“
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
,” he says
.

“A S
hakespearean Comedy,” I inform
him.

“Meaning you’ve read it.”

I
fold
my arms, offering a sarcastic smirk in response.

“All right. One more ti
me.” He repeats the gesture
and opens his eyes. He closes
them again.

He’s cheating!
“Wait!
What was that one?”

“What?”

I nod toward his paper.
“The book! You just
picked one, and now you’re going to
pick another. That’s not fair!
I want to know what it was.”
It’s not until after I say the words
that I realize how juvenile I must sound.

“Actually . . . if you must know . . . I
missed. I landed on blank, blue
space,” he says
, forming the words slowly
. “No book. And that doesn’t help us.”

“Fine,” I reply
.

“Are you sure? I mean, do I have your permission to try again?”

I roll
my eyes. “Just go.”

He runs
his finger up and down the
page
. He stops, then opens
his eyes, examining the title.

“
Ethan
Frome
,” he announces
.

“
Ethan
Frome
,” I repeat
,
leaning across the table,
studying
the name just above his index finger. His fingernail, I noti
ce, i
s
practically non-existent—
gnawe
d below the skin, his cuticle jagged and tearing.
So . . . h
e
’
s a nail-biter.
Nervous habit.
 
I
glance at
my own
fingernails—long, and carefully fi
led straight across
.
His look painful
.
And kind of gross.

He eyes
me warily. “You read it?”

I shake
my head. “No. You?”

“No.”

I leap
from my seat and walk
briskly past
the aisles, heading towa
rd the computer catalog. I type
in
Ethan
Frome
,
find
it was writt
en by Edith Wharton, then weave
in and out of
the
rows in Fiction until I’m at
the W’s. I pull
out two
identical,
worn copies of
Ethan
Frome
and carry
them back to
Parker
.

“Here,” I say
, tossing one of the books
. It slid
es
across the table, stopping just
in front of him.

Parker picks
it up
, flips it over, and scan
s
the description on the back. “‘A novel of passion and unfulfilled longing.’ Wow, Jade, looks like you landed yourself a romance.”

My head jerks
up, surprised.
No one calls me Jade. Ever. No one
even tries
. I’ve
always been Jaden. To my teachers . . . to my friends . . . my family.
Everyone.

“What?” he asks
.

“Nothing,” I reply
, slowly turning my attention back to the book.
Jade? That would be like, a nickname. I’ve never had a nickname.

But h
e’s persistent.
“No. What is it?”

I tuck
a stray piece of hair behind my ears. “Nothing. It’s just that . . . you called me Jade. It was just . . . weird, that’s all.”

“If you prefer Jaden
.
. . .”

It doesn’t matter to me.
“No. It’s fine.” I clear
my throat
, signaling us back to
the
task
at hand
. “So anyway, I wouldn’t call this a romance. It says here: ‘marked by tragedy.’ That can’t be good.”

“Ah.
Now it’s sounding better.”

I stifle a laugh
. “Of course it would. Coming from someone who thinks love can actually drive
people to commit heinous crimes,
”
I mutter
, still examining the flap copy.

“It’s a matter of semantics.”

“Great,” I say
, standing. “We met, we picked out
a book,
mission accomplished
. Let’s
,
um, just plan to read this and get together next week. Then we can divide up responsibilities an
d get this thing done.” I pause
for a moment. “We have to do an oral report, you know.”

“So?”
he asks, gathering his things.

“I’m
just saying.”

Parker
rises to his feet
, sli
nging his bag over his shoulde
r, standing taller than me by several inches
, and I’m one of the tallest girls in my entire grade.
“Don’t worry. I’m sure with all that practice for your future Miss America pageants, you’ll be a natural.”

“I wa
sn’t concerned about me,” I say,
sneer
ing
.
And I have
no plans to become Miss America.

“Well
don’t worry on my account. I
t’s insulting.”

Parker
moves
toward the count
er
—
each
step assertiv
e,
composed—
to
check out his book. I stan
d there
stagger
ed,
unable to move,
watching in disbelief as the real Parker Whalen—prepared student of a thousand opinions and confident reader of
Wuthering Heights
—slowly begi
n
s
to reveal himself. 

*
  
*
  
*

Dinner is over; dishes are washed. I’ve
played
with Joshua
, who i
s now b
athed and in bed. My homework i
s f
inished, and I’m
intrigued enough by my encounter with Parker earlier in the week to want to start
Ethan
Frome
immediately. It’s a thin book, I’ve
observed, so
it probably wo
n’t take
long to finish.

I stretch
across my bed, a blanket
tuck
ed around me
to ward off
the cold
, and open
the novel
la
to the first page.
A s
yrupy
, perfume-like smell
permeat
es
t
he air, and
for a moment
I wonder if it has
anything to do with whoever
checked the book out last,
or
if Parker’s copy smells
the same way.
I stop. Why do I care what Parker
’
s book smells like? Why am I even
thinking
about him?
I
force
Parker Whalen
out of my head
and begin reading
.

I’ve
made my way through most of the first chapter when
someone
knock
s
.

“It’s open,” I call
.

Sarah
is already
dressed for be
d—
pink flannel pajama pants and a long-sleeved night shirt—and holding a magazine. A
cold draft from the hallway follows her inside. I shiver
.

“I’m not interru
pting
,
am I?” she asks
.

“No,” I reply
, folding d
own the corner of the page I’m
on
.

“It won’t take long. I
just need an opinion.” Sarah si
t
s
dow
n on the edge of my bed.
It sinks with her
, and
I move
closer
,
wrapp
ing my blanket tighter around my shoulders. “I’m trying to
pick invitations,” she continues
. “Tell me what you think. Honestly.”

She passes
th
e catalog over to me. I flip
thr
ough,
paus
ing at each page
Sarah
marked,
examining
the item
s she’s
circl
ed.

“
What
’
s the verdict
?” she asks
.

I
return to the beginning
. “I like this
one . . . and this one.” I show
her the pages.

Sarah laughs
. “Daniel picked those, too.”

“Imagine that,” I say, smiling.
I like
both of my brothers . . . as much as a baby sister c
an
like
them,
I guess
. Now that we’re older, when they a
ren’t
harassing me (Phillip)
, or
being completely overprot
ective of me (Daniel), we all ge
t along pretty well. “Which are your favorites?”

“Actually,” she says
, turning a few pages over, “I think I like this one best.”

“Really?” I ask
, surprised. “I figured you’d go
for something more modern. You know, simple
and streamlined.”

“Yeah, it would make more sense.”