Copyright 2011 by Katie Klein

Cover image: Copyright 2011 by Gemma Hart

http://rockgem.deviantart.com/

This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All Rights Reserved

No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Katie Klein.

Cross My Heart

by

Katie Klein

Chapter One

Never underestimate the power of glitter. It’s Kindergarten 101, really. Squeeze an unrealistic amount of glue on construction paper. Dump a pile of glitter on top. Shake. And let dry. Glitter is like . . . little flecks of brilliance caught in a tube. A miracle in a jar. Because glitter can take any work in progress to that next level. It hides the most glaring of imperfections, works to bring out the best in everything. It takes the ordinary and turns it into something interesting and beautiful.

Refrigerator-worthy.

“Perfect.”

I stand back, hands perched on my hips, admiring my handiwork.

RAFFLE—$5.00 PER TICKET.

The pink words twinkle beneath the tarnished, gold-plated chandelier welcoming guests to the front office. I flick the edge of the poster board, and a few specks of glitter fall, shimmering to the tile floor. A trail of the rosy sparkles chased me the entire morning: from my bedroom to the car, across the parking lot, and down the hallway to here—the foyer of my high school.

I sweep my hands together, then smear my palms across my jeans. Wrong move. I brush my pants vigorously. When this doesn’t work, I remove a miniature lint roller from my purse, peel off the old adhesive layer, and run it across my lap until I’m sparkle-free.

The first bell rings and I bounce to attention, shoving the roller back into my purse. As classmates trickle inside, I sit up straighter, adjusting the cash box in front of me and planting a pleasant smile across my face. Business Friendly. They ignore me, pushing through the glass doors, cell phones pressed against their ears, mid-conversation, twirling through their iPod playlists in search of anthems to begin their day.

My cell phone buzzes, lighting, the vibration exaggerated against the wooden tabletop. Right on time. A photo of Blake, my boyfriend, flashes across the screen. The picture draws a smile—his gray-blue eyes, blonde hair glowing beneath the fluorescents, giving him an ephemeral, angelic appeal. I read the early morning text message wishing me a Happy Monday. He is nothing if not dependable, and I try to think if a school day has passed since we began dating where he hasn’t sent a morning message like this. I can’t, and craft a response.

As I’m typing, a book bag thuds to the floor and Savannah, my best friend, crashes into the chair beside me. She immediately lowers her head to the table, burying it in her arms.

“You’re here early. I’m kind of impressed,” I say, sending my text message and shutting the phone with a snap.

She groans. It’s muffled. Far away.

I glance over at her, not concerned in the least. I love Savannah, but she is prone to melodrama. “Good weekend?”

She lifts her head. Her straight, blonde hair is pulled away from her face with a headband. “Two days away from the love of my life and my weekend is supposed to be good?”

“I know you’re not talking about me,” I tell her. “Because I just saw you Saturday.”

“Let’s just say I can’t wait for lunch, k?”

“I believe you.”

She turns in her seat, studying the poster taped to the wall. “I guess you talked to the Wal-Mart people,” she says.

“I did. They offered an amazing discount on the game and the console—I mean, they’re practically giving it to us.”

She frowns. “They should. People were trampled over those things the day after Thanksgiving.”

“Which fully explains their willingness to give back to the community. And rightly so. It is a family store.”

“I don’t know why they don’t sell bullet-proof vests. God knows you need one to make it in and out safely.”

I force back the knowing smirk pulling at my lips. “Which is why I do all of my shopping . . .”

“Online. We know,” she interrupts, rolling her eyes. “It sucks that the rest of us haven’t reached your level of enlightenment, yet.”

“Keep striving,” I tease.

Mr. Connelly, one of the history teachers, navigates the crowd of students, weaving in and out as he passes through the lobby, a cup of coffee steaming in his hand. He pauses in front of us, the chandelier light reflecting in his shiny, balding forehead.

“Good morning, Jaden. Good morning, Savannah. What are we saving this time?” he asks.

I smile brightly, the spiel I memorized weeks ago poised on my lips. “The children of Bangladesh. Did you know malaria is one of the leading causes of death in children? It’s a totally preventable disease. If we can get treated mosquito nets in every home, the cases would cut dramatically.”

“Sounds like a worthy cause,” he replies. “As always. What are you raffling?”

“An ‘A’ in your American Government class,” Savannah grumbles, arms folded. I can almost read her mind: Because that’s the only way to get an ‘A’ in your class. Which is not entirely true . . . because I have one. In fact, it’s safe to say I’ve aced all of Mr. Connelly’s classes.

I throw her a dirty look. “Wii Fit.”

“I wonder which would bring in more donations,” he mutters thoughtfully, lifting his I READ THE CONSTITUTION FOR THE ARTICLES mug and sipping slowly.

“The ‘A,’” Savannah and I reply in unison.

He swallows. “Yes, well, thankfully there are laws in place for that sort of thing. So . . . I will buy my ticket,” he continues, reaching for his wallet, “in hopes that I win a Fit.”

Savannah snickers, turning her head away and covering her mouth to conceal her smile.

“I suppose you wouldn’t need an ‘A’ in your own class,” I muse, jabbing my elbow into her arm. She straightens, rubbing the affected area.

He shakes his head. “No,” he replies. “Not today.” He hands me a floppy five-dollar bill, soft and stained, which I trade for a ticket.

“Thank you, Mr. Connelly.”

“Thank you, ladies.”

Savannah bursts into giggles the moment Mr. Connelly walks away, the smell of his black coffee still lingering in the air around us. “Oh my God. Did he just call it a ‘Fit’?” she asks.

“Yeah, I think so. But, you know, it’s five dollars.”

“The children of Bangladesh thank us.” She tosses her blonde hair over her shoulder.

“Jaden?”

I sit up straighter. “Yes, Mr. Connelly?”

“Will I see you in peer tutoring this afternoon?” he calls from across the busy hall.

“Absolutely,” I reply, lips stretching into my trademark smile: wide enough to show off straight and exceptionally white teeth—thank you, Crest Whitestrips—but not fake. Just . . . happy to help. Always.

When the two-minute warning bell rings, we split up. Savannah heads toward her first period class, while I stop by the school office to turn in our cash box for safekeeping and say hi to the secretaries. The halls are abandoned by the time I finish—silent—the lockers standing dormant and passive. A trail of crumpled papers and empty candy wrappers steers me to English. I bend down to pick up some of the larger pieces, dumping them in the trashcan by the water fountain on my way to Ms. Tugwell’s room.

I check the time on my cell phone just outside the door, lips pulling into a frown.

Ms. Tugwell won’t count me late, though. She never counts me late. No teacher counts me late. Ever. I slip inside the classroom and guide the door shut, easing it closed with my hand. Still, every head turns to me as the lock clicks. I feel my cheeks flush with heat and tiptoe to my seat at the back of the room as discretely as possible.

“This project will be worth thirty percent of your semester grade,” Ms. Tugwell says. She pauses, adjusting her glasses on the bridge of her nose, and peering at me with slightly magnified eyes. “Nice of you to take time out of your busy ‘saving the planet’ schedule to join us, Miss McEntyre.”

I smile cheerfully, even as my classmates snicker around me. “Poverty doesn’t sleep, Ms. Tugwell. If I don’t do my part, who will?”

“Indeed.”

Ms. Tugwell is, at the least, heavy set. She’s actually pretty large, and spends most of her time sitting in her chair behind her desk. She doesn’t really walk . . . more like waddles, and the ground beneath her trembles as she moves. Her glasses are at least thirty years out of style, and the lenses themselves are probably decades old, because she wears the same plaid jumpers that balloon at her waist . . . every single day . . . with her sneakers. She’s a good teacher—I like her—but every year, when a new group of idiot freshmen boys comes in. . . . I mean, “tugboat” doesn’t sound anything like Tugwell. But that doesn’t seem to deter some people.

My teacher shakes her head, but even so, I’m almost certain a tiny smile forms as she turns her attention back to the white board. I breathe a quick sigh of relief. No tardy.

“Moving on. This assignment will not be turned in for another two months, but that doesn’t mean you should wait until the last minute. You and your partner should make plans to meet as soon as possible, then regularly until it’s due.  I’d suggest you get together before the end of today, so you can decide what literary piece you will focus on. You’ll find the list of acceptable works in the information packet on your desks.”

I skim the light blue pages, running my finger over the staple in the top left corner, then raise my hand. “When do we pick partners?”

Ms. Tugwell re-positions her glasses. “About three minutes ago.”

“Three minutes . . . ,” I trail off. Before I made it to class. Partners have already been picked. I force an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t here.”

“I know you weren’t, so I had the pleasure of assigning you one.” She grins knowingly, and I sit back, heart thudding rhythmically in my chest, waiting while she takes her time, studying her gradebook, stretching the suspense as far as she can possibly manage, until finally: “You and Parker will be working together.”

Parker.

Parker Whalen.

For a moment my breath escapes me. My heart slows to a crawl, and it pounds heavy in my ears. I glance to my right where, two rows over, Parker Whalen sits. He’s there, wearing his typical jeans, typical black crew-neck shirt, and typical black leather jacket. His motorcycle helmet, which for some reason he does not keep in his locker, rests at his feet just beside his black bag. Stereotypical bad boy motorcycle rider—lots of intimidating gazes and determined angst. I heard he was in a gang, but find that completely hard to believe because he never wears any colors, he never gets into any trouble, and he never speaks to anyone. The whole gang thing is about camaraderie anyway, and he’s always alone. Plus, it’s not like Bedford is brimming with criminals. There are what? Twelve hundred people in our town? We don’t even have a Wal-Mart for God’s sake—that’s a town over (thankfully). And to actually get any decent shopping done, we have to drive an hour and a half into Hamilton.

Parker Whalen.

I’m not sure why I’m even surprised. My guess? It took my classmates all of ten seconds to select their partners. Parker would have been avoided, leaving me, not present at the time, as the only viable option. I swallow a sigh. No big deal. It’s just a project.

There is nothing I cannot handle.

“Thanks,” I reply, forcing a smile.

I steal another quick glance in Parker’s direction. This time our eyes meet. They lock to mine, slicing into me, and I stagger against his frown, smile wavering; his hard stare, smoldering; his quiet intensity as it sparks through my veins, leaving my entire body prickling in bewilderment. It’s like he hates me already, and I haven’t even done anything. I shift in my chair, uneasy. Only after what feels like an eternity’s worth of awkwardness am I able to tear my eyes away, shrinking lower in my seat as I flip my notebook open to a clean page.

The moment the bell rings I cram my books into my bag and stand, slinging it over my shoulder. Not thinking, I look toward Parker’s desk. But his seat is empty. I just do see a flash of black leather as he escapes the room. I hurry after him, but by the time I reach the hallway, so has everyone else. Whichever way he’s gone, Parker has already disappeared into the swirling mass of students—laughing, talking, tossing things back and forth—and as hard as I search—twisting, turning, peering over heads—there’s no sign of him.

Chapter Two

He doesn’t re-enter my world until lunch.

The one thing I know for sure about Parker Whalen is that he never sits inside. He eats at the picnic tables on the lawn, even on days like today, when the wind chill hovers just above freezing and the sky threatens rain. It’s impossible to know how he spends our lunch period, because he never faces the rest of us. We’ve never spoken. English is the only class we share, and we don’t exactly hang out in the same circles. In fact, I can’t imagine Parker Whalen hanging out with anyone . . . for any reason . . . at all. The truth? The rest of us grew up together. We filtered to one high school. Even if we didn’t go to the same middle school, Bedford is a tiny town, and everyone knows everyone, and everything about everyone. When Parker arrived, he never really managed to break into the cliques formed at birth. Whether or not he’d even tried, he always remained something of an outsider.

“Man, I’m telling you, they had nothing on you. Hey!” The familiar voice sings in my ears, happy to see me.

I squeeze between Savannah and Blake, my boyfriend, who leans over and deposits a wet, barbecue potato chip kiss on my cheek as I sit down. They flame as I subtly sweep the crumbs off my face.

“Hey. What’s going on?” I ask, tucking my hair behind my ears before opening my brown, paper lunch bag.

“I was just reminding Tony of how awesome he was at Friday’s game,” Blake informs me, chewing. Blake is a basketball player, an athlete, so I try to forgive the little nuisances, like the fact that now my cheek is all gritty and smells like his barbecue breath.

Savannah’s ears perk at this. “What happened?” she asks.

“My man Tony scored forty points all by his self.”

“No way! That’s amazing!” she gushes, her entire face lighting.

Tony shrugs, unable to look her in the eyes. I hope it’s because of his repressed feelings for her. I don’t think she could be more obvious. I don’t think he could be more oblivious.

Ashley, another member of our lunchtime group, pops open the tab of her soda. It hisses, and she has to suck back the fizz. “This was an away game, right?” she asks.

“Yeah, we beat North Central ninety-five to sixty-eight,” says Blake.

“We crushed them,” Tony adds.

“You, my friend, were on fire.”

“Fire!” Tony repeats.

“Fire,” Blake finishes.

“Oh my God, I so wish I could’ve been there,” Savannah tells Tony. “It’s just that it was so far to drive, and my parents are like . . . ugh.”

Across the table, Ashley rolls her eyes. “You hate basketball.”

Savannah tosses a dirty look in her direction. “No. I don’t. I mean, it’s not that bad.” She turns her attention back to Tony, all smiles again. “You could get on a college team, and then go pro!” she says excitedly, already planning Tony’s future. Visualizing herself part of it, no doubt. I’ve watched her do the same thing every day since the first week of our freshman year, with a new guy each month. She’s had an eye on Tony as of November, which is probably some kind of record. Usually by this time she’s either already dated and dumped, or grown bored and moved on.

“Speaking of college,” Blake says, nudging me with his knee beneath the table, “have you heard anything?”

He’s asking about Harvard, and I kind of wish he wouldn’t. I’m the only one at our table who’s applied to an Ivy League school. I think I might be the only senior who’s applied to Ivy League, period, and I’m still waiting on a decision. Everyone else picked state schools or local private colleges. (Except for Savannah, who possesses absolutely no desire to continue her education beyond high school and is highly vocal about her decision . . . or lack of a decision. Whatever.)

“Um, no, I haven’t,” I confess.

“It’s still early,” he replies, hopeful.

“And no news isn’t necessarily bad news,” Ashley adds.

I study the turkey jammed between my sandwich bread, shrugging casually, then change the subject. “You guys are getting partners in English today. You know, for that big project?” I split my sandwich in half, tearing it straight down the middle, pinch off a bite of turkey and cheese, and pop it into my mouth.

“Oh my God. I totally forgot about that,” Savannah says, rolling her eyes. “I hope I get paired with a nerd.”

“So. . . .” Blake knocks me with his elbow as he roots around his potato chip bag, digging for fragments. “Who’s your partner?”

I continue chewing for a moment, then, hesitating, cover my mouth with my hand. “Parker,” I mumble.

“Whalen?” Savannah asks, eyes widening.

“That’s the only Parker I know,” I say.

Tony bursts out laughing, falling back in his chair, like it’s the funniest thing he’s heard all day. A few juniors a table over stop to stare at us, scrutinizing. “Parker Whalen? Are you serious?”

Blake slants away from me. The shift is slight, but I notice it nonetheless. “I thought we picked partners.”

“We did. Sort of. I had to stop by the office so I got to class late,” I mutter. “Partners had already been picked.” I shrug. It’s not like I had a choice or anything.

“So the Tugboat put you and Parker Whalen together.” His jaw tightens, words sharp and spiteful.

“Yeah. She did,” I reply, glowering at him. “And don’t call her Tugboat. It’s juvenile. And rude.”

“Jaden had to do it. I mean, there’s not a person at this school who’d actually want him for a partner,” Ashley says, matter of fact, spooning a bite of yogurt. “He’s freaky. Jaden’s just nice enough to not let something like that bother her.”

I’m not sure how I would define Parker Whalen, but freaky is a little extreme. Strange? Possibly. Eccentric? Maybe. A definite loner . . . but he doesn’t seem freaky to me . . . just . . . quiet. “It’s weird, actually. I don’t know anything about him. And he’s been coming to this school for what? Five? Six months?”

“We know enough,” Tony says. “I heard his dad makes money off some illegal dog fighting ring—totally underground.”

“I heard his old school kicked him out for marijuana,” says Savannah.

“Which he was also arrested for,” adds Ashley.

I roll my eyes. “We don’t know if any of those things are true,” I say, still chewing. “And just because he wears black and drives a bike? I mean, we don’t even know him.”

“I saw him at Vince’s a few weeks ago. He was wandering around like he was scouting the place. The dude is a freak.”

My ears perk up at this. Not what he said about Parker, but Vince. Because I think he means Vince De Luca, and if that’s the case. . . . “Wait. You went to Vince De Luca’s?”

Blake’s cheeks flush. Busted. Vince De Luca graduated from Bedford High a few years ago. He lives a county over now, in an old rental, and his parties are fairly notorious. Vince’s reputation is anything but stellar. Never mind that he still runs with the high school crowd. He and my brothers used to hang out, and I’ve since been warned.

“I thought we talked about that.”

“We did,” Blake says. “I was with the guys. I swear we were only there for like, fifteen minutes. If that. Ask Tony.”

I look to Tony for confirmation.

“Fifteen minutes,” he agrees.

“You know I do not like that guy,” I remind him. I set my sandwich on top of my bag; my appetite has mysteriously vanished.

“Yeah, well, I don’t really like Parker Whalen,” Blake replies coolly.

*   *   *

At the end of the day, as I’m taking a quick trip to my car before I head to Mr. Connelly’s room, I see Parker again. He’s walking to the far end of the lot, where he parks his motorcycle. Blue and silver. A sport bike. Which seems perfect for him, actually. I pick up my pace, hurrying to catch up with him before he disappears. Rumors, reputation, or not, we have a project to do—a project to do together. The sooner we talk the faster we can get to work.

“Parker!” I call out, crossing in front of a red Volvo. He straps his helmet beneath his chin, then mounts the bike, using his legs to back out of the space.

“Parker Whalen!”

Everyone’s eyes are fixated on me, it seems, as I weave in and out of cars and around groups of friends who’ve stopped laughing and chatting to wonder what, exactly, I’m doing. In the next moment he cranks the engine, and revs it a few times. The thunderous blasts shake my eardrums, vibrating the ground beneath me, pulsing. He peels out of the parking lot, tires squealing, not once turning my way.

I remain cemented to the asphalt in the middle of the lane, watching in disbelief as he fades away, taillights glowing. A car horn beeps behind me, punctuating my stupor. I jump, and turn toward the line of traffic snaking around the lot. I quickly move out of the way, waving an apology to the driver. I wrap my arms tightly across my chest, hugging myself in an effort to keep warm, then jog to my car, feeling the icy wind as it bites my face and numbs the tip of my nose.

I flash those still eyeing me a quick smile. Everything is absolutely under control. Parker Whalen is not avoiding me. Not on purpose, anyway.

Chapter Three

I sit down at the dinner table, watching as my soon-to-be official nephew, Joshua, shoves his hand deep inside a plastic dinosaur bowl, grasping and mashing. Oatmeal dribbles over the sides and plops onto the tray of his highchair.

“I hope you’re eating some of that, young man,” my mom warns.

Joshua grins, revealing the impossibly tiny baby teeth at the front of his mouth. With a smile like that? He’s the only one of us who can, quite literally, get away with everything.

“Dinner!” Mom calls.

My two older brothers materialize from the living room, still dressed for work, their white socks speckled with mud and their short, brown hair pressed flat against their scalps: what we generally refer to as “hard-hat head.”

“Hey, little man,” Daniel, my oldest brother, says. “Gimme five.” He extends his hand.

Joshua giggles, and smacks it several times.

Daniel stares at the sticky, brown oatmeal splattered across his palm. “Great.”

“Pass me those,” my other brother, Phillip, demands, nodding toward the baked beans.

“No way. That’s the last thing you need,” I say, rolling my eyes.

Phillip pushes his shirt sleeves up his arms, past his elbows, frowning. “Just hand them to me.”

“I’m thinking about the collective good of this family.”

“Shut up,” he replies, his voice rising, “and think about passing me that pot.”

“Are you gonna say ‘please’?”

He exhales loudly, stands, and leans across the table, snatching the stainless steel dish. A trail of steam chases as it moves.

“Phillip, can you please not say that?” Sarah, Daniel’s fiancée, begs. “I don’t want Josh picking up those things. Because it would be pretty horrible to have to document his first word and it’s not ‘Mama’ or ‘Dada’ but ‘shup.’”

The four of us watch as Joshua examines a glob of oatmeal on his fist, his eyes crossing momentarily. He shoves the entire thing in his mouth, then pulls it out, covered in spit.

“Impressive,” Phillip says, mouth full.

“Takes after his uncle,” I say.

My dad, an older, grayer version of Daniel, sits down in his chair at the head of the table, scooting it closer as Mom enters with the rolls. I can’t quite pin-point when it happened—the wiry, gray wisps of hair and creases around the eyes—if they’ve always existed and I never noticed, or if becoming grandparents somehow triggered the changes automatically.

“Is this everyone?” she asks, swiping her auburn hair (same shade as mine) away from her face. She frowns. “Phillip, can’t you wait for the rest of us?”

Every seat at the table is occupied, and Joshua sits in his highchair between my mom and Sarah: a typical dinner at the McEntyre house. There are seven of us in all. My mom and dad, of course; Daniel, Sarah, and Joshua, who stay in the middle bedroom upstairs; me; and Phillip, who’s younger than Daniel by two years, and two years older than me. A true middle child. We’re nothing if not a full house.

“Daniel, Phillip, how was work?” Mom asks.

“Good,” Daniel replies. “The house on Oak Street is almost ready to be painted.”

She stabs a pork chop with her fork, and passes the plate on to Sarah. “That soon? It went up fast,” she marvels.

“Chalk it up to the good winter weather we’ve been having. I don’t think we’ve had to take off a single day,” says Dad.

My eyebrow lifts instinctively as I reach for my sweet tea. I don’t know what he means by “good winter weather,” but the days we’ve been having lately—cold, dark, and miserable—are not good, in my opinion. I mean, I’m generally a glass half full kind of girl, but I can’t remember the last time I saw the sun shining. And since when did he ever take a day off?

I clear my throat. “You know, Dad, the faucet on my bathroom sink is still kinda screwed up.” “Kinda screwed up” is an understatement. There’s a pipe instead of a nozzle protruding from the porcelain. I can’t get cold water unless I use a wrench, and who wants to brush their teeth with hot water?

He reaches for his knife and cuts carefully, tearing off another piece of meat. “I know, sweetie. It’s on my list,” he assures me, chewing.

My dad’s the owner of McEntyre Construction. It’s like, a family thing. His dad started it, my dad took over when he retired, and eventually, when they grew old enough, my two brothers climbed aboard. My grandfather could fix anything. He built houses by hand then taught my dad everything he knew. Only, when my dad became president, he adopted a “why do something yourself you could pay someone else to do?” attitude.

Because of this, Mom and I change every burnt-out light bulb; replaced the front steps after Daniel stepped through one, splitting it completely in half; and took a flat-head screwdriver to all the windows painted shut by the family before us. This is why, even after living in our Victorian “restoration” home (where nothing is restored) for several years, I can still only get cold water by using a wrench. And even then there’s no guarantee I’ll be able to tighten the pipe enough to keep the faucet from leaking, which is a pain at two in the morning, when I awake to an incessant: drip . . . drip . . . drip. . . .

This is why the hardwood floors in my bedroom still need bracing, why the front living room stays closed off during the winter (there’s an insulation problem, and the cold air seeps through the walls), and why my mom still doesn’t have the screened-in back porch she’s always dreamed of, even though we are, by definition, living in her “dream house.” At first, I assumed my dad and brothers would get around to making all of these little “improvements”—but it never happened, and at some point along the way I stopped holding my breath.

I speak carefully. “I know . . . it’s just that . . . it’s been on your list for a while now, and it’s getting kinda hard to turn on with that wrench you let me borrow . . .”

“Jaden,” he interrupts, a tinge of annoyance lacing his tone. “I’ve barely had a weekend to myself in months. The boys and I are stretched thin . . . the Bennetts are anxious to move in . . .”

A cell phone rings, severing the conversation. My dad, Phillip, and Daniel all forage around their pockets, removing phones one by one, inspecting the screens. It’s Dad’s.

“This is the painter with my estimate,” he explains. “I have to take this.” He stands and walks out of the room, pressing the phone to his ear just before he disappears. “McEntyre Homes,” he says. Business Friendly.

“Who’s supposed to be calling you?” I ask Phillip.

“None of your business.”

“I can tell you,” Daniel teases, a mischievous grin plucking at the edges of his mouth, reaching all the way to his eyes. “Unless Phillip would rather do it.”

Phillip tilts his head back, groaning. “You remember Becky Summerlin?”

“Wasn’t she a year behind you?” Mom asks.

“She graduated last year,” I confirm, picturing the shy girl who’d been part of the yearbook staff, her mousy brown hair and comfortable eyes. “She was quiet, but she seemed really sweet. What does she want with you?”

He rolls his eyes. “Ha. Ha. Anyway, we ran into each other last week. She was visiting her parents. We decided to meet up next time she came to town,” he explains. “That’s it.”

“Why is she calling you, then?” Sarah asks. “Why aren’t you calling her?”

“I did!” Phillip answers, shoulders squaring. “I left a message. Now I’m waiting for her to call me back.”

“How long have you been waiting?” I ask.

He shrugs, forearms propped against the table, pushing those baked beans around the plate with his fork. “A day or two.”

“Or three,” Daniel adds.

Sarah laughs. “Well if you don’t hear from her by this weekend you might wanna give her a call back.”

“Or leave her alone,” I mutter.

The grandfather clock in the corner of the room strikes the hour. We eat in silence for a few moments, listening to the chimes.

Finally, Daniel clears his throat, grabbing our attention. Sarah glances over at him. “What?”

“Are you gonna tell them?” he asks, nodding toward us.

Her eyebrow lifts. “Tell them?”

We watch this exchange closely, waiting for someone to speak up. The last time they had something to tell us, I became an aunt. A wintry draft passes through the dining room window, stirring the curtains and raising goose bumps on my skin.

“Are you going to tell them?” he emphasizes.

A wave of recognition crosses her face. “Oh. Oh! Yeah. Sure.” She turns back to us. “Daniel and I wanted to tell you that we set a date.” Her cheeks flush.

“It’s about time,” Phillip mumbles.

“Yay!” I cry, clapping. “When?”

“Well, we’re thinking about the second week in June. At the gazebo in the park.”

“Oh! The park will be beautiful that time of year!” Mom affirms. “The flowers will be blooming. . . . Let me know if you need any help planning.” She jumps out of her seat. “I should get you the number for my florist.”

“Is that day okay for everyone?” Sarah asks. “I mean, you guys don’t have anything important planned do you?”

“My graduation is that Friday, but it’s not a conflict or anything.”

A flash of remembrance lights her face, and she lifts her hand to her mouth. “Oh my gosh. Graduation. I didn’t even think about that. We can move the wedding back a week or two. It’s no big deal.” She looks to Daniel for approval.

“No, no, no,” I say quickly. “I swear. There’s no conflict. I think the second weekend in June is perfect.”

“You have to think about the rehearsal dinner, though,” my mom says, returning from the kitchen with a card from her Rolodex. “That’s typically the night before the wedding.”

“Well,” Sarah begins, “I don’t think we were planning on anything too formal for that. Maybe we can do it earlier in the week. Like on Wednesday or Thursday. I don’t want anything to overshadow Jaden’s night.”

I smile. “You guys are not going to overshadow anything. It’s just graduation. Protocol, even. It’s no big deal.”

“Jaden,” Sarah chides. “Stop being so selfless. God.”

“Not a big deal?” says Mom. “The fact that my baby girl is graduating and heading off to Harvard in the fall happens to be a very big deal.”

“Wait,” Daniel interrupts, eyeing me curiously. “You heard from Harvard?”

“No,” I mutter, my cheeks searing. I poke at my pork chop, jabbing it with the fork prongs, frowning. “Mom’s assuming.”

My dad bursts back into the room. “The painters are going to over-charge us. We’ve used them for how many jobs?” He grabs his glass and lifts his plate of food from the table, still full but almost certainly lukewarm by now. “Anyway, I have a few phone calls to make, so I’m going to take this in the office.” He leans down and kisses my mom on the cheek—quick, sweet, but not exactly a compelling replacement. “Dinner was great,” he says, vanishing for the last time that night.

*   *   *

The next day I find myself in the hallway just before school ends. One of the perks of my last hour office aid job is that, if I finish my work, the secretaries let me leave early. The thing is, I have a reputation at school. A good one, actually, and I’ve discovered a good reputation is generally advantageous . . . in an “ask and you shall receive” kind of way.

I linger at my locker, arranging books and adjusting photographs. In the uncharacteristic calmness of the hall the fluorescent lights hum, flickering, casting a sallow light on everything they swathe. Nearby, a class erupts in laughter. I breathe in the stuffy school air and brush my fingers across the Harvard crest I printed from my laserjet at the beginning of the school year. A good luck gesture. I swallow hard, suppressing the tiny butterflies in the pit of my stomach: the ones that flare up every time someone mentions the word “Harvard,” or “college,” or “future.” Any day now.

I’m examining a photo of Blake and me from last year’s prom, our first formal together, when I notice movement at the far end of the hallway. My heart races, and I press myself tightly against the lockers, the metal cool against my legs. It’s Parker, bending over the water fountain. The vent kicks on, the buzz ricocheting off concrete walls as he finishes, and I watch him wipe his mouth with the back of his hand before disappearing inside the guy’s bathroom.

He avoided me in English, never responding to the note I passed him asking what literary work we should pick for our project. He didn’t show up to lunch. . . .

Without thinking, I slam my locker door shut and dash after him, my Mary Janes thwacking against the floor tiles, bag and purse bouncing behind me. I pause for a moment just outside the bathroom door, hesitating. This may be a huge mistake, but I lack options at the moment. I need him. It’s do now or die trying.

I suck in a quick breath, push through, and enter the men’s room, stumbling. Parker stands in front of the sink, washing his hands. He recoils when he sees me, startled. A flash of surprise, then confusion, crosses his face, quickly replaced by a hard scowl. His jaw tightens. “What the hell are you doing?”

Too late to back down now.

I scoff, working to right myself, spine stiffening. “What am I doing? I’m sorry, but I have a major research project due in two months, and for some unfortunate reason my partner has decided to go all AWOL on me.” I fold my arms across my chest. “What is your deal?”

Parker shuts off the faucet, then shakes his hands, sprinkling the mirror with tiny drops of water. “I don’t have a deal, Miss McEntyre,” he says, words smothered in sarcasm.

“Then why are you avoiding me?” I ask. “We’re supposed to be partners and you’re not even speaking to me. We haven’t picked a book . . . or decided our topics. You may not care about your academic future, but I have to get a good grade on this.”

He moves closer, eyes flashing, cutting through me. “I’m a slacker? Is that what you think?”

I drop my arms, shrinking back. Isn’t that what everyone thinks? When I don’t answer, he shakes his head. “You don’t know people as well as you think you do.”

“I’m not pretending to know anything about you,” I fire back. “I get that you must not like me or something . . .”

“Not like you?” he interrupts. “Jaden McEntyre, there’s not a soul at this school who doesn’t just adore you.” He lifts his bag from the bathroom floor and slings it over his right shoulder. He can’t leave. We’ll never get anything accomplished if I let him slip past. Without a second thought, I leap in front of the door and lean against the frame, blocking him.

“Do you mind?”

“Yeah, I do mind, actually,” I begin. “If you’re so miserable being my partner . . . which, I might add, is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard since you don’t even know me . . .”

His eyes narrow. “I don’t know you? Really? Jaden McEntyre. Daughter of a general contractor. Cheerleader. Human rights activist. Best friend of Savannah Wainright. Girlfriend of Blake Hanson. Volunteers for Cancer Walks. Gives blood. Raises money for the poverty-stricken children of Bangladesh. Straight A’s. Ivy League bound. The safest, most boring person at this school.”

I choke back the huff perched in my throat. Oh My God. This isn’t happening to me. This shouldn’t be happening to me. I’m supposed to be in AP English this semester. Stupid Calculus scheduling conflict. The AP classes aren’t required to do this project. I shouldn’t be in the guy’s bathroom, with its profanity-laden walls and toilet paper strewn across the floor and its mildewy, locker room smell, arguing with Parker Whalen. I should’ve been on time to English. I should’ve picked my own partner. I mean, this is what I get for saving the planet? Whatever happened to good karma? I struggle to find my voice. “Are you serious?” I finally manage.

“I don’t lie,” he replies, matter of fact.

“Fine. That’s fine,” I sputter, working to regain my composure. “Either way, we’re partners. And we have a project to do whether you like it or not, so . . . get over yourself.” My fingers clench to fists, and my jaw smarts from the added pressure.

But instead of firing back . . . Parker smiles. I think. I mean, the corners of his mouth turn up . . . like he’s amused. Maybe it’s more of a smirk. I don’t know. I sweep a few stray hairs away from my eyes, blinking, unsure.

“That’s pretty harsh,” he says. “Especially coming from you.”

“It’s not funny. You might not want to get a good grade on this project, but I do.”

The scowl returns, sharpening his features. “You’re so presumptuous. Assuming that I don’t want good grades.”

“Okay . . . whatever. Here’s the thing: I’m going to the library tomorrow afternoon. I’ll be there at three o’clock. I’m taking my list, and I’m choosing a book for our project. You’re welcome to join me . . . Partner.”

I spin on my heel and storm out of the bathroom. I inhale deeply, seeking fresh air: desperate. Desperate for someone to come along and explain to me what, exactly, just happened. Desperate for someone to come along and tell me what to do about Parker Whalen, because our future together does not look promising. I shake my hands, trying to suppress the pent-up frustration swelling inside, and swallow back a primal scream.

Chapter Four

At exactly three o’clock I’m sitting at one of the round tables mid-library, just in front of a long window and nestled among rows and rows of metal shelves filled with stale books. Though my heart hammers in satisfaction, I force my head not to lift when a backpack thuds to the floor, or when a figure sits down just opposite me. A fresh wave of anger surges, left over from our previous encounter. “It’s about time,” I mumble, focusing on the sheet of project requirements, even as the words blur incomprehensively.

“You said three,” Parker replies.

I check my cell phone resting on the table beside me. “I have five after.”

“I’m sorry. I assumed this was an informal meeting. I didn’t realize you were passing out tardies. Oh, wait. You wouldn’t know a thing about that, what with your infinite supply of ‘get out of class free’ cards and all.”

I stare at him, open-mouthed. I can’t believe it. In less than thirty seconds we’re on the defensive. Like magnets. Opposing forces. Why is it that Parker and I automatically bring out the worst in each other? This is absurd, and it has to stop. I take a deep breath, then let out a massive sigh. I don’t want to argue with him. Not really. “Let’s just get this over with, okay? The sooner we pick a book the sooner we can get to work.” I slide the list of recommended books across the table. He stares at me without taking it, raises an eyebrow, then reaches into his pocket. After digging for a moment, he produces a blue sheet of paper, folded over twice, and opens it.

“All right. I get it,” I say. “You’re prepared. I’m wrong.” I snatch my list back, sit up straighter, and tuck my hair behind my ears. “Okay. So,” I continue, “the question is do we want to stick with what we know and pick a book we’re familiar with? Or go for something entirely new.”

Parker snorts. “What’s the point in doing a project on a book you’ve already read?”

I flick my eyes at him, surprised, disbelieving, taking everything in—the black shirt and jacket, the dark hair—either brown or black—I’m not sure because it’s gelled in the front, and still has that “wet look” to it—and his piercing, obsidian eyes. There’s something strange and familiar about him all at once—his strong jaw line and the few, tiny freckles splashed across his nose.

“Well?” he asks.

I snap to attention, cheeks full of heat, and force myself to look away. “Um, yeah, okay. So we’ll pick something we haven’t read.”

“Are you implying that you typically do projects on books you already know about?” he asks.

“I’m just saying that if we pick a book we’re already familiar with then this project might not be so complicated. We’d at least have some vague idea of what we’re doing.” I skim the list of titles.

“Are you saying you’re clueless? Because I don’t want an idiot for a partner.”

I clench my teeth, ignoring this. He’s only trying to incite you. “How about Pride and Prejudice?” I suggest.

His eyes narrow. “No.”

“Why not?” I demand to know.

He leans forward, folding his hands on the table. “Because you’ve already read it.”

I scoff. Why is he doing that? Assuming. Thinking he knows me. “You don’t know that,” I mutter.

“Please,” he says, rolling his eyes. “A senior girl in high school . . . somewhat . . . ‘bookish’ I guess you’d say . . .”

“You can call me a nerd if you want,” I interrupt. “I don’t take offense.”

“No . . . not a nerd, but ‘nerdy’. . . . Not that it’s a bad thing, so don’t go all hostile on me, all right?”

“I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction.”

“I’m just saying that you can’t expect me to believe you haven’t read one of the supposed greatest romances in all of literature. Even if your tenth grade Honors teacher didn’t assign it, you read it on your own.”

It’s not worth it, Jaden. Just let it go. “Okay, whatever,” I say, giving up. “What about Jane Eyre?”

He smiles, knowing. “You’ve read that one, too.”

I toss the list onto the table and lift my hands in exasperation. “Then why don’t you start naming books you think I haven’t read and we’ll go from there.” I lean back in my chair and fold my arms across my chest. This is insane. Picking a book shouldn’t be this difficult. If this is any indication of what’s to come . . . we are totally screwed.

Parker peruses the list of titles. “Books you haven’t read. . . . Let’s see.” He spouts off names. “Catcher in the Rye. The Color Purple. Lord of the Flies.” He glances at me, staring beneath his lashes. “Am I getting warmer?”

I refuse to answer, lips pressed in a firm line, but I can feel the color in my cheeks fading. I swallow, but it’s so loud. Like a gulp. Why is this place so quiet?

“The Jungle. 1984. . . . Basically anything on this list that isn’t a romance you haven’t read. So we can throw out Austen, most of the Shakespearean Comedies, the Bronte sisters . . .”

“Wuthering Heights is not a romance,” I interrupt.

“That depends on how you look at it,” he replies, shrugging his shoulders.

“Heathcliff is totally depraved. There are no redeeming qualities. None.”

“His love for Cathy is a redeeming quality.”

“He made everyone’s lives miserable. He’s insane.”

“Maybe love drives people insane.”

I scoff. “What are you smoking? Because I know of an awesome twelve-step program.”

“Yeah, I’m aware of it. Thanks. I just don’t understand why it’s so hard to believe a person could love someone so much it would drive him insane.”

“Because. It’s . . . it’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 glare, and Parker seems . . .

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

“Mr. Darcy 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 stares at the creased, wrinkled sheet for a moment, 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 runs 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 library arguing over Jane Austen is mildly humorous. It’s shocking, even, because he’s never spoken a word to me before. I just assumed. . . . Maybe—just maybe—there’s the tiniest possibility he has more to say than I thought.

“A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” he says.

“A Shakespearean Comedy,” I inform him.

“Meaning you’ve read it.”

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

“All right. One more time.” 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 notice, is practically non-existent—gnawed below the skin, his cuticle jagged and tearing. So . . . he’s a nail-biter. Nervous habit.  I glance at my own fingernails—long, and carefully filed 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 toward the computer catalog. I type in Ethan Frome, find it was written 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 slides across the table, stopping just in front of him.

Parker picks it up, flips it over, and scans 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 he’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 and 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, slinging his bag over his shoulder, 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 wasn’t concerned about me,” I say, sneering. And I have no plans to become Miss America.

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

Parker moves toward the counter—each step assertive, composed—to check out his book. I stand there staggered, unable to move, watching in disbelief as the real Parker Whalen—prepared student of a thousand opinions and confident reader of Wuthering Heights—slowly begins to reveal himself.

*   *   *

Dinner is over; dishes are washed. I’ve played with Joshua, who is now bathed and in bed. My homework is finished, 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 won’t take long to finish.

I stretch across my bed, a blanket tucked around me to ward off the cold, and open the novella to the first page. A syrupy, perfume-like smell permeates the 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 knocks.

“It’s open,” I call.

Sarah is already dressed for bed—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 interrupting, am I?” she asks.

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

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

She passes the catalog over to me. I flip through, pausing at each page Sarah marked, examining the items she’s circled.

“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 can like them, I guess. Now that we’re older, when they aren’t harassing me (Phillip), or being completely overprotective of me (Daniel), we all get 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.”

“No, no,” I say quickly. “I think this is gorgeous.”

“I’m just not a swirly cursive kind of girl, I guess.” She sighs. “I don’t know why I’m trying for anything traditional.”

I laugh. “Sarah, that’s not what I meant.”

“I know, but you know how it is . . . white dress . . . swirly cursive invitations.” She shrugs.

Daniel and Sarah started dating just before Daniel graduated high school. Sarah had two years left—she was in Phillip’s class. Daniel went to work for my dad, but he and Sarah continued to see each other until she finished school. Afterwards, she made plans to move in with a friend and get a degree in nursing from the community college.

Things were going great. But then, after a year or so, she got pregnant. There was a huge blowout. She wouldn’t marry Daniel, which infuriated her parents. They decided they wouldn’t pay for her to finish school, or for her apartment. The problem wasn’t with Daniel, she later explained, it’s just that she always wanted the perfect wedding—to start things right. Daniel loved her, and she loved him, but they figured if they were meant to be together, they’d love each other just as much after they had their baby.

Daniel moved Sarah into our house, with my parents’ blessing, and he continued to work while she took some time off. A few months later, Joshua was born. Daniel immediately proposed, and Sarah said yes. She started school again, and they made plans to move into their own place as soon as they could afford it.

The entire ordeal changed Daniel, though, and it’s because of this I know he expects more from me; he doesn’t want me making the same mistakes he did. Since he and Sarah got it backwards, it’s even more important to him that I do things in the right order.

“But think of how adorable Joshy is going to look in his baby tuxedo,” I point out.

Sarah laughs. “Daniel swears he’s going to be walking by the wedding.”

“See? Can you imagine anything more perfect?” I ask. “A wedding in the park . . . Daniel and Josh . . . people who love you guys. . . . And God, Sarah, this isn’t nineteen-fifty. No one is going to faint if you show up to your own wedding wearing white. I mean, look at you. You guys are like, the most perfect little family ever.”

She runs her fingers through her straight, brown hair at its part. “The most perfect family living with my future in-laws.”

“You are not a burden. I don’t know what any of us are gonna do when you move out. And I know Mom: she’s gonna die if she doesn’t get to see her little man every day. I’m surprised they haven’t mentioned building you guys a guest house out back, just to keep you close by.”

She smiles. “You’re sweet, Jaden. You always know what to say to make me feel better. I should’ve made you my maid of honor instead of my sister.”

“I’m happy to be a bridesmaid. Besides, Melissa deserves it for sticking by you.” A brief silence falls between us. “You know,” I continue, “I feel sorry for your parents. Especially your mom. I mean, if she would just spend five minutes with Joshy. . . .”

She sighs. “Which is why she stays as far away as possible.”

“Are you sending them an invitation?” I ask quietly.

She shrugs. “Maybe. If I can ever pick one.”

“You should. You know . . . just in case.”

“Yeah.”

“And Sarah? If you want to go with swirly cursive, go with swirly cursive, okay? This is your wedding: don’t let anyone else tell you how to plan it.”

Sarah rolls off my bed and stands. “Thanks, Jaden,” she says, smiling.

“You’re welcome.”

She leaves the room, shutting the door behind her. I spread out across my blue comforter and continue reading. When I finally pause long enough to check the time, it’s after midnight. Just one more chapter. But then the story is almost over, and I can’t stop. It’s past two in the morning when I read the final words, finishing the novella in one sitting.

I sigh and close the book, thinking about everything I’ve just read: about love, and longing, and the inability to act on romantic feelings. It’s a terrible story—terrible because of what happens . . . what doesn’t happen.

I turn off my lamp, plunging the room into darkness. My spinning thoughts keep me awake, though, even as I try to force sleep. I’m not sure when it finally happens—when I slip into unconsciousness—but I do. Still, I dream. I dream about Ethan and Mattie and what might have been.

Chapter Five

“I hate Zeena Frome.” I slam my paper lunch bag onto the picnic table in front of Parker. A cold breeze nips at my bare neck. I flip up the collar of my jacket, wishing for a scarf.

He glances up from what looks like a science text. “Is this supposed to mean something to me?”

I pick up my leg, climb over the deteriorating wooden bench—rough and gray, with nails popping out of joints—and sit down across from him. “Zeena Frome. Ethan’s wife. I hate her.”

A surprised expression crosses his face; there’s an edge to his eyes. “What? Why?”

“Because she’s such a faker. I mean, there is absolutely nothing wrong with her. You know that, right?”

“Wait.” He pauses for a moment, thinking as he narrows his eyes. “You mean you’re already finished?”

“Yes.”

“I know you’re an assiduous intellectual and all, but I was under the impression I had a week to read it.”

“Look who’s been studying Ms. Tugwell’s SAT vocabulary lists.” My eyes roll dramatically.

He smirks, features softening.

“Anyway, you won’t need a week,” I go on, shaking my head. “Once I started I couldn’t put it down. It was so addictive . . . like a train wreck.”

“A train wreck,” he repeats, disbelieving.

“You know—you don’t really want to see blood and destruction and death because you know it’ll haunt you forever, but at the same time you can’t look away?”

“You’re comparing Ethan Frome to a train wreck?”

“Yes!” I cry, smacking my palm against the jagged surface of the picnic table. I pick up a splinter in my finger. It stings. The tiny sliver of wood protrudes from my skin. “That’s exactly what I’m comparing it to,” I go on, voice lower. “It’s awful.”

“A good awful, right?”

I pinch my fingernails together and carefully pluck the splinter out. “A horrible awful. A tragic awful.”

A group of sophomore girls scampers by our table, moving toward the building. A couple of them slow down, staring at us as they pass. I hear a few giggles, then high-pitched muttering. They’re talking about us. Parker doesn’t seem to notice.

“So, what happens?” he asks.

“I can’t tell you. You have to read it.”

“I’m going to read it. I just . . . you know . . . want to know what I’m in for.”

I eye him, cautious. He sounds sincere enough. Like maybe he’s not one of those guys who relies on SparkNotes or lifts his essays from the internet. Anyway, if he didn’t read it, I’d know in a second when it came time to brainstorm. “It’s awful,” I say, shaking my head. “There are no words.”

His eyes glaze over, as if he’s working overtime to keep them from rolling. “I get it. It’s awful. Enough with the head bobbing. You can be more specific.”

I sit up straighter and tuck my hair behind my ears, then open my lunch bag. “There’s this horrible accident. But it’s not really an accident. See, Zeena and Ethan are married, right? Zeena brings in her cousin, Mattie, to help around the house because she’s sick or something. Well, Ethan decides that he sorta has a thing for Mattie, but he doesn’t know how to act on it.”

“I guess that’s where the whole romance comes in,” he says.

“That’s just it,” I continue, pulling my sandwich out of the bag. “There is no romance. Ethan and Mattie don’t do anything. And Zeena? She’s just awful, complaining and moaning about how sick she is. Get this: she goes to a doctor who says she shouldn’t lift a finger anymore, and that she needs a ‘hired girl’ to come and take care of her.”

“I thought that’s what Mattie was for,” Parker interrupts. He highlights a passage in his textbook, the bright yellow marks streaking across the page.

“Yeah, well, not anymore. She realizes something is going on between Mattie and Ethan, and decides to kick her out.”

“Makes sense.”

My mouth drops in indignation, a spark of anger prickling at my stomach. “No! It doesn’t! Ethan and Zeena are not in love.”

He props his head up with his fist, elbow on the table, eyeing me. Perplexed. “So you’re telling me the tragedy of this novel is a loveless marriage and a loser who can’t act on his adulterous feelings.”

I wince, confidence slipping. Is that what I’m saying? “God, you make it sound so awful. And no, that’s not the tragedy. Not all of it, anyway. When Ethan is taking Mattie to the station they realize they can’t live without each other, so they decide to kill themselves. They’re sledding down a mountain, heading straight for this huge tree. They hit it, but it doesn’t kill them. I mean, it screws them both up—Ethan has a limp, and Mattie, well, she becomes an invalid . . . all sick and ugly . . . and you will never guess what Zeena does. . . .”

“What does Zeena do?” Parker asks, though it’s obvious he’s just trying to humor me.

“She picks right up like there’s nothing wrong with her in the world, and starts taking care of Mattie. I mean, really. She was practically on her deathbed, needing some poor hired girl to come in and take care of her, and all of a sudden she’s well enough to care for herself and everyone else? It’s tragic. That’s all.”

Parker sits motionless, studying my face, mouth hinting at a smile, and suddenly I remember what he said in the bathroom that day: about me being boring. And I wonder if he still believes that, or if, after our last few conversations, he’s starting to see me differently. Because part of me kind of wants to shatter that perception, that image he carries of me. I want to know what he sees when he looks at me now. I want to know what he’s thinking when he stares at me like that—with that quiet intensity. I don’t want him to think I’m boring. I don’t want to care what he thinks about me at all. I shift in my seat, then tuck my hair behind my ears. “Well?” I finally ask, breaking the uneasy silence.

He tears his eyes away from mine. “So you’re saying Mattie and Ethan actually get what they want?”

I scoff, then roll my eyes. Has he not listened to anything I’ve said? “No! They wanted to be together. That was the whole point.”

He shrugs his shoulders. “They’re together, right?” he asks calmly.

“Of course not!” I think about what he’s saying. “Um, well. . . . Yeah, I guess Mattie and Ethan are together in the end, but not like they want to be. Can you imagine watching the girl you love suffer for the rest of her life because of something stupid you did?”

“Don’t know,” he replies. “It’s never happened. So I lack a certain degree of empathy.”

Another extended stillness falls over us. I bite into my sandwich, feeling the cold for the first time since we started talking. I shiver, a chill rippling—goose bumps crawling up my spine, and gaze across the empty courtyard.

“The story sounds good, anyway,” Parker says, flipping to the next page of his textbook, shoulders relaxed.

The icy breeze tousles my hair, blowing a few, stray strands in my face. I brush them away with my fingertips. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin it for you.”

“I asked.”

I pick at my sandwich for a moment, then take another bite. It’s not until after I’ve swallowed that I notice Parker doesn’t have a sandwich, or a cafeteria tray, or even a drink.

“So, do you not eat?” I ask, curious.

“Depends on what kind of mood I’m in.”

I think of my brothers as teenagers, when they consumed entire bags of potato chips and a two-liter in one sitting. Even Blake and Tony eat their lunches plus whatever they can coax from the snack machines. Parker is tall, and thin, but he doesn’t look scrawny beneath that leather jacket of his.

“Fair enough. Why do you sit out here by yourself?”

“Because it’s quiet.”

“And that doesn’t get boring?”

“Nope,” he replies.

I let go of a sigh. “Am I bothering you?” I ask, point blank. I figure I’ve already ruined his peaceful lunch hour with my ramblings about Ethan and Mattie. He’s probably waiting for me to leave . . . but then . . .

“Nah,” he says, shrugging.

He shrugs a lot, I notice—wrapped in nonchalance, but not distant or uncaring.  He’s quiet; he doesn’t waste words. Everything seems calculated, and thought out—not planned . . . more like . . . insightful, maybe.

I reach into my brown paper sack and remove a plastic bag of Sun Chips. It crinkles and squeaks between my fingers as I split it open. I grab one, then pass the bag over to Parker. He stares at me for a moment, deliberating, before reaching for them. His fingers graze mine as he takes the bag from me. They’re ice—but I can feel a flicker of energy pass between us, and I fight the urge to touch him again, to prove it’s only my imagination.

I clear my throat, studying my sandwich as he begins eating, my cheeks burning. When our eyes meet again he offers a sly grin. It’s fleeting, but it illuminates his features just the same, and I can’t help but smile in response.

*   *   *

Savannah meets me in the lobby at our raffle table at the end of last period. I ignore her grim expression as I examine my poster board, which, after a week, has already lost some of its rosy sparkle. We haven’t spoken since earlier that morning, and since I kind of missed lunch. . . .

“Hey! What’s up?” I ask as she slides into one of the plastic chairs.

“Not much. How are we doing?”

“We’re up to about three hundred fifty,” I answer, sitting down beside her.

“Not bad.” She pauses before continuing, and, with the atypical silence, it’s hard not to know exactly what will follow. “We, um, missed you at lunch.”

“Yeah. I had some things to do,” I explain, trying to keep my tone as cheery as possible.

“With Parker Whalen.”

“It’s just this project. We’re finally making some headway and I wanna go with it . . . you know . . . while it lasts. I guess you saw me sitting with him today.”

“Yeah, we did,” she replies, speaking for the entire table. “We kinda wondered why you didn’t mention you planned on eating with him.” Savannah leans back in her chair as the bell rings. Students swarm out of classrooms, tripping over themselves; laughter floods the hallways. The end of the day sounds are always twice as amped compared to morning; it’s as if, after eight hours, everyone has finally found the will to live.

“Is this about me or Parker?” I ask, voice louder.

“It’s just that, you know, people say things.”

I hate thinking that people might be talking about me. Gossiping. Speculating. Especially my friends. I hate that I actually care what they think, wishing for a moment I was one of those girls who could just let go—be myself—and not worry so much about other people.

“Like what, Savannah? What are people saying about him? It’s probably nothing I haven’t heard already. You’re forgetting I don’t have a choice here. He’s my partner. I have to spend time with him if we’re going to get this thing done. You have a partner. You know this.”

She doesn’t answer. Conversations buzz around us; shouts and squeals; the heavy footsteps of guys in their Sketchers running through the foyer, thudding and squeaking against the tile floor; the bang of locker doors as they shut at intervals in a percussive chorus.

I watch that same gaggle of sophomore girls from lunch pass through the lobby. This time they don’t stop to stare or whisper. They don’t even notice me. It’s as if, with Parker, I might be someone worth talking about. Alone, I’m just Jaden McEntyre, pushing another human rights campaign onto the masses. I swallow hard.

“You know,” I continue as they disappear behind a corner. “I don’t think he’s as bad as everyone thinks. He’s smart. He has . . . things to say.”

“It’s fine, Jaden. Okay? I don’t have a problem with you and Parker, but you should probably talk to Blake.”

I turn back to her, lips pulled into a frown. “Why? What’s wrong with Blake?”

“Let’s just say he wasn’t very happy with the idea of you and Parker Whalen sitting outside eating lunch together.”

“It’s schoolwork.”

“I know,” Savannah replies. “Just talk to Blake. I mean, he is your boyfriend.”

I let out a sarcastic laugh. “There’s absolutely nothing for him to worry about. This is . . . literature. That’s all.”

Savannah stands, picks up her bag, and tosses it over her shoulder. “It’s fine. Just keep Blake informed, k? I don’t really want to get caught in the middle of this . . . whatever it is.” She turns and walks away, leaving me alone at the table—saving the children of Bangladesh—all by myself.

“Okay,” I reply. But she’s already halfway down the hall, mingling into the crowd.

I sigh, remove my cell phone from my purse, and punch in Blake’s digits.

Chapter Six

On Monday afternoon, as I open my locker door just before the final bell, I’m surprised to see a little white note card flutter end over end to the floor. I bend down to pick it up, then turn it over, examining the words written in dark, block print: Zeena Sucks.

The words draw a smile. I fan my face with the card and wonder how Parker knew which locker was mine. I turn around, half expecting him to appear—to find him watching me. But I’m alone. I study the card in my hands, my heart wavering momentarily when I realize that, at some point between the last trip to my locker and now, Parker thought of me—thought enough to write a message, and then enough to search out my locker and give it to me. I brush my fingers across the Harvard crest and shut the metal door as the final bell rings. If the note is true, it means Parker might’ve finished reading the book, which means he might be ready to discuss it. There’s only one way to find out.

The library is nearly empty, the only noise coming from the librarian and her assistant, the latter checking in various books at the counter—slipping cards in the back pockets and setting them aside, one by one—and the former typing information into the computer database, the keyboard clacking with every strike.

I move toward Parker—the same circular table we occupied the week prior—breathing in the smell of old cardboard and mildewed pages. I suck in a quick breath as I approach, then calmly release it.

“So?” I ask, sitting down in the chair across from him.

“So?” he repeats, not taking his eyes off his textbook, so nondescriptly that I begin to wonder if this—me being here—is a mistake.

“What do you think? I mean, besides ‘Zeena Sucks.’” I offer a bright smile, letting him know, in my own little way, that I found his note—and I appreciated it.

“I don’t know,” he replies, closing his book, sitting back in his chair, slouching. I’m surprised to see Geometry II gracing the cover. Second-year Geometry is an elective—an elective that I didn’t even sign up for. I unzip my bag, pulling out my English notebook and, with it, the notes I already jotted down about Ethan and Mattie and their story.

“It wasn’t romantic, that’s for sure,” I say. “I hated that Ethan kept tiptoeing around his feelings. So you love her: tell her already.” I turn to a clean sheet and write the date at the top.

“I don’t think it was that easy for him,” Parker says. “The guy was already married . . . and you’re not exactly supposed to go around with feelings for your housekeeper when you have a wife.”

“I guess not,” I say, pausing for a moment. “But you know . . . Zeena wasn’t much of a wife. I mean, she was sick all the time, and spending money on medical treatments she didn’t even need. It’s so obvious she was jealous. And the way she just jumped up and took care of Mattie like nothing was wrong with her? It totally pissed me off! I mean, if she would’ve done her job in the first place none of it would’ve ever happened. Ethan probably wouldn’t have fallen for Mattie.”

“You think it’s Zeena’s fault,” Parker clarifies, after I finish my spiel.

“I don’t think she helped.” I write a few notes down on my paper, scribbling quickly. “Let’s go over our impressions today, and maybe in a day or two we can meet back here and work on our themes.” I stop. Maybe Parker didn’t come to the library to talk about Ethan Frome today. Maybe he’s busy. Maybe he has other plans. “Unless, you know, another time is better,” I swiftly add.

“No. It’s fine.”

It’s fine. He wants to stay. “Okay. So. . . . What did you think about Ethan?” I ask, eyeing him cautiously.

“I don’t know. I kind of felt sorry for him.”

“I know. I mean, I hate that he and Mattie couldn’t be together. They deserved to be happy, you know?” I think for a moment before continuing. “I couldn’t imagine not being with the person I had feelings for. And then not being able to tell people about my feelings. It would suck.”

“Yeah,” he replies. “But it’s more than that. He was smart. He had plans. He wanted to get out of town and actually be somebody. Then his parents get sick and he has to come home and take care of the farm. When they finally die he’s lonely, so he marries Zeena to keep him company. Everything is cold and sad. I don’t know. You have to feel bad for a guy who wanted so much for himself and ended up with nothing.”

I listen to Parker, digesting what he’s saying. The truth is I never really paid attention to Ethan outside of Mattie. To me, the story is tragic because nothing ever comes of their feelings for each other. To Parker, the story is tragic because Ethan has potential he never lived up to. Same story. Two entirely different interpretations.

“Wow,” I finally mutter.

“What?”

“It’s just that . . . that was really insightful.”

He smirks, eyebrows lifting. “You’re surprised I’m capable of thought-provoking conversation.”

“No,” I reply, smiling back. “So . . . they’re poor,” I continue, writing down Parker’s comments.

“Zeena is sick and crabby,” Parker adds.

“Mattie is Ethan’s only happiness.”

Parker leans back in his seat, clasping his fingers behind his head. “You know . . . I don’t think Ethan did it on purpose.”

“Did what?”

“Fell for Mattie.”

“Why not?”

“Because I just don’t think he did. I don’t think you can control something like falling in love.”

How could something like falling in love be uncontrollable? “You think it just happens?” I ask, curious. “Unplanned? Unannounced?”

“I think you fall in love with someone when you least expect to. When it’s the last thing you want. That’s what’s so great about it.”

My heart skips a hit or two at this—my insides going all fluttery on me. The idea that Parker Whalen would even think about falling in love this way . . . about it being great. . . .  It’s just . . . not a typical boy attitude, I guess. He leans forward; a trace of his aftershave, or some kind of body spray, hovers in the air between us. It’s awfully enticing, and I find myself migrating closer to him—drifting—like he’s some sort of black hole, sucking me in. I clear my throat, trying to ignore this, curious. “Have, um, you ever been in love before?”

As soon as the words escape my lips, I regret having asked them. It’s not even any of my business, not something I need to know. It only makes me look . . . desperate. Like I’m actually interested. Which I’m not, obviously.

His eyes narrow. “Why do you ask?”

“Insight,” I say, shrugging casually, working to keep my tone level. “I was just wondering if you were speaking from experience.”

He pauses for a beat. Two beats. But he answers. “Nah.”

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 images of Blake rip through my mind, thoughts tangled. Prom. His basketball jersey. A red and white checkerboard 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 never 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? Is 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, voice 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 awkwardness 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 flushes, 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 think 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’ knows 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, my face flaming.

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

My fists tighten beneath the table, those perfectly manicured fingernails biting my palms. I throw 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 big deal is.” He slouches in his seat, arms folded, wiggling in satisfaction. “Yes or no, Jade?” he teases.

“Yes . . . No . . . I mean. . . .” I don’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. Why am I still with him? Please. Enlighten me.” I roll 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 you’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 lets 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 like this. Angry because he thinks he knows me. Angry at myself for thinking he smells enticing. Parker Whalen doesn’t know anything. Parker Whalen is a jerk. “I don’t cheer for basketball,” I say. The other things I don’t deny. Yeah, we eat pizza on the weekends, and Blake calls to tell me good night . . . sometimes. He usually texts. That doesn’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.”

“You said I was boring,” I remind him.

“My point exactly.”

My head turns in utter disbelief, temples throbbing in aggravation. This incessant banter—this back and forth—I’ve never felt so annoyed in my life. Even Phillip doesn’t illicit this kind of reaction, and he’s relentless. I’m totally losing my cool. Over Parker Whalen.

“How did we even get 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 did you think of the cat?” I ask, changing the subject.

“Creepy,” Parker replies. “Like Zeena incarnate.”

Chapter Seven

Whatever is going on between Parker and me does not exist outside the library, or our project. After my conversations with him, I think maybe something will change, or be different—like maybe he’ll actually acknowledge my presence—but I find when I arrive to English the following day things are 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 wave, or a smile, even, would be nice. I’d smile back, anyway.

But Parker remains as inaccessible as always, an impenetrable stone wall.

I steal a quick glance in his direction; his head hangs low as he scribbles in his notebook. I sit 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 frustrated sigh wells up inside. It’s like I’m not even on his radar. It consumes me. And I cannot figure out why it matters. Why I even care. Because I don’t care. Not really.

Occasionally, I catch a glimpse of him in the hallway. The moment is fleeting—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 keep me watching for him when I don’t.

*   *   *

On Thursday afternoon I’m working in one of the back offices with the secretary to 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.

“Will you be okay here?” she asks. The dated copier, smudged with dirty traffic fingerprints, continues spitting out page after page; the smell of warm toner hangs suspended in the air around us.

“Yeah,” I assure 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 find myself alone in that back office, with no one around, my curiosity takes hold, and then takes over. I have at least five or ten minutes—maybe longer—and so I quietly slither inside the guidance counselor’s office. The room is dim and shadowy, lit only by the faint glow of a cloudy day through the cheap, plastic window blinds. The metal file cabinets stand tall behind the door, the silver key protruding from the lock. I reach out and, hand shaking, slowly turn it. The lock clicks open, the noise reverberating through the empty office. I hold my breath and peer around the door. Still alone. The copier continues to whirr and click, coughing up pages.

The U-Z drawer rattles as I pull it out. I thumb through the W’s until I reach the file I’m searching for. Whalen, Parker. I extract the thin manila folder and flip it open.

All right, Parker. What are you hiding?

Parker stares back at me, barely a smile, in his senior portrait—a very nice photo of him, actually. Black and white. But that’s not what I need. I lift the photo and skim the information sheet behind it. There’s his date of birth, his address, and notes penciled in by the guidance counselor.

I read quickly. Disruptive at previous school. Open concerning prior recreational drug use. One arrest with community service fulfillment. Divorced parents. Possible trouble at home. Quiet. Good student. Seems lacking true ambition. Suspensions: None. Detentions: None.

I work to calm my racing pulse, heart thrumming. The rumors floating around about him? It looks like some of them are true.

I flip the page over and find Parker’s progress reports. There are plenty of A’s, with a few B’s sprinkled here and there: mostly in math and science. He’s acing his English and history classes, and is doing well in Spanish. He’s even taking a few AP courses. Not quite satisfied, because the information raises more questions than it answers, I close the folder and cram it back in the drawer. I double check to make sure everything is left exactly as I found it, then duck out the door.

*   *   *

I ease my car along the curb later that evening. It’s already dark, and everyone else is home from work and school. The dining room is illuminated, beams of light reflecting on the front lawn, raindrops glittering. I watch the shadows of figures moving inside—setting the table, shuffling plates of food—a stellar first impression. Everything seems so . . . perfect: the painted shutters and pitched roof. But it’s what can’t be seen—what’s inside—that matters. Two families, one struggling to get on its feet; hectic schedules; broken nozzles and splintered floorboards. . . .

I sigh.

Even though it’s late, and I know at least four people have done the same thing before me, I open the mailbox at the end of the driveway. I can’t see anything, so I stick my hand inside and pat the frozen metal, just to make sure it’s empty. One day—any day, really—a letter from Harvard will arrive. My fate stamped and sealed and waiting for me.

Getting into Harvard has been my life’s purpose since before I knew what college really was. And even though I’ve applied to a few back-up schools, I hardly put any effort into those applications. Everything—my future, my forever happiness—is riding on the decision of a little school in Massachusetts that only accepts like, one out of every twenty freshman applicants.

I inhale deeply as I head up the driveway, sucking in a lungful of cold, wet air. The concrete glistens under the streetlight from the earlier rain shower, the icy puddles left sparkling. I sigh. I hate winter. I hate the cold and the monotony. Waiting makes it insufferable.

I push open the front door and walk inside. The smell of my mom’s pot roast and potatoes permeate the air, luring me to the kitchen. Sarah is already sitting at the dining room table, feeding Joshua strained carrots and soggy peas. In fact, the only edible things on his tray are those little cut-up peaches—the ones he’s mashing between his fingertips.

“Ew,” I say, entering into the room.

“I can’t believe he won’t eat these anymore,” Sarah complains. “It’s like, we find this great routine, and the second we’re comfortable he throws everything out the window. He used to love sweet potatoes.”

“Those are sweet potatoes?” I ask, picking up the jar of orange baby food and peering inside. I sniff it. My nose scrunches in disgust. “Smart kid. I wouldn’t eat this stuff, either.” I pass the jar back to her. She sighs.

“Hey, Joshy,” I say, ruffling his fuzzy, blonde baby hair. He ignores me and continues pushing the peaches around his tray with purpose, fingers covered in shiny syrup, as if, at that moment, they’re the only things that matter.

“I wonder if he’ll eat some of your mom’s potatoes,” Sarah wonders aloud.

I head into the kitchen, welcomed by a surge of heat, and drop my bag to the linoleum floor. It’s stained, and discolored in places, and pock-marked with dents. Something else on the list that needs replacing. Mom peeks at dinner through the oven window.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, sweetie,” she replies. “How was your meeting?”

“Fine. We’re throwing around fundraising ideas for the elementary school library. Any mail for me?” I push aside a stack of coupons and find a spread of bills and papers scattered across her desk. I finger through them.

“No, baby. Not today.”

Another sigh.

Mom stands, facing me. “Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll hear something soon.”

“This is just crazy, you know?” I lean against the counter, pressing my weight into it. “I mean, how long do we have to draw this out? Make a decision and tell me already. I’m so sick of waiting.” I tip my neck back and stare at the cracks in the ceiling.

She turns the timer off and opens the oven door. A burst of hot air fills the room. “Well, you never were very patient.”

I tilt my head toward her, eyeing her uneasily. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, realizing a moment too late that I might not want to know the answer.

“Oh, you know,” she says, sliding the tray out with her oven mitts. “You’re not really the type to sit on the sidelines. You’d rather be out there getting things accomplished.”

“What she’s saying is that, as the brat of this family, you have control issues,” Phillip announces, entering the kitchen. “Dinner ready?”

“Yes, and congratulations: you can pour drinks,” Mom replies.

“I do not have control issues,” I say, jaw smarting as it tightens.

Mom finishes stirring a pot of green peas, clinks the metal spoon against the side, then replaces the lid. “What he’s trying to say, and not very well,” she adds, throwing Phillip a serious look, “is that you have a ‘take-charge’ attitude. Think about it—when was the last time you weren’t planning a fundraiser, or walking for a cure, or raising awareness about something?”

“Cycling for the safe neutering of cats,” Phillip throws in.

“Pet over-population is a serious issue. There are seven cats for every one human in this country,” I inform them, folding my arms across my chest.

“I think this Harvard thing has you bothered because you aren’t in control,” Mom continues.

This sounds awfully rational. Too perfect to be coincidental. “Did you guys have some sort of family conference about me or something? Is this an intervention?”

Phillip snickers, but neither of them responds.

They did. They’ve been talking about me behind my back. “Being in control is not a bad thing,” I remind them.

“Being a control freak is,” Phillip mutters.

My teeth clench together, eyes narrowed. “Shut up, Phillip.”

“Phillip,” my mom warns, shaking her spoon at him. “You’re not helping. Fix the sweet tea.” She turns her attention back to me. “Patience, sweetie. It’s going to be fine. And sometime in the next few weeks or so you’ll wonder why you were even worried.”

“I’m not worried,” I mumble. “I’m concerned. There’s a difference.”

“Control Freak!” Phillip sings, removing the ice cube trays from the freezer door and slamming it shut.

Scowling, I pick up one of Mom’s oven mitts and whack Phillip on the back of the head. “And I’m not a brat.”

“Ow!” He flinches, and one of the trays slips from his hand. A dozen ice cubes fall to the floor, shattering.

“That didn’t even hurt,” I insist, dodging shards of ice as I back away.

“Phillip!” Mom cries.

“It wasn’t me!”

He snatches the mitt from my hand, then pulls his arm back, ready to hit me with it. I leap out of reach just as Dad walks into the kitchen, kicking an already melting ice cube across the floor as he steps between us, sending it sliding before it crashes into the cabinets.

“Phillip! Stop tormenting your sister,” he bellows. “I thought you two were past that.”

“She started it,” he says.

“He said I was a control freak,” I tell him, flustered. “And a brat.”

“Are you two regressing?” Dad asks. “It’s like you’re eight and ten again, and believe me when I say that’s not something I want to relive.” In the next room, I hear Sarah’s low laughter. “Relax. Both of you. Phillip? Clean up this mess. And Jaden? There’s nothing wrong with being a control freak.”

Chapter Eight

If you’re desperate for pizza in Bedford, you go to Guido’s. The restaurant, located just off Main Street, is a run-down, hole-in-the-wall establishment that should’ve been condemned decades ago. Still, it’s the only pizza place in town, and therefore a popular hangout. This pleases Papa Guido—whose real name is Don Smith—who has no qualms about making a complete idiot of himself—even growing a completely unnecessary, bushy, black mustache and adding “oh” and “ah” as suffixes to every other word—Italian or not. For instance, on Friday night, as Blake, Ashley, Savannah, and Tony and I waltz inside the already crowded restaurant, he greets us with a spirited:

“Buon giorno! Welcom-ah to ah Guido’s! Find-ah yourself an emp-ah-ty table. Hmm?”

I coerce my lips to turn up in a polite smile as Blake grasps my hand and steers us across the restaurant. We weave our way between tables covered in red and white checkerboard cloths, each topped with a silk, red rose in a translucent, Dollar Store vase, stepping over crumpled napkins and pizza crust crumbs.

“I swear,” Ashley mutters as we slide across the gummy, vinyl seats of an empty booth in the back, “Valerie Smith must be so embarrassed. I mean, I remember when Don was a Realtor.”

“You know that’s why you never see her here, right?” Savannah says.

I reach for the paper menu and wipe down my space with a napkin. “Come on, guys. The man is harmless. Look, the town loves him.” I nod toward the kitchen area, where “Guido” is balancing a salt shaker on its end for a table of customers: his signature (and only) trick. I can hear him: “You see-ah? It float-ah like magic!” The family at the table applauds warmly. It’s probably the hundredth time they’ve witnessed this mind-blowing display of dexterity. At least they’re good sports about it.

“I’m starving,” Ashley says. “What are we getting?”

“The usual?” I reply. “Blake?”

Blake straightens beside me. “Sure. Two larges: one pepperoni. You’re cheese only, right Jaden?”

I nod, smiling. I tuck his shaggy, dirty blonde hair behind his ear. He smiles back, eyes sparkling. When I first noticed them—his eyes, I mean—they reminded me of this aquamarine I saw on a field trip at the Natural History Museum in Hamilton. I stood there for a while, watching the gemstone change with every blink: from light blue to clear gray to almost colorless, depending on the light. I didn’t even know it was an aquamarine; at first I thought it was a diamond. It was beautiful, at any rate, and I remember it whenever Blake’s eyes shimmer like this.

We’ve been dating for months, and we’ve never said “I Love You”?

And then Parker is there, at the table with us, voice echoing in my head: declaring that Blake and I are only together because it’s convenient—because I’m too scared of the unknown to break up with him. I’m thankful for our waitress, who returns with our drinks—happy for the interruption.

“Honestly, Jaden,” Ashley begins, “I don’t know how you drink water with pizza.”

“Water is good for you,” I remind her. “You don’t wanna know how many empty calories are in your soda.”

“Good. Because it’s the weekend, and tonight I’m indulging.”

“Girl, when are you not indulging?” Tony asks Ashley. She throws him a dirty look.

“Jaden has attitude about sodas,” Blake explains, to no one in particular.

“Water is the better choice. And forgive me if I believe that artificially-colored, fizzy drinks aren’t good for your body,” I tell them, pulling the paper away from my straw and sticking it into my cup.

“But they’re good to my body,” Tony says.

I roll my eyes. “They can take rust off a car battery. That can’t be a good thing. Besides, you’re supposed to be athletes.”

“That’s just an urban legend,” says Blake.

“What? That you guys are athletes?” Ashley asks innocently.

A chorus of “ooh’s” erupt. I laugh, and high-five Ashley across the table.

Blake shakes his head. “You know, that doesn’t make me feel bad, because this is the best season we’ve ever had.”

“That doesn’t make you any good,” Ashley teases.

“All right, you guys. Blake? Tony? You’re awesome. Headed straight for Regionals. Maybe even State,” I say, disrupting their little battle. “Anyway. You will be thrilled to know we’ve raised five hundred dollars with our raffle so far.”

“That’s awesome, Jaden,” Blake says. His knee knocks against mine beneath the table.

“I know! I was thinking maybe we could set up at your last home basketball game. . . . You know. Get some of the parents involved.”

“Are you sure you don’t have some outstanding arrangement with Parker Whalen?” Tony asks.

My cheeks fill with heat. Why did he even go there? I pinch my face, trying to act repulsed. “No.”

“So, what’s he like?” Ashley asks.

“What?”

“Parker. I mean, is he as strange in person as he seems from a distance? Because you know, I don’t think I’ve ever heard the boy speak, and we had like, two classes together last semester.”

“I bet he stutters,” Savannah says.

“No . . . I mean, he’s nice,” I stammer. “Minus the whole not wanting to be my partner thing. And he doesn’t stutter.”

“Well, he better not cause any problems,” Blake mutters, half under his breath, as he reaches for his soda.

My shoulders square, blood running cold. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I challenge.

“You’re just working on this English project, right?”

“Yes,” I reply.

“Good.”

“I’m not following,” I say, after a moment of heavy quiet.

“What I’m saying is if the boy tries anything stupid he’s mine,” Blake explains.

I can’t quite put my finger on it—what’s wrong with his smile. It’s not right: it’s harsh, and it makes my skin prickle.

“Half the school would have your back, man,” says Tony.

Blake snickers, running his finger around the edge of his glass, wiping away the condensation. “What are you talking about? I won’t need half the school. The guy is a pansy.”

I glower between them, grappling for some kind of understanding. “Why would you need anyone to back you up? Parker hasn’t done anything,” I remind him.

“It’s the reputation that precedes him,” Tony clarifies.

My heart squeezes out an extra beat, temper sparking. I flash a scowl in his direction. “What do you know about his reputation?” I ask, voice escalating. “You don’t know anything about him.”

Tony leans back in his seat, casual, collected, eyes trained on mine. “I know what I’ve heard, and that’s enough for me to stay away.”

My pulse quickens, fury coursing through my veins. “Unless what? You’re jumping him?”

He shrugs. “Not a fight I’d want to miss.”

“Well, it’s not like that,” I say, twisting my straw around the cup, ice jingling. “He’s a good student. He practically has a four point zero GPA. He’s smart. He has . . . good ideas.” I shift in my seat, annoyed and uncomfortable, wondering why I feel the need to defend Parker in front of my friends—why he needs defending at all.

Blake wraps his arm around my neck and drags me closer to him, interrupting my thoughts. “It’s fine, Jaden,” he says, planting a quick kiss on my temple. “All I’m saying is if he lays a hand on you, he’s mine.”

Chapter Nine

On Monday, I hurry through the cafeteria before Savannah or Blake or anyone else arrives, checking over my shoulder, praying no one followed. Parker sits outside at his usual table—hard and gray and weathered—a perfect parallel to the afternoon sky: cold and weak and overcast as always. Part of me craves to invite him inside, where it’s nothing if not warmer. But then, that’s not how Parker operates. Eating among friends and noise and laughter: that’s me. Sitting outside, alone, is his choice. A simple preference. I admire him for his audacity.

“Hey,” I say, stopping just in front of him, breathless. A low wind sweeps between us, rustling the pages of his notebook.

He flattens them and continues writing, not lifting his head. “Hey.”

“I, um, was wondering if you want to get together and talk about our themes after school. You know, for Ethan Frome?”

Without hesitating: “Sure.”

“Okay,” I reply, surprised he answered so quickly. “And um, I was thinking, instead of meeting in the library, you could come to my house . . . or . . . something.” We don’t have to meet at my house, just somewhere away from the library . . . away from school . . . away from people.

He glances up at me, eyes static, his expression impossible to read.

I lick the inside of my bottom lip, then bite into it, waiting for his response.

“Yeah,” he finally says. He turns his attention back to his work. “I’ll need directions.”

My bag slides from my shoulder to the wooden bench. Another icy gust passes through as I unzip it, whipping my hair around my face. I rip out a sheet of notebook paper and write down my address in my loopy, cursive script. The town is small—a few streets off Main and he’ll find me, no problem.

His eyebrows arch. “So. Your friends giving you trouble? We have to hide out now?”

“No,” I say, a fiery blush creeping to my cheeks as I hand him the directions. “Why do you ask?”

“You are a horrible liar,” he says, smirking, eyes brightening.

I smile, shrugging innocently, glancing at the cafeteria window. The room is dim, and it’s hard to see inside. They could be watching. Already waiting. “I have to get to lunch, but um, maybe I’ll see you around three-thirty?” I hate the uncertainty in my voice, like I’m depending on him showing up or something. It’s just a project.

“Yeah,” he replies.

“Great.” I take a step, ready to leave, before I remember: “Oh, these are for you.” I open my brown, paper lunch sack and pull out the extra bag of Sun Chips I stuffed inside earlier that morning. I toss it on the table in front of him. A peace offering.

Our eyes align and that electric current surges, shimmies up my spine.

“Aw, Jade. You were thinking about me.”

“Don’t be so sure,” I reply, forcing away the tingly feeling inside and the smile tugging at my lips. “I’ll see you later.”

I stroll toward the cafeteria, taking short, shallow breaths—the dead, winter grass crunching beneath my Mary Janes—to meet my usual friends, to eat my usual lunch, to sit at my usual table. But even though my steps are sure and full of purpose, I find myself stealing a glance at Parker, suffocating in the flat, brown and gray world around him, just before pushing through the metal door.

*   *   *

I bound into the kitchen that afternoon, where Mom is sitting at the breakfast table holding Joshua and flipping through a magazine. The disappointment swiftly fades when I ask the daily: “Any mail for me?” and Mom replies: “No, not today.”

At the refrigerator, I remove two bottled waters and one of Phillip’s sodas for Parker, just in case.

“Hey, Mom? I have a friend coming over to work on a school project. Is that okay?”

“Of course,” she replies, licking her finger and turning to the next page of her magazine. “Do I need to set a place for her at dinner?”

I sift through the contents of the pantry, searching for an extra bag of chips. “Actually, it’s not a she. It’s a he. And you can ask him, but he’ll probably say no. He doesn’t really seem like the ‘stay for dinner’ type.”

She looks up from her magazine. “He? Do I know him?”

I hope not.

“Probably not,” I say casually. “His name is Parker Whalen. We’re in English together.”

“You’re doing a project with the Whalen boy?” she asks, the surprise in her voice almost tangible.

I sigh. Apparently Parker’s reputation precedes him at home, too. Of course the entire town would know him—the rumors abounding at school slowly trickling their way through dinner conversations, and then casual conversations, until everyone thinks they know exactly who he is. “Yes. Why?” I ask.

Mom shakes her head slowly, brows furrowing. “Jaden . . . honey.”

My pulse edges a degree. I was counting on her having no clue who Parker Whalen is. I shut the cabinet door. “Look, Mom, I know what you’re going to say. He has a reputation. He’s trouble. He lives on the wrong side of town . . . if, you know, he even lives in town. I’ve heard it all, okay?”

Her head continues shaking, as if to tell me that, no, she doesn’t approve of this—not at all. “I’m just concerned about his influence on you. If you’re working together . . .”

“His influence on me?” I interrupt, annoyed. “You act like I’m twelve years old. Look: I don’t know very much about him, but we’ve talked, and he seems like an okay guy.” My stomach constricts, and I can feel the weight of her stare pressing down on me.

“Fine,” she acquiesces, emitting a huge sigh. “Just . . . be careful. Keep it to schoolwork.”

“God, you sound like Blake,” I mutter, half under my breath.

“What?”

But the doorbell rings, saving me. “Never mind. Just be normal, okay?” I beg, heading to the foyer.

I open the door and Parker is standing on my front porch. The cold, winter air rushes inside, raising goose bumps on my arms. I pull my sweater tighter, hugging my elbows. How does he sit outside in this every day?

“Hey,” he mumbles.

I smile. “Hi. Glad you found it.” Traces of his body spray linger in the air as he enters, walking past. It reminds me of the ocean. Warm sand between my toes. I close my eyes for a moment, breathing it in. He’s Parker. He does NOT smell good, I remind myself.

“Wasn’t too hard to find,” he says.

“Small town,” I agree.

I close the door and motion for him to follow me. “Mom?” I call.

My mother sits exactly as I left her, only this time she wears a nice, noticeably fake, smile. Business Friendly. “This is Parker. Parker, this is my mom and my nephew, Joshua.”

Parker reaches out to shake her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. McEntyre,” he says. It surprises me to see this, actually . . . not because I think Parker isn’t polite. . . . Well, yeah, I guess that’s exactly what I was thinking. He seems like the kind of guy who avoids parents, and prefers head nods or . . . fist bumps or something. I can add “reserved politeness” to the growing tally of things I’m wrong about concerning him. I’m not above admitting I’m wrong. In fact, in this case, I’d rather be wrong.

Mom maneuvers Joshua to her other leg. “You too. Jaden tells me you’re working on a paper together?”

“A series of papers, actually,” he explains.

I shrug. “It’s a pretty big project. On Ethan Frome. That’s why we get partners.”

“Sounds nice. Are you interested in sticking around for dinner?” she asks civilly.

“Thanks, but my dad will probably be expecting me when he gets off work.”

Mom eyes him warily before turning her attention back to the magazine. “All right, then,” she says, licking the tip of her finger. “Don’t let me keep you.”

I grab our drinks and chips. “Come on. We’ll be in my room if you need anything,” I tell Mom.

Parker follows me through the foyer, footsteps close.

“Jaden?” she calls.

“Yeah?”

“Why don’t you work in the front room? We won’t bother you.”

I snort. “Because it’s freezing in there.  And it’s closed off in the winter, remember? Anyone who opens the door dies? Your words, not mine.”

I climb the stairs, suppressing my laughter. Is she that worried about Parker and me being alone together? I mean, suggesting the front room? It’s practically boarded up from November to April every year. We’d die of hypothermia.

Parker takes his time, studying the photographs hanging on the wall above the steps—my family in different stages over the years.

“Well, this is typical,” he mutters, voice flat, dropping his bag to my bedroom floor.

“What’s typical?” I ask. I skim my fingers across the burgundy Harvard sticker secured just above my light switch. “Water or soda?”

“Soda,” he replies. “And your room is typical.”

I toss him the can of cola. “Why do you say that?”

“It’s just . . . exactly how I pictured it, that’s all.”

I snicker. “Okay Parker, I’m gonna pretend you did not just admit to me that you fantasize about my bedroom.”

“I wasn’t fantasizing,” he says with a slight smile, a faint blush creeping to his cheeks. “It’s just that this is exactly how I imagined it would be: clean . . . organized . . . boring.”

He thinks my room is boring? I laugh. “There is nothing boring about my room. In fact . . . it’s the coolest room I know. Parts of it, anyway.”

“Really?” he asks, disbelieving.

“Really. For instance. . . .” I jerk my chin toward the closet, motioning for him to follow, then open the door and step inside.

“Aren’t we a little mature to be hiding in here? You’re not trying to get seven minutes out of me are you?” he asks.

“You wish,” I say, rolling my eyes.

But the idea of spending seven minutes alone in a closet with Parker. . . . I shiver, but it’s a warm shiver, and I’m not sure I can pass it off as being near the frosty third floor. I shove the thought away as we continue to the back, passing a long rack of clothes and stepping over my shoes. I don’t need to stoop to get through the door frame, but Parker, several inches taller than me, does. “Come on,” I urge, climbing the hidden set of stairs.

“You know, I was just kidding about the whole seven minutes thing,” he says as we reach the top.

“Like I believe that. You just admitted you fantasize about my room.”

“Again, that’s not what I meant.”

I flip on the light switch and lead him into the unfinished third floor, inhaling a mix of insulation and damp wood. Daylight slips between exposed cracks in the walls. Nails protrude from the open ceilings. We pass the splintered, wooden beams supporting the roof, and step around the cardboard boxes scattered about, some holding Christmas decorations, others full of old baby clothes or toys, or things we’ve outgrown that my mom can’t bear to give away.

“Wow,” Parker mutters, low under his breath.

“I know,” I reply. “I love this place. I used to come up here all the time. It was like my own little hideout. I could read, study, stare out the window and think—whatever—and no one would bother me. No one even knew where I was. It would’ve been great for slumber parties, too, except none of my friends have ever wanted to sleep over.”

“Why’s that?” he asks.

I shrug. “Creepy old house . . . you know.”

“Is it haunted or something?”

“If it is I don’t know about it. I mean, I hear funny noises every now and then, but I’ve never seen anything strange. If it’s haunted, whatever is haunting it doesn’t seem to mind us being here.”

Parker wanders over to a window, where I’ve propped an old, pink beanbag chair and stacked a few books beside a Disney Princesses lamp.

“There’s another set of stairs, so you can get here from the hallway. My mom was going to turn this space into a bonus room or something. Something else that didn’t get done. You can actually get in here from the roof.” I point to the window. “There’s a huge oak tree just to the left. It takes you to the second story. There’s a dormer over there, and you can climb right up. I used to do it all the time.”

Parker moves closer, leaning against the glass. “Aren’t you the daredevil,” he says, examining the tree.

“Yeah, well, I haven’t done it lately. Sarah and Daniel and the baby sleep on that side of the house, so. . . . Anyway, we should go.”

Parker follows me back to the stairs. I turn off the light and we descend in semi-darkness, feeling the prickly, sheetrock walls with our hands.

“Not bad,” Parker says as we re-enter my bedroom. I shut the closet door behind us.

“Pretty cool, right? I bet my room’s not so boring now, is it?”

“Nah. I like the whole thing anyway . . . you know, restoration houses.”

I smile knowingly. “This isn’t a restoration.”

“But I thought. . . .”

“Come here.” I walk over to the bathroom and flick on the light switch. “See that?” I point to the wrench. “If this house was a restoration . . . it would be restored. Meaning: I wouldn’t have to break my wrist every time I need cold water. The toilet is . . . ancient . . . the tub needs refinishing. . . .” I return to my bedroom and bounce on a soft spot. It groans. “The floor needs bracing. Downstairs? The ceiling in the den is sagging in the corner . . . we can’t get hot water in the kitchen sink . . . this house is a total problem. I mean, I don’t think anything major has been done since nineteen-sixty. I’m grateful there’s electricity and indoor plumbing.”

“But your dad is like, this huge construction guy,” Parker says, perplexed.

I fold my arms across my chest. “New construction, yes,” I say, laughing. “Or more importantly: Other People’s New Construction. When it comes to ours? Forget it. The best part of the house is what you see when you drive by slowly and keep going. When you stop? No way. It’s a huge mess.”

We stand still for a moment, trapped in a thoughtful silence.

“I just feel kinda bad for my mom, you know?” I finally say. “I mean, this was supposed to be her project. It’s like we moved in, slapped a few coats of paint on the walls and outside and that was it. I know she had big plans for this place,” I continue, evaluating my room: the blue rug and white wicker bed frame, the same ruffled, sky blue bedspread I’ve had since I was eleven. “She wanted to re-stain the floors. Update the kitchen. She always saw how much potential it had, and here we are years later and it’s virtually unchanged.” The words tumble out, one after the other. It’s like I can’t stop them. These words . . . I’ve never spoken them aloud. Not to Savannah or Ashley or Blake. And I don’t know what made me pick Parker. What made me say them now, when I was perfectly happy keeping it all inside.

I glance over at him and his liquid eyes fix on mine, soft. Sincere. And they pull me into him, because it’s like he knows; he understands what it’s like to feel disappointment.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

I swallow hard as the ground beneath me tilts, throwing me off kilter. “Anyway,” I say, wrenching my eyes from his, forcing the feeling away. “We should get to work. I hope you like Sun Chips. They’re supposed to be better for you than regular potato chips.” I toss the bag on the bed and grab my bottled water.

“They’re fine. Good, actually.”

“Good,” I reply, faking a smile, pushing things back to the way they were—the way they should be. “So. Ethan and Mattie. What do we know about the suicide attempt?” I ask, turning my full attention to Ethan Frome and his tragedy.

Parker and I gather our notebooks and sit down on my bed. He leans against my pillow, one leg tucked beneath him. I try not to think about how surreal this is—Parker and me sharing Sun Chips, relaxing on my bed like we’ve done this forever. . . .

My pillow will smell like him tonight. My heart flutters.

“They both wanted it,” he replies.

“They’d rather be dead together than alive without each other,” I say, concentrating, scribbling my notes onto the page.

“Zeena is still controlling Ethan, though. Because even as they’re coming down the hill, he swerves when he sees her face.”

“It’s almost like she won’t even let them die together in peace,” I confirm. “She still has all the power.”

“Actually,” Parker begins, “I was wondering what would’ve happened if he wouldn’t have swerved.”

“You mean if they would’ve succeeded? Good point.” I think about this for a moment, then straighten. “You know what really bothered me, though?”

“What?”

“How fast Ethan was able to get up and move on with his life once he realized they didn’t die. It was like . . . ‘Oh Mattie we didn’t make it. I better go feed my horse.’ I mean, what was that about?”

Parker shrugs. “I don’t know. I just assumed he resigned himself to the fact that since the suicide didn’t work he and Mattie weren’t meant to be together.”

I raise an eyebrow. “In thirty seconds?” I ask, disbelieving. “I mean, a minute ago Ethan was gonna die if he couldn’t have her, and, when he didn’t, it was like . . . I don’t know.”

“Maybe he had a change of heart. Maybe his love for her was bigger than that. He wanted what was best for her, even if that meant her moving on without him.”

I feel an unexpected flittering in my stomach, watching him. Listening.

He smiles at me, even as his eyes narrow, like he notices a change in my expression or something. “What?” he asks, curious.

He’s doing this—smiling, I mean—more and more. I have to admit, I kind of like it. I shake my head, smiling back, amused. It’s not enough to say that each time his mouth opens something amazing and brilliant and intuitive comes out, that he surprises me every day.

My cell phone vibrates on my desk, pulsating, jarring us back to present. I jump off the bed, reaching for it, then read the text message from Blake: miss u! A wave of guilt crashes over me. Because Blake misses me. Because he has no clue where I am. Who I’m with. That Parker Whalen is sitting on my bed not five feet away from me as I’m reading his message. That I am a liar and a pathetic girlfriend. Because if he knew. . . .

I frown. “Or maybe he didn’t really love her at all,” I go on, continuing our conversation. Staring at the screen. The message. The photo of a heavenly Blake. “Maybe he loved the idea of her.”

Moments pass. And it’s like the low, murky clouds from outside have crowded between us.

Parker clears his throat. “Hanson?” he asks, voice cool and balanced.

I bite into my lip, nodding. “Yeah.”

Chapter Ten

Parker is already at his desk, going over his notes, when I enter the classroom the following day. As usual, he doesn’t lift his head as I trek down the aisle to my seat. I set my books on top of my desk, glance over at him, then hastily turn away. Ms. Tugwell moves from the lectern, tennis shoes groaning beneath her weight, and begins writing literary terms across the board. I watch her for a moment, listening to the marker thud and squeak before looking over at Parker again. This time I stare, willing him to turn to me.

What is this, anyway? I can talk to him at lunch, give him my chips, make plans to see him, invite him to my house and show him the third floor. We can talk about love and suicide . . . but he can’t even acknowledge my existence outside of Ethan Frome?

I continue to watch him. Look at me, Parker. Look. At. Me. I beg silently. Our classmates scurry into the room, the last one jumping into his seat just before the late bell. When the ringing stops, Parker moves his head toward me, catching my eye. He looks away, and, at first, I don’t think he’s going to turn back. . . . But then he does.

Something catches in my throat, and I smile, surprised.

He offers a tiny nod in my direction.

My insides twist in a flurry of excitement, and I stifle the laugh welling inside.

Parker Whalen knows I’m alive.

*   *   *

On Thursday, just before lunch, I open my locker and discover another white note card. I flip it over: Library: 3:00, and a question mark.

“Hey!”

I jump, cram the message deep inside my locker, and slam the door shut.

“Blake! Hey!” I sputter, spinning around on my heel. My heart pumps rapidly in my chest. I tuck my hair behind my ears, hoping he didn’t see the note or what it said, that he won’t ask what it means. Because I’m not entirely sure he’ll like what I have to say, and I don’t think I can lie. Keeping my meetings with Parker under wraps is one thing. Lying to Blake’s face about them is another. I force a stiff smile. “Lunch. Are you ready?”

“I am if you are.”

I link my arm through his, breathing a quick sigh of relief as we head to the cafeteria. The further we move from my locker the more comfortable I feel. Blake is clueless, and it’s imperative he stay that way.

Parker is already at our table, notebook open to a clean page, when I arrive that afternoon.

“Winter,” he says as I sit down on the cool seat, not directly across from him, like before, but leaving only a chair between us.

“I hate winter,” I mutter. “What about it?”

“It’s crucial. Everything that happens takes place during the winter.”

“Winter sucks,” I reiterate.

“Exactly.”

I blow out a sigh. “I’m not following. Are you talking about now or the book?”

He slants a look sideways. “What’s up with you?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Nothing . . . it’s just . . . one of those days,” I explain, staring out the window at the dark, bleak sky; the naked trees, their branches dancing. “Anyway. I have this thing against winter. It’s like . . . after Christmas life stops or something. There’s nothing to look forward to. The days are short and cold . . . it never snows here. It’s just . . . my least favorite season, that’s all. It depresses me.”

Parker leans back in his seat and crosses his arms, the corners of his mouth turning up. I just can make out the tiniest trace of a dimple in his left cheek. “You mean to tell me that Jaden McEntyre gets depressed?”

I manage a half-smile, face flushing as the temperature rises. “Sometimes, believe it or not, yes. I get depressed.”

“No way,” he mutters, shaking his head in disbelief. “I never would’ve guessed. You’ve got that whole ‘life is perfect come save the world with me’ act down pat. Who’d have thought you could use some therapy?”

“Shut up. It’s not an act,” I say, brow furrowed. “And I don’t need therapy. It’s important to think about things bigger than yourself—to try to make a difference. You only get one chance, you know? Why not do everything you can while you’ve got it?”

“You say that like there’s something bigger and better out there,” Parker says, watching me closely.

I shrug. Maybe there is. “So what’s your deal with winter? Are we talking about me or Ethan?”

“Actually,” he begins, “I was talking about Ethan . . . and winter.”

“What about it?”

“It’s a central element to the novel. I mean, think about it. It’s cold, business is bad, Zeena is sick. Everything is moving at a snail’s pace. He’s kind of like you in that sense: who wouldn’t be depressed?”

“Everything is so much worse because it’s cold and dark and problems seem never-ending,” I confirm. I think about this for a moment: about Ethan and how bitter and dismal his surroundings were . . . how everything was covered in snow . . . and how Mattie and their time together was the only thing he looked forward to.

“And didn’t Ethan say if his mother would’ve died in the spring he would have never married Zeena?” Parker continues, interrupting my thoughts.

“Parker, you’re fairly brilliant,” I say, writing this down in my notebook. I never dreamed that Parker Whalen would contribute this much to our project—that we would talk this much, even. Totally bizarre. I’m making a note about Ethan’s decision to marry Zeena when I realize. . . .“Oh My God,” I mutter.

Parker’s forehead wrinkles with concern. “What is it?”

I gasp, hand flying to my mouth. “Oh. My. God.” I pull my hair away from my face and close my eyes. “Tell me today’s not Thursday,” I practically whisper.

“Um, yeah,” he replies. “It’s Thursday.”

“Oh my God!”

The librarian shushes me from her desk. I jump to my feet.

“What’s wrong?” Parker asks, eyeing me cautiously.

“I missed my meeting!” I hiss.

“What meeting?”

I grab my notes, stuffing them into my bag, wrinkling them. “At the elementary school. We’re raising money for the library and I’m in charge. Jesus! How could I let this happen? I never forget anything!”

When was the last time I even looked at my planner? I wrack my brain. Not since lunch, at least. I couldn’t have. I spent the entire afternoon walking around in a fog, thinking of one thing: seeing Parker. And look what happened. I was so freaking distracted I missed the most important meeting of my entire week. Parker Whalen should not have this kind of effect on me.

“I think you’re being a little hard on yourself,” Parker says.

“No. I’m not,” I reply harshly, angry at him for screwing up my entire schedule, but angrier at myself for letting it happen. “You don’t sign up to do something and then bail on everyone. People are counting on me.”

“Well there’s no point going now. It’ll be over by the time you get there.”

“Thank you for conveying the obvious,” I snap.

“Look, Jaden,” he says, leaning back in his seat, voice calm. “It’s one meeting. It’s not the end of the world.”

It’s easy for him to say this. He doesn’t do anything. He has no idea. I hoist my backpack over my shoulder, hands trembling. “Maybe not to you, but it’s the end of my world. I don’t miss meetings. I don’t sign up to do something and not follow through. I’m better than that.”

“Please keep your voice down,” the librarian says.

“I am keeping my voice down,” I reply, defensive.

I can feel. . . . I swallow hard. No, Jaden. You cannot cry.

Parker stands, shaking his head. “Jaden . . .”

Do not cry. Not here. Not in front of . . . “I have to go,” I insist, words breaking in my throat. “We can do this tomorrow. At my house. I’ll, um . . . I’m really sorry.” I jog toward the door and pull on the handle, stumbling into the hallway, fighting back the stubborn tears marring my vision.

Chapter Eleven

“Any mail for me?”

“Not today,” Mom replies.

“Of course not.” I inhale deeply, reminding myself that I am not a control freak, despite what Phillip or anyone else may think.

I head to the refrigerator and pull out a soda and bottled water. “Parker is on his way,” I remind her.

An audible sigh rises from where my mom sits at the kitchen table. My cheerful mood deflates a little, and I roll my eyes.

Sarah enters the kitchen, Joshua planted on her hip. “Hey, you,” she says happily. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“I’m going through dress catalogs. Since you’re a bridesmaid you have a vested interest. Wanna help?”

I smile. Friday is Sarah’s slow day—no classes, and clinic until lunch.

“I would, but I have a friend coming over to work on a project,” I explain.

Sarah walks over to the cabinet where my mom keeps Joshua’s baby food, and pulls out a jar of bananas. “Is this the Parker guy everyone’s been talking about?” she asks. The door bangs shut.

“The one and only,” I reply, giving my eyes a hard roll. “How did you hear about it?”

“Daniel.”

“Great,” I mutter. “How did he hear about it?”

“Well . . . apparently he heard you two arguing last night,” she replies, nodding toward my mom. “He asked if I knew anything about it. I told him no—I had no clue. At first he thought it had something to do with you and Blake.”

“No.”

Mom sighs, and stands from her chair. “It wasn’t an argument. It was a discussion,” she says. “From what I hear, this Parker has a shady past, and I don’t want Jaden involved with a bad crowd this close to graduation.”

“He’s hardly a crowd,” I mumble under my breath.

Mom ambles over to the counter, pulls open the silverware drawer, and fishes around for one of Joshua’s spoons, metal tinkling against metal. She passes one to Sarah.

I hear the growl of a motorcycle moving closer: its motor humming, rumbling. It’s the last thing I need—my parents knowing this “troublemaker” I’m involved with drives a bike.

“What Mom doesn’t know,” I continue, distracting them from the noise, “is that Parker is a nice guy. He makes good grades . . . he’s just . . . quiet. He keeps to himself. Yeah, he might have a shady past. I mean, who doesn’t, right? I haven’t seen anything I should be concerned about, and I consider myself a good judge of character. You know I would never screw things up this close to graduation. Please trust me on this.”

The doorbell rings.

“If I was concerned, I wouldn’t bother,” I finish, heading for the door.

When I open it, Parker is standing on the other side. I take a deep breath. “Look, I just want to say I’m sorry about yesterday. You know, um, leaving early.” He was right. I missed my meeting. By the time I got to the elementary school the parking lot was empty. I spent half the night crafting apology emails to everyone in my group.

He shrugs. “No big deal.”

“Okay. Because I didn’t want you to think I was bailing on you or being rude. I just. . . .”

And then my eyes settle on him, and I can see him. Really see him. The leather jacket and dark jeans are such an established part of his ensemble I barely notice them anymore. Today, however, he’s wearing blue: an azure, collared polo shirt that compliments his olive skin. My breath catches, sending flutters deep into the pit of my stomach. It’s beautiful. It makes him. . . . I can’t even describe it. It’s bright and cheerful and so unlike Parker that I blink a few times, trying to make sense of it.

“Can I come in?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

I snap back to reality, heartbeat erratic. God, I’m so rude. Leaving him standing on the porch? “Yeah. Of course. Sorry.” I move aside.

A smile lifts a corner of his mouth on the way in, as if my thoughts are splayed across my forehead for everyone to read. “Hey.”

My stomach tumbles to the floor, cheeks flaming in embarrassment. “Hi.”

Parker follows me, hands stuck deep in his pockets, as I return to the kitchen. My mom is back in her usual seat, Joshua is strapped in his high chair, and Sarah is sitting beside him, spooning banana mush into his mouth. He slaps the tray of his chair happily.

“You remember my mom,” I say, relieved for the distraction, that we can move on. “And this is my soon-to-be-official sister-in-law, Sarah, and Joshua.”

“Nice to meet you,” he says, nodding.

Sarah smiles. “Likewise.”

“Soda?” I ask, passing him a can.

“Thanks.”

I grab my drink and our chips, and head out of the room. “We’ll be upstairs if you need us.” I can almost hear my mom sighing. I shake the sound away.

Again, I notice Parker lagging behind as we make our way up the stairs, taking in the family photos.

“This one is my favorite, I think,” he says, gently tapping the frame of an old, school photo. I remember the day it was taken. It rained, and my bangs had frizzed. By picture time they were like a puff of auburn cotton. My bony, angular arms are positioned at uncomfortable right angles, hands in my lap. And then there were my braces, tightened the day before and aching so that every time I smiled it felt like I’d been struck in the mouth. I chose blue and green bands because they were the colors of my crush’s favorite baseball team. I thought he might notice. He didn’t. And, looking back, I understand why.

I groan. “That was eighth grade,” I say, as if this explains everything. “It was a tough year for me.”

Parker grins, suppressing a laugh. “I can see that. I’m actually kind of sorry I missed it.” He fixes his eyes on me, and they sparkle against the blue of his shirt.

“Shut up,” I say, turning back to the stairs, emotions tangling.

We reach my bedroom, and I run my fingers across the Harvard sticker by the door.

“You did that last time I was here,” he says, nodding toward it.

I look at the sticker, my face flushing. Does anything get past him? “Oh. I know. It’s just this weird thing. I put this up after we moved in. For motivation. After I sent out my application, though, I started touching it every time I came in or left the room. Good vibes. You know.”

He nods.

I open my mouth, then shut it. “There’s one in my locker, too,” I finally say, triggering a nervous laugh. “I guess you could say I’m obsessed?”

“Apparently. So what happens if you don’t get in?”

My eyes flick to him, the blood in my veins running cold. “Why would you ask that?”

His confidence slips, expression guarded. “I’m not saying you’re not, obviously,” he clarifies. “It was a hypothetical question.”

I pull my hair away from my face, tucking it behind my ears. “Oh. Well. In that case, it’s not an option. I’m getting in.” I clear my throat. “You know, it’s strange,” I go on, changing the subject. “We take a lot of the same classes, but we’re not in any together.”

“What’s so strange about that?” He stops. “Wait. How do you know what classes I’m taking?” he asks, eyeing me suspiciously.

I wrack my brain. How would I know what classes he’s taking? Who do I talk to that would even know? I struggle to conjure up a decent answer, something other than the truth. But in the end this proves unsuccessful. “I, um, work in the office last hour and happened to see your schedule the other day,” I mumble, keeping it as vague as possible. I turn away and busy myself, opening our Sun Chips.

“You just happened to see my schedule? How did you manage that?”

My cheeks grow warmer. Of course he’d ask for details. “I just saw it, that’s all.” I hold the bag of chips open in front of him. He reaches out and takes a handful.

“I got that part. I’m just trying to figure out how, exactly, you managed to see it.” He shoves one of the chips into his mouth.

I replace the bag on my desk and sigh. “Your file, okay? There’s a copy of your schedule in your student file. That’s how I know what you’re taking. Are you happy now?”

A narrow smile appears as Parker chews, crunching loudly. “I thought student files were off limits,” he says, mouth full.

Of course they are. I cough into my fist. “Not for me,” I mutter, plunking down on my bed across from him. I re-tuck my hair, wishing there was some way to get out of this conversation.

“Apparently,” he replies.

“It was just this stupid thing,” I confess. “I was curious. I mean, I saw you in English and at lunch, but that was it. I didn’t know anything about you, so yes: I looked in your student file.”

“You know that’s illegal, right?” A full smile crosses his face, lighting up his eyes. And again I’m startled at how they glimmer—how different they look reflected in blue. I force the thought away. He does not have sparkly eyes.

“You’re not going to report me, are you?”

“I’ll have to think about it. So, we’re in the same classes?”

“AP Chemistry, Biology, Spanish III,” I say, naming the courses I remember. “You know, you could be Harvard Med.”

“What, you saw my grades, too?”

“What makes you think I saw your grades?” I ask.

“It’s just that you must think I’m doing pretty well if I could hack it at Harvard,” he replies, matter of fact.

I exhale loudly, flustered. “Yes. I saw your grades. And yes, believe it or not, I’m not the only one in this room who could be headed to an Ivy League school.” It’s the truth, at any rate.

“Nah,” he replies, shaking his head, reaching for his notebook.

“Why not? Your grades are stellar. You’re in AP classes. You could probably get into any college you want.”

He smirks, hearing this. “College is not on my agenda.”

“Really?” I ask, surprised. “Why not?”

“That’s kind of a personal question, isn’t it?”

“Maybe, but why wouldn’t you want to? Going to college is the fastest way to get out of this town.”

“Maybe I like it here,” he argues, leafing through pages.

I furrow my brow, tipping my head sideways, staring at him, skeptical. “No offense, but you don’t really seem like the type of guy who’d want to stick around after graduation.”

“None taken. And you’re right: I’m gone the moment my diploma is in my hand.”

He looks up and our eyes meet, closing the distance between us.

“The very moment? Like, you’re headed out in your cap and gown?” I tease, smiling.

“The very moment,” he confirms, expression serious. He’s not kidding.

A shivery jolt races up my spine. I can see him in my mind, shedding his scarlet-colored cap and gown as he passes through the hall. Stuffing them into a trash can on his way out. Picking up his bag, which contains not books, but a couple of changes of clothes, whatever worldly possessions he cherishes. Sliding the straps over his shoulders. Walking out. Climbing onto the back of his motorcycle. Leaving things behind. . . . Forever.

“Where are you going?”

“Don’t know,” he replies, shrugging casually. “Somewhere. Anywhere but here.”

We sit quietly for a moment, and I wonder if I should go on: if I should take the information he’s offering, coupled with what I already know about him, and try to make sense of it. I clear my throat. “Does this have anything to do with your dad?” I finally ask.

He snickers. “I guess my student file mentioned there’s trouble at home,” he says, emphasizing the words.

“Vaguely.”

He hesitates for a moment before continuing. He won’t look at me. “Well, believe me, I’m not the problem.” He reaches inside his jacket and pulls a pen out of his pocket. He unfastens the cap. Flicks it to the bed.

I watch him, curious, wishing he would elaborate; that he would tell me about his family, and his dad. His life. I want to know what “trouble at home” means. I want to know why he was arrested and kicked out of his old school. I want him to talk to me . . . to tell me things.

Instead, Parker begins writing, as quiet and reserved as always, somehow different from the Parker I’ve grown accustomed to lately. Shut down. Closed off. Barricaded. His gaze flat and his lips pressed in a thin line. Focused.

From where I sit, I can see his carefully written outlines and definitions—the pages full of information he meticulously copied from Ms. Tugwell’s lectures. The work and the effort he’s put in, for nothing.

Something catches in my throat, and I swallow hard. “You should at least apply to Northwestern State,” I say, grappling against the silence hovering between us, desperate to find the footing that will take us back to the way things were. “It’s not too far away, and they’ve got awesome programs.”

He shrugs. “Yeah. Whatever.”

Chapter Twelve

“Friday’s game, right? We’re still on to set up our table?” Savannah asks when I sit down at lunch on Monday.

“Yeah. I’ve already confirmed everything with the athletics director. He said we could set up by the snack bar.”

Blake puts his arm around me, pulling me closer. My eyes drift toward the window out of sheer habit. And there’s Parker. He smiled at me earlier, when I tossed him a bag of Sun Chips and a soda. But even this is unlike me. I’m always nagging Blake and Savannah about their sugar-drink consumption. I give them to Parker like they’re nothing. It’s what he likes, I rationalize. I doubt Parker gets what he wants very often. Now, watching him as he sits outside in the cold, eating what little I can offer, and going over notes for classes which don’t even matter, technically, since he isn’t going to college, I feel a pang of sadness for him. I’m getting these a lot, lately.

He’d freak if he knew this. Parker thrives on the whole “I’m fine” vibe. To know someone feels sorry for him, well, he’d probably go ballistic. It’s why I’m bringing sodas and an extra bag of chips to school every day now, and why I always act like it’s no big deal.

“Hello? Earth to Jaden!” Savannah says, waving her hand in front of my face. I snap back to attention.

“What? Sorry.”

“Wow, you really spaced there for a minute,” she says.

“Yeah.” I dunk a cold carrot into ranch dressing. It crunches loudly as I bite into it. I apologize again, wiping a drip of dressing off my lip with my finger. “There’s a lot going on.”

Out of the corner of my eye I notice Ashley mouthing something to Blake, “heard from Harvard?” is the only thing I can make out. Beside me, Blake shakes his head.

I roll my eyes, cringing, and pull my hair back from my face. I’d put it in a ponytail, but I don’t have an elastic with me. I picked a great day to forget it. I let my hair fall past my shoulders. “Jesus, you guys, I’m right here.”

“Sorry,” Blake mumbles.

“It’s fine. No, Ashley, I haven’t heard from Harvard. But it’s not a big deal. You can ask. Or better yet, when I find out, you all will be the first to know, I swear.”

“It’s just that we know how important it is to you,” Ashley explains. “We’re worried.”

I let out a tiny laugh, reaching for another carrot. “Please, don’t waste your time.”

“You’re not acting like yourself, lately,” Savannah adds.

I scoff. “Maybe because I’m waiting for the most important letter of my entire life. Forgive me for being a bit anxious, k?”

Blake shifts uncomfortably beside me. I close my eyes and inhale deeply, trying my best to remain centered. To not lose it. Because Jaden McEntyre never loses it. Ever.

“Look, guys,” I continue, plastering a smile on my face. “It’s okay, I swear. Yes, I’m nervous, but it’s no big deal. I’m the same Jaden . . . just a little on the apprehensive side, that’s all.” I muster as much optimism as I possibly can, making the words sound cheerful. “Plus there’s the library fundraiser and the walk for the Food Bank. Once our raffle is over I have to start thinking about that. . . .” I trail off, lightheaded, overwhelmed by the sheer number of demands on my to-do list.

“Always making sure the world is fed,” Blake teases, leaning in to kiss me. The stubble on his chin scratches against my cheek. I wince, a wave of guilt washing over me. He has no idea, at that moment, how true this is.

Across the table Savannah smiles.

This is the Jaden they want: the organizer, the leader, the project manager. The one person they can count on to get behind a penny drive to raise funds for a Mexican orphanage, or a bracelet campaign to raise awareness about glaucoma. The Jaden who jumps from one cause to the next and the next and the next. They don’t want the uneasy Jaden. The one who worries constantly about Harvard and her future. They don’t want the Jaden who wastes her time concerned about a guy who, in their opinion, isn’t worth the effort. They don’t want the Jaden who wonders about Parker Whalen, keeps secrets about him, and is frequently overtaken by thoughts of him. The Jaden prone to blank stares and far-off gazes.

The conversation shifts to that weekend’s basketball game. There’s no possible way they’ll ever make it to the tournament, but, as always, Tony and Blake just know they can beat this team. I’m only half-aware of the chatter going on around me, trying my best not to look out the window again, the whole time wondering: what good is the Jaden who single-handedly saves the universe, when there are issues much closer that are just as real . . . and just as important?

*   *   *

The gymnasium is packed on Friday night. For some strange reason the community has always supported the basketball team, but things amped up approximately two seconds ago, when Tony landed a shock three-pointer and put our team in the lead. I can hardly hear myself think for all the screaming, not counting the fact that Savannah, sitting beside me, nearly rips my arm out of its socket with her excited tugging.

During the commotion, a woman, baby planted on her hip, stops in front of our raffle table. The baby is younger than Joshua, his smooth skin flushed pink, and wearing a onesie and no shoes, even though it’s barely above freezing outside.

She asks what we’re raffling. I immediately remember taping my poster to the front of the table (only a spattering of glitter remaining, now), which clearly states what we’re giving away (a Wii), and that the proceeds are going to help poor children (in Bangladesh). I smile anyway, though, and give my little spiel, keeping my voice just above the roar of the crowd.

“I don’t have five bucks on me right now, but I’ll send Ray down in a few minutes to buy us a ticket,” she says. I nod politely, though I have no idea who Ray is—or if I’ll even know him when I see him. Whoever he is, I hope he’s holding on to socks and a jacket for that child, or my next fundraiser will be a clothing drive for the poor kids of Bedford. The woman wanders away; the baby keeps watching us.

“He is on fire!” Savannah says.

“They’re playing really well tonight!” I agree, yelling above the stomping feet against the stands, the crowd chanting, new tennis shoes squeaking against the gym floor.

She turns to me, squinting her eyes. “What? I can’t hear a thing!”

“He’s on fire!” I repeat, louder.

She continues cheering for Tony while I open the black money bag and start counting five and ten dollar bills. In a few seconds the crowd is on its feet, shouts reverberating—magnified—consuming our tiny gymnasium.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Your man just scored!”

“Oh. Well. Yay!” I go back to counting.

“I can’t believe we’ve sold this many tickets,” I muse, flipping through the bills. “We must’ve made a thousand bucks tonight alone.”

“I can’t believe this many people come out to see our basketball team lose,” Savannah replies.  “Don’t they have anything better to do on a Friday night than show up at some high school ball game? I mean, I’ve seen people here who have already graduated. How sad is that?”

I glance to my right where Vince De Luca, the most infamous of these graduates, is holding court. “As long as their faces aren’t painted,” I say, eyeing him carefully.

“I know, right?”

The third quarter buzzer rings. I check the score. We’re trailing by a few points. It’s not anything we can’t make up in the final quarter, though, and this surprises me. Tony and Blake were right: the team is better. Usually by this time I’ve eaten too much popcorn, drank my way through two bottled waters, and I’m checking the time. At least they’re giving us something to watch.

“Oh. My. God,” Savannah mutters. She sits, frozen, staring across the gym.

My back stiffens. “What?”

“You will never guess who’s here, and totally staring you down.”

I scan the gymnasium. “Who?”

“Who do you think?”

He’s standing by the exit at the other end of the gym, fading into the background; waiting by the door as people pass in and out; leaning against the wall, hands tucked deep inside the pockets of his leather jacket. Even from a distance his dark features are striking. He seems . . . dangerous . . . but not in a scary or intimidating way. It’s more like he knows something. Something I don’t. Like he possesses some secret knowledge about life and living, and if I’ll only follow him, I might learn a little something, too.

My mouth runs dry, and suddenly I feel completely transparent. Like he can see right through me and my campaign to save the poverty-stricken: me and my boring life and my dull boyfriend. I clear my throat. “He’s watching the game,” I inform Savannah, turning my attention back to the money bag.

“No,” she replies, confident. “He is so checking you out.”

My cheeks flush with heat—the temperature of the room rising rapidly—and I push up the sleeves of my pink sweater in an attempt to cool down. Organize the money, I tell myself. Don’t look, don’t stare, just start grouping cash. I shift the fives and tens.

“He’s still staring.”

I glance up again, and our eyes meet. That penetrating gaze. I suck in a breath. Parker lifts his head ever so slightly. In fact, I’m not entirely sure I see it move. I tuck a few stray hairs behind my ears, heart smashing against my chest, then, as I slowly bring my hands down, offer a tiny wave. A sly smile crosses his face . . . which, in turn, makes me smile.

“I cannot believe you,” Savannah says, her face brightening.

I jump, jolting back to reality. “What?”

“What?” She shakes her head, then leans back in her seat, folding her arms across her chest. “Okay, so what’s he really like?”

“Who?”

She rolls her eyes dramatically. “Don’t play idiot with me.”

I continue organizing our cash by denomination. “I don’t know,” I say, shrugging. “He’s nice. He’s smart.” I glance up at him again, quickly. He’s still there.

“You mean he’s not weird or anything?” she asks, studying him from a distance. “Because I could totally see body parts in formaldehyde-filled jars as his decoration of choice.”

“No,” I say, scoffing. “He actually seems very normal. Which is what I’ve been trying to tell you for weeks.”

“Well, maybe you can introduce me,” she continues. “Because he’s kinda hot.”

“Hey,” a voice interrupts. “Who’s hot?”

My head jerks up. “You are,” I reply, forcing a smile at Blake, who appeared at our table without warning. His hairline is damp. Sweat beads on his forehead and trickles down his cheek. “Can I get you a towel?” I ask.

“Nah,” he replies, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. “We still on for pizza tonight after the game?” he asks me, breaths heavy.

I sit taller, more rigid. “Um, yeah. I guess.”

“Savannah?” he asks.

“Who’s going?”

“Don’t know for sure. Tony, probably. I guess if you see Ashley let her know, too.”

“I don’t think Ashley’s here,” I muse, looking around. I pass the exit sign quickly, and somehow miss Parker.

“We can call her on her cell. I don’t think she’s doing anything, And yeah, if Tony goes I’m in,” says Savannah.

Blake nods. “Cool. I’ll catch you after the game.”

The buzzer sounds and Blake is off, heading toward center court.

Savannah lets out a tiny squeal. “As if this night could get any better,” she sings, nudging me in the arm with her bony elbow. “I get dinner with Tony.”

I smile, and, without thinking, look back to the exit. But Parker is gone. He’s disappeared. I scan the crowd, surveying the blur of faces. When I don’t see him, I bite into my lower lip, heart slowing.

“No way!” Savannah cries.

“What?” I ask. The crowd cheers wildly.

“You’re looking for him!”

A slow burn creeps to my cheeks. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” I yell.

“Come on. You can’t tell me there’s not something going on between the two of you. You are totally not yourself lately, and everyone knows it. So does any of this craziness that’s been going on have anything to do with the fact that you might have a thing for Parker Whalen?” she asks dryly, voice lower.

I scoff. “What? Savannah. No.” I shake my head rapidly, as if I can’t believe she even suggested such a thing. But then I wonder. . . .

She leans back in her chair. “I’m just saying it’s weird: you hanging out with Parker, not paying any attention to Blake. . . .”

“Of course I’m paying attention to Blake. He’s my boyfriend,” I confirm, though even this feels strange, suddenly. This word coming from my lips. I must have the word “guilty” tattooed on my forehead. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty.

Savannah shakes her head. “Well, let’s just say that lately it looks like you’re more interested in spending time with Parker Whalen than Blake. And forgive me if I’m wrong, but I thought boyfriends were priority.”

“They are,” I assure her, unable to meet her gaze.

“I mean, the boy is hot, I swear he is,” she continues, not listening. “Let’s just try not to make it obvious we’re watching for him everywhere we go, k?”

I let out a sarcastic laugh, holding my chin high. “It’s one project, Savannah. One.”

“And projects end, right?” she urges.

“Exactly,” I reply, forcing another smile, my cheeks flaming from so much dishonesty. “It’s a non-issue.”

Chapter Thirteen

“God, my parents are gonna kill me,” Savannah mutters, checking the time on her cell. Blake opens the door to Guido’s, ushering me, Tony, and Savannah out into the frosty, night air.

“I thought you were going to talk to them about your curfew,” I say as Blake sidles up next to me, wrapping his arm around my shoulder and drawing me closer. “You know, since you’re a senior and going off to college soon, anyway.”

Even in the street light, weak and diffused, I can tell she’s rolling her eyes. “Enough, Jaden. Not all of us are good enough for Harvard. Besides, they just pull their whole ‘there’s nothing to do after eleven that won’t get you into trouble anyway’ crap. Ugh.” She groans. “And my car’s still at school.”

Tony moves closer, shifting. Shuffling his feet. He opens his mouth to speak, then clamps it shut. He clears his throat and tries again. “You know,” he says. “It’s on my way. I can . . . I don’t know. Drop you off, maybe?”

Savannah’s eyes light up. She twists a tiny section of her hair, wrapping it around her fingers. “Really?” she asks, staring at him in surprise. I split a smile from Tony to Savannah, then back to Tony again, trying to decide if he’s being polite, or if this is the “in” Savannah has been waiting for. “You would do that?”

He nods. “Sure,” he says, confident.

A tiny giggle escapes. “That would be excellent!”

I suppress my laughter, knowing Savannah could walk through her front door at four in the morning and be met with World War Three, and it wouldn’t matter—not when Tony is offering a ride . . . and a chance for some alone time.

Tony heads over to his red pickup truck and opens the passenger door. Savannah grabs my hand, squeezing it, and gives a little squeal.

“Have fun,” I tell her.

She adjusts her purse, hiking it further up her shoulder, and hurries over to Tony. In a matter of moments the truck is cranked, the radio blasting. Savannah waves as she and Tony pull out of the parking lot.

“She’s in heaven right now,” I say, waving back, my warm breath turning to smoke in the cool air.

“What?” Blake asks, closing in on me.

“Come on. It’s obvious she’s crushing on him.”

He snickers. “It was obvious to everyone but Tony.”

“Until when?”

“Until one of the guys nearly beat him down in practice the other day saying if he didn’t ask her out someone else would.”

I wrap my arms tighter around my chest, trying to keep the heat in. For the first time I notice stars twinkling overhead. And to my left . . . the moon. “Hey,” I say, marveling. “The stars are out.”

Blake tilts his head, gazing upwards. “The clouds must have lifted.”

“That means we might actually see sunshine tomorrow.” Finally. I smile.

He moves forward, linking his finger in the belt loop of my jeans and pulling me into him. We fall back against my car door; the cold metal seeps through my clothes. I shiver. “So, when do I get to take you on a real date again?” he asks, voice low, wrapping his arms around me.

I stare into his gray-blue eyes, feeling my temperature rise, the heat from his body passing to me. “Whenever you want.”

“Good, because there’s this place in Hamilton my brother told me about. I was going to make reservations for us in a few weeks.”

“Is it a nice place?”

“Yes. A very nice place.”

“So I’d have to dress up?”

“Yes,” he affirms.

“And so would you?”

“Yeah, that’s kind of the idea. A dinner out . . . nice restaurant . . . you keep me on my toes, you know.” His eyes light with amusement, but there’s a mocking edge to his tone.

I laugh.

“It’ll take about an hour to get there. Are your parents okay with you going that far?”

“I’ll double check, but I’m sure it’s all right. I mean, they practically worship you.”

He smiles. “Your parents, maybe. I’m not so sure about Daniel.”

“Daniel is just protective,” I say, defending my brother.

“Well don’t ask for his permission, because I don’t think I’ll get it.”

I lean in and stand on my tiptoes to kiss him softly on the mouth. He slips his fingers through my hair, kissing me back . . . but it’s hard and kind of slobbery and tastes like garlic and peppermint. I pull back, and, without thinking, wipe my lips.

“That’s all I get?” he asks, teasing.

I offer a smile, tugging lightly on his jacket collar. “For now.”

“All right. I’ll call you later, then,” he says, backing up.

“Thanks for the pizza.”

“You’re welcome. And don’t forget to ask your parents. I’ll make us reservations.”

“Okay,” I reply, pulling my jacket tighter as a chilly breeze blows between us. I sweep the hair out of my eyes as Blake opens the door to his SUV and climbs in. I don’t move until he’s completely out of sight—taillights disappearing as he makes a right turn out of town.

I exhale loudly, and dig through my purse for my keys. I grab my cell phone, too, open the car door, and slide inside. The car is like a deep freezer, the cloth seat ice beneath my legs. I lock the doors and crank the engine, willing the car to heat up.

While waiting, I check my messages. As I punch in my password numbers, I hear a distant rumbling, like thunder. I glance in the rearview mirror as the noise grows louder. I turn in my seat, repositioning myself, and watch that familiar, shiny motorcycle cross the parking lot, glinting as it passes beneath the streetlight.

What is he doing here?

I swivel back around in my seat and smile, heart beating a faster cadence, then reach for the handle and open my car door as Parker pulls into the space beside me.

“Hey, you,” I say, when he silences the motor.

He loosens his chin strap and slips his helmet over his head, raking his fingers through his scruffy hair. “What’s up?” he asks.

I cross my arms, hugging my elbows. “I could ask you the same thing.”

He pushes down the kickstand with his black boot, then balances his bike. “Just out for a late-night cruise.”

“If I knew any better I’d think you were following me.”

He raises an eyebrow, eyeing me skeptically. “Are you implying I have nothing better to do on a Friday night than follow you around?”

“Knowing that you fantasize about my room and all . . . of course not,” I say, moving closer to him. I brush my fingers across the sleek, black handle bars, chrome accents gleaming. They’re arctic cold. Glacial. But the bike itself is kind of beautiful. “I saw you at the game,” I continue. “Savannah thinks you’re stalking me.”

“That’s good to know, I guess,” he replies.

I clear my throat, and I swear it sounds like someone else saying: “She also thinks you’re hot.”

Even in the darkness, with only the moon, a streetlamp, and the fluorescent Guido’s sign lighting the parking lot, I can tell Parker is blushing.

Ugh! Why would you say that? I scream at myself. It is so irrelevant. And now he knows we were talking about him, and that it’s possible I think. . . . “Anyway,” I go on, speaking quickly, “I’m glad you’re not a stalker. I don’t know how you knew I was here, though.”

“Like I said: Friday night. You’re fairly predictable.”

My eyebrows sweep up. Predictable enough for him to go looking for me.

Then, as if reading my mind, he exhales loudly. “I was riding by and recognized your car.”

“You cut it kind of close. I was actually getting ready to leave.”

A sly smile crosses his face, his eyes meet mine. They sparkle, knowing. “I didn’t say it was the first time I’ve ridden by.”

My breath catches in my throat and I struggle to keep my expression straight—to cover my surprise. “So you are following me.”

“Free night,” he says, blowing it off. He changes the subject. “So . . . pizza any good?”

I glance at the restaurant. “You know. More of the same.”

“Wanna spice things up a bit?”

I watch him, examining his features for any traces of sarcasm. I’m not entirely certain I’m ready for Parker’s idea of “spicing things up,” whatever it may entail. “Are you serious?” I ask, hesitating.

“You know, that’s not very polite. Here I am, offering to show you a good time and you have the nerve to ask questions?”

I laugh, but it’s light and nervous. “Does this spice have anything to do with Mattie Silver or Ethan Frome?” I ask, wondering if he wants to know how I really feel about that broken pickle dish.

“Not unless you want it to. I was thinking more along the lines of Parker Whalen and Jaden McEntyre.”

Just the two of us.

My heart flutters, skipping a beat, and I can feel the pink slithering up my neck and to my ears. The rational, level-headed part of me insists I say: “No thanks. I have to get home.” The other part . . . the more reckless side of me (which I usually don’t have any trouble suppressing) is completely intrigued by this devilishly handsome bad boy.

“What do you have in mind?”

“A late-night cruise.”

“On your bike?” I ask, disbelieving.

He eyes me strangely. “Yeah, that’s kind of the idea.”

“But it’s freezing!”

“Could be colder,” he reasons. “Besides, cold is good. It reminds you you’re alive.”

I shake my head. “On your bike? With you?” I ask again.

“Yeah.”

Fiery red warning signs flash before my eyes. No. This is not a good idea. Not only Parker Whalen . . . but Parker Whalen and his bike. If my parents find out they’ll kill me. If Blake finds out he’ll kill Parker. Daniel . . . Savannah. . . . if I hop onto this motorcycle and ride away with Parker Whalen and someone finds out about it, I will be so completely screwed.

He dives into his backpack and removes a spare helmet, holding it out to me. A peace offering. I proffered Sun Chips. He’s providing a getaway.

My eyes narrow. Of all the sneaky. . . . “You planned this.” My arms cross, defensive.

“You’re not scared, are you?” he taunts, head tipped sideways, a smile tugging at his lips.

“I’m not scared,” I mutter, half under my breath. Still, I don’t reach out and take it.

“A quick ride.”

I don’t respond.

“Don’t worry: I can’t be seen with you any more than you can be seen with me. It’s late. It’s dark. The helmets will hide us. It doesn’t get much safer than this.”

I frown. Parker can’t be seen with me? Or doesn’t want to be seen with me? I bite into my lower lip. Jesus, Jaden, does it really matter?

A flicker of understanding crosses his face. “Ah. I see.”

“What?”

“I just remembered who I’m talking to, is all. You know, the Jaden McEntyre everyone knows: safe, boring, not stepping out of her comfort zone. . . .”

“I’m not in a comfort zone.” Anger stirs in my hollow gut, and I feel the weight of his stare. There’s nothing left to rouse me to my senses.

A low wind sweeps through. I shiver as he smiles wickedly. “Prove it.”

I turn on my heel, open my car door, and shut off the engine. I lock the doors, cram my keys into my purse, then snatch the helmet from him, frowning.

Whether I’m in a comfort zone or not, I realize, snapping the strap beneath my chin, this feels entirely too comfortable: in a careless, irresponsible sort of way. Parker cranks his bike, revs the engine a few times. It rumbles, raging. Ready. Without thinking, I swing my leg over the seat and climb on, like I’m some kind of professional. Like I do this every day of the week.

Careless, irresponsible, reckless—sure. But as Parker backs us up and pulls out of the nearly empty parking lot and into the street—my arms wrapped tightly around his broad chest, feeling the heat from his body as it warms mine—I’m thinking of another word: completely and undeniably . . . liberating.

Chapter Fourteen

“Admit it,” Parker teases, nudging me with his elbow. “You had a great time.”

“Whatever.” My pulse races, still operating on a high.

He leans in, moving closer to me, his eyes liquid black and voice smoldering. “You know, for someone who supposedly has all her morals in check, you cave awfully fast to peer pressure.”

“Shut up.” But I nearly choke on the words, breathless, his eyes burning into mine.

“Say it: you had a great time.”

“No.”

He reaches across the console and pinches my side, tickling me into submission. “Say it!” I can hear the smile in his voice, even as I squeal and squirm away from him, grabbing his cold fingers and holding them tightly in mine, laughing. “No!”

I don’t let go right away. I hold on to him until the car is completely still except for my thundering heartbeat and accelerated breathing. We remain intertwined, heat passing between us. When I finally realize what’s happening, I release him and jerk my hand back.

“You should get out more often,” he says, quieter. “You need to live a little. You’re too safe.”

“What’s so bad about being safe?” I ask, feigning offense.

“Nothing, but you’re missing out on a lot don’t you think?”

I gaze at the stars through the windshield of my car. Though our ride barely lasted twenty minutes, I climbed off the bike with my fingers frozen and unable to feel my toes. It was amazing, actually, riding through town . . . the roads empty and traffic lights blinking red and yellow. Most everyone was at home. Many were asleep, or approaching it, and I could imagine the grumbles as we drove by, the sound of the engine roaring past, fading. It’s like we were the only ones left—awake and alive.

The parking lot is vacant. Even the neon Papa Guido’s sign is shut off for the night. We are really, and truly, alone.

I let go of a sigh. “My family thinks I’m a control freak,” I confess.

Parker positions his hands closer to the vents, warming them. He looks over at me, eyebrows knitting together. “Why?”

“I’m just, kind of obsessive, I guess.”

“About what?”

“Harvard, my schoolwork, my causes.” I shift in my seat. The dry air parches my throat, leaving my mouth dry and sticky. I turn the heater down a notch. “I mean, you saw it. I went ballistic because I forgot one meeting.”

“That was you going ballistic?”

I toss him a dirty look.

“There are worse things to obsess about,” he points out.

I swallow hard. “Yeah, but you’re so right, you know? I’m boring . . . and predictable. And yes, I’m safe. Everyone and everything around me is safe. My decisions are completely calculated.”

“That’s not entirely true. Because tonight—that was pretty unpredictable. I didn’t think you’d go for it. Peer pressure and all.”

“Yeah, well, I shouldn’t have,” I tell him, expression serious. “If my parents find out I rode around town on the back of a motorcycle with you they’ll freak out. I’ll be grounded forever.” The moment I say them aloud, I immediately regret the words. I bite into my lower lip, wishing I could take them back, gathering them, and tucking them neatly back inside. What is it about Parker Whalen that makes me so direct?

He pauses only a beat before asking: “What are they more concerned about? Me or the motorcycle?”

Our eyes meet. “Honestly?”

“Honestly.”

And here we go again. I breathe a sigh. “You. But that’s because I don’t think they know you ride a motorcycle,” I explain. “And because they don’t know you, obviously.”

He turns his head away, nodding.

“You know, people say an awful lot about you behind your back. I wish you’d at least come out and clear up some of the rumors. They’re annoying.”

“People believe what they want to believe. That’s not something you can change, whether you want to or not.”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, well, you thought you knew me, and you didn’t.”

“I do know you. You’re safe and boring.”

“Tonight I was unpredictable.”

He gives a rogue smile. “We all have our moments.”

I laugh curtly, and my heart flips nervously because I’m here, and I’m with Parker, and we’re alone, and I’m feeling things I don’t think I’m supposed to be feeling. I turn in my seat, facing him. “Come on, Parker. Who are you?”

“What do you mean?” he asks, eyes narrowing. The shift is slight, but it changes his entire demeanor. It’s like I’ve made him nervous or something, caught him off guard.

I shrug casually. “I just wanna know who you are.”

“Why?”

“Because I feel so transparent around you,” I confess. “I feel like you have me all figured out. Like you know everything about me and it drives me insane. And forgive me, but the only thing I know about you I had to sneak around to find out. Just give me something to go on. Anything.”

He adjusts positions, making himself more comfortable in the cramped cab of my tiny Civic. “Like what?”

“Like. . . .” I trail off, thinking. “What’s your favorite color?”

He snorts. “That is so elementary. I have to be defined by a color?”

“Yes.”

He rolls his eyes and exhales slowly. Then he pauses for a few moments, thinking, fidgeting with the worn cuff of his jacket sleeve. “Black,” he finally answers.

“I could’ve guessed that.”

“So why didn’t you?” he asks, casting a sideways glance.

“Because I wanted to hear it from you. Where are you from?” I continue.

He hesitates a moment before answering. “Michigan,” he mutters.

“Why are you here?”

“Does anyone really know why they’re here?” he counters.

“Parker.”

He sighs. “It’s, um. . . . It’s kind of a long story.”

“I have time.”

“Okay. Well. I’m, um, here because my parents got divorced. I lived with my mom for a while. But a few years ago she started dating this guy . . . total asshole. There were some problems . . . and they sent me to live with my dad, who I hadn’t seen in years, and who didn’t want to deal with me.”

A pang of sadness twists in my chest, but I can’t stop. I have to keep asking questions as long as Parker is open to answering them. Based on previous experience, he can slip away from me at any moment. There are never any guarantees with Parker. No reason to believe he’ll ever open up like this again. I have to know the truth.

“Were you kicked out of school?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I was caught with some guys, and there was marijuana in the car.”

“So those rumors are true? About the drugs?”

“Which rumor?”

“You had a drug problem.”

He shrugs. “I did drugs occasionally. I didn’t see it as a problem, really. I mean, I wasn’t an addict.” He shakes his head. “I was lucky that day. Because the guys I was with? We were dealing. And none of them ratted me out.”

I suck in a breath, staring blankly into space. Doing drugs and selling them are two entirely different things. This is a game-changer. I hesitate, unsure if I should go on. If I want to go on. “Why were you selling them?”

“The thrill. The rush. Because I was tired of being broke. Because I couldn’t afford a car and I needed something to drive. Why does anyone do anything?”

“Do you sell them now?” I press.

“No.”

“Do you do them now?”

“No.”

I eye him carefully, wondering if I should believe him. “Are you lying?”

“I don’t lie,” he states, matter of fact.

I sit back. “That’s stupid. Everyone lies.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a waste of time. The more lies you tell the more stories you have to remember. Believe me: it’s easier to just be honest.”

I think about this for a moment before continuing, mildly surprised, because until we started working together, I didn’t have much reason to lie, either. “Okay. So . . . what’s it like . . . living with your dad?” I finally ask.

He hesitates for a moment. “It sucks. We don’t get along at all. Basically he stays in his space and I stay in mine. His moods are like . . . ,” he trails off. “I don’t know. They’re totally unpredictable. Some days he gets pissed if I’m not home. Other days he doesn’t care. Sometimes I get hassle for going out. Sometimes he doesn’t even notice. It gets confusing, actually.”

“I’m sorry,” I tell him. Because I am. Because I don’t know what else to say. Because I know this doesn’t change things—that it doesn’t matter—but it’s the best I can do.

“Don’t be,” he replies with a shrug. “I’m leaving in a few months, anyway.”

I feel an irrational pang of resentment. He sounds so sure of himself, so positive that, when the time comes, he’ll be able to walk away from everything, still whole somehow. “Where are you going?”

“You already know the answer to that,” he reminds me, a sliver of amusement in his eyes.

I sigh and rest my elbow on the console, closing the space between us. His body spray mixes with night air. It’s intoxicating, sweet, and I let myself breathe it in. To be moved by it. “‘As far away as possible’ is not a locale, Parker. I don’t know why you won’t apply to college,” I muse. “It’s the perfect out.”

He snorts. “I got my motorcycle with drug money, Jade. How the hell would I pay for college?”

I sit up, spouting off every good solution I can think of. “Well, for one you could go to a state school. Two, you could apply for scholarships. Three, you could do work study, or get a part-time job off campus. . . .”

“You don’t happen to volunteer as some sort of life coach on the side, do you?” he teases.

“Like I have time for that,” I reply, rolling my eyes. “And don’t try to change the subject. I’m serious, Parker. You’re smart. You owe it to yourself to go to college and make a better life for yourself.”

“Easy for you to say. Your parents can afford to send you to an Ivy League school.”

“I applied for scholarships to help out. And the only reason my parents can pay for Harvard is because I have two older brothers who bailed on higher education,” I inform him.

Both of my brothers went to work for my dad as soon as they graduated high school. While my mom wanted them to at least try for a two-year degree, both claimed college wasn’t for them; they could do better learning from Dad and continuing his company when he retired. “There’ll always be a need for new construction,” Daniel said. By default, I get everything hoarded away in my parents’ college savings account for us kids. This makes getting into Harvard vital. In terms of education, I’m all my parents have left.

“You know,” I continue after a few, quiet moments. “The grass isn’t always greener . . .”

“You don’t know anything about my life,” Parker says, his tone sharp. “Maybe sometimes the grass is greener.”

“So you’re just gonna run away? You’ll have to get a job. You’ll have to find a place to live.” My tone rises instinctively, angry, even though I’m not trying to start a fight. I just can’t understand why Parker is going to throw away everything he’s worked for when it’s so obvious he cares.

“And you think I haven’t figured all of that out? I might not be a control freak, but I do have a plan.”

The words smart, stinging. “That’s a low blow,” I accuse.

He looks away for a moment, staring out the window, and a heavy silence falls between us. Then . . . he turns back . . . our eyes meet . . . and he smiles at me. It’s both sweet and mysterious—a very beautiful smile, actually. My lips part and heart flutters, slowly beginning to thaw. My mind rebels and my anger simmers, dissipating. I turn my face away, hating him for doing this to me, for having this kind of control over me. And the thing is, he probably doesn’t even realize what he’s doing to me every time he stares at me like that.

“Hey.” He reaches over and tucks my hair behind my ear for me, tracing my jaw line with the back of his hand. I shiver, a series of tingles working through my spine. He pulls my chin toward him. His fingers are warm now, gentle, and for a moment my heart stops beating. I suck in a breath and hold it, surges of electricity pulsing where our skin meets.

“I love that you’re concerned about me, Jade, but I am not a project.”

I swallow hard as he releases me. “I didn’t say you were.” I nearly choke on the words, willing myself to breathe.

“Really? Because it’s starting to look like it.” His tone is light as he says this, almost teasing—as if mocking me for caring about him. “And I wasn’t calling you a control freak,” he continues. “I just think you have enough to worry about without adding me to the list.”

“I don’t make lists,” I say, frowning.

He smiles again, and I find myself sinking under its weight. “You know, that actually surprises me.”

I reach forward to turn the heat back up. The green digits on my clock drift closer to midnight. I check my cell phone to be sure.

“When’s curfew?” he asks.

“Fifteen minutes.” I sit back, staring into the darkness outside my window. “Did you see the moon?”

“I did,” he says, nodding.

“Do you think we’ll actually see the sun tomorrow?”

“Don’t know.”

“I hope so.”

“I know you do.” He reaches for the door handle, pulling on it. “Thanks for letting me borrow your heater,” he says, grinning at me.

I crack a small smile. “Thanks for stalking me,” I return.

Parker pushes the door open and climbs out. Cold air rushes inside. I shiver. He bends down, leaning his arm against my roof, peering in. “Maybe I can stalk you again sometime.”

“Absolutely.”

“I was thinking of stalking you Monday afternoon around three. I figured we should divvy up assignments for our project.”

“Okay,” I reply. He shuts my car door carefully, then circles around to his motorcycle.

I watch as he runs his fingers through his hair, straps his helmet on, and ratchets the engine. Before he backs out of the space, I offer a tiny wave. He nods in reply.

I pull out of the parking lot first, taking a left in the direction toward my house. I watch in my rearview mirror as Parker takes a right, heading wherever he wants to go: out of town . . . home . . . whatever suits his whims of the moment. For this, I find myself feeling both sad for him and envious at the same time, wondering how it’s even possible two such emotions could mutually exist. And yet here I am—torn: wanting to pull him closer, saving him, and at the same time wishing I could hop on the back of his motorcycle and, for once, allow someone to save me.

*   *   *

Earlier, I thought Parker and I were the only ones in the entire world still awake. As soon as I let myself inside and shut the front door, however, I realize I was wrong. Dead. Wrong.

“Jaden?”

I jump at the sound of my own name, startled.

“Mom? Jesus!” I hiss, working to even my breathing.

My mom appears at the door leading to the den, arms folded across her chest. Though I haven’t seen it often (and as a result of Daniel and Phillip’s transgressions more than mine), she has that “look” on her face. It screams disapproval. Her mouth is pressed in a thin, firm line, features sharpened by the shadows from the lamp on the buffet beside the stairs. I want to melt, to disappear between the cracks of the floorboards.

“Where were you?” she asks.

“I didn’t miss curfew,” I say, automatically moving to defend myself. I realize a moment too late: that’s not exactly what she asked.

“I didn’t say you did. I asked you where you were,” she calmly repeats.

I clear my throat. “I went out with Blake and Savannah after the game,” I say, guarded, struggling to steady my voice. It’s not a total lie.

“Really?”

“Yes,” I reply guiltily, shifting my weight from one leg to the other. I almost hesitate to ask, but: “Why?”

Mom doesn’t move, just continues to stare at me in accusation. “Because Blake called. He wanted to make sure you got home okay. Imagine his surprise when I told him you weren’t here, yet. He was sure you left when he did.”

“What did he say?” I ask. My palms are beginning to sweat, and the foyer air has never felt so stifling in winter. I shiver.

“He said to call him when you got in,” she informs me. “I doubt he thought it would be this late, though.”

“I’ll call.” I move toward the stairs. “He’s probably not even asleep.”

“That was more than an hour ago,” Mom says before I can climb them. “I’m going to ask again: where were you?”

I should’ve checked my tone before answering, because even I can hear the irritation in my voice as I spit out the words: “I was just hanging out with some friends.”

“Friends?”

I roll my eyes. “Friend.”

“Which friend?”

Of course she wants specifics. I wonder why she’s not asleep like a normal parent. I wonder why Blake called me when I was just with him like, fifteen minutes earlier. I wonder why it’s such a big deal Parker Whalen is my friend, and that I like spending time with him. I hesitate before answering, knowing this is about to get ugly. Real. Ugly. “Parker.”

“Parker,” she repeats, her tone icy.

“He was riding by Guido’s as I was leaving and recognized my car. We got caught up talking in the parking lot.” I speak swiftly: the words flying out of my mouth one after the other. “That’s all, I swear.”

My body temperature continues to rise, increasing with each new lie. So I’m not telling the entire truth. . . . The only thing I can hope for is that no one witnessed me climbing onto the back of Parker’s motorcycle and riding away with him. That would make an already bad situation much, much worse.

“Jaden,” my mother says, sighing. “I don’t like finding out from your boyfriend that you’re supposed to be home, and, when you don’t arrive, learn that you were out late with a completely different boy.”

“It’s not a big deal, Mom, I swear. You’re complicating things.”

Actually, I’m doing the complicating . . . and they’re becoming more and more complicated by the second . . . this whole me, Parker, and Blake thing . . . but I can’t admit this to her. I have to make her understand there’s absolutely nothing to worry about.

“Yes, Jaden, it is a big deal. Your father and I give you a lot of leeway with your curfew. We don’t ask you to come home at an unreasonable time for your age, but we expect you to be responsible.”

“We were talking in my car in a parking lot, Mom,” I explain, an uncomfortable edge to my voice. “We were hanging out. Not spray painting the sides of buildings or shooting up in a dark alley. We were talking.” Though talking, in many ways, is becoming just as dangerous.

“That’s not the point, Jaden.”

“I don’t understand what the point is, Mom,” I say, my voice rising. “I didn’t break curfew.” I stop . . . thinking. “Oh, I get it. This isn’t about me or being out late. This is about Parker.”

“Hanging out with some guy who your father and I know nothing about except for what we’ve heard . . .”

“But that’s the point!” I cry, interrupting.

Her eyes grow wider, flashing angrily. “Keep your voice down. The baby and everyone else are asleep,” she warns.

I take a deep breath. “The point is,” I continue, calmer, “that you don’t know anything about him. No one does. He’s not some evil guy with a horrible reputation, Mom. He’s not. He’s smart. He has things to say . . . and what pisses me off the most is that no one wants to listen. They do the same thing you’re doing right now: assuming the worst.” Salty tears sting my eyes and I’m sad again. I’m sad for Parker. For us. For everyone who won’t give him a chance. Because he’s worth that much, at least. He’s a decent guy; he deserves better than all of this.

Do not cry.

“These last few months are important, Jaden,” Mom says. “We don’t want some outsider ruining things for you.”

My mouth plummets in astonishment. I scoff. “What? Are you even listening to what I’m saying?” I ask. A tear escapes, trickling soundlessly down my cheek. I’m crying. I hate that I’m crying. I hate that I’m crying in front of my mom. Jaden McEntyre doesn’t cry in front of anyone. For any reason. Ever.

“This discussion is over,” she announces, arms folded. “I understand that you have a project you’re supposed to be working on with this boy . . . but keep your priorities straight. What would Blake think about this?”

“I thought this was about my future,” I reply coolly, choking on the words.

“If you think of Blake in terms of your future, then you need to take him into account, too.”

I roll my eyes, shaking my head. I can’t believe this is even happening. I don’t know how to explain myself any better. I don’t know how I can make her realize she’s being too judgmental about Parker—her and everyone else. I don’t know why it’s so important that they understand where I’m coming from, period.

“Fine.”

Mom disappears into the den. I head to my room, taking the steps two at a time.

When I switch on the light, everything is as it should be: my pristine room, smooth bedspread, the squeaky oak floors; the muted fragrance of my perfume—a soft, powdery floral I sprayed earlier that morning; the sink faucet I can only get running with a wrench. . . .

And in the morning, when I twist open my blinds, the same wintery gray clouds—dense and opaque—like every day before it.

Chapter Fifteen

“It was so amazing, Jaden, I swear. We like the same music, we hate the same classes, we like the same sports . . . ,” Savannah gushes. She hasn’t stopped talking about her ride with Tony since she arrived at my locker.

“Since when do you like sports?” I ask, interrupting, searching in vain for my chemistry notebook. I growl in aggravation. It’s bright pink. It’s not like it can hide from me.

She plants her free hand on her hip. “I happen to love sports, thank you,” she replies.

“Savannah, the only sport you have any interest in is shoe shopping, because God knows when Macy’s has a sale it becomes an endurance event.”

She frowns. “You’re just mad because I found that pair of Jimmy Choo heels on eBay for prom last year.”

“They didn’t fit,” I remind her, shifting my hair over my shoulder. “You took them off after two dances because you had the biggest red welts on your feet anyone had ever seen.”

“Yeah, well, speaking of prom,” she continues, ignoring me, “I was thinking that maybe Tony should ask me. You think he’ll go, right? I mean, how could he not go to our senior prom?”

I shrug. How am I supposed to know? I mean, I’m not psychic. I have no clue what Tony’s plans are concerning prom. After this weekend, I’m not entirely sure what my plans are concerning prom.

“Okay. What’s wrong with you?” she asks, curious.

Not something I can get into right now. “Nothing,” I reply. “I have the last of our money from the raffle. We’ll let Mr. Anderson pick a number this week, and then this thing will be over.”

“This thing?” Savannah repeats. “Jaden, you were so psyched about this project. And now it’s just a ‘thing’? What’s happened to you?”

“Nothing.” A heavy sigh.

“Okay. I may have selfish tendencies in that I generally only focus on me, my problems, and what I want . . . but I know when something is going on with my best friend. Spill it.”

“There’s nothing going on.” I moan, feeling my forehead. The hallway is warm, anyway, but I’m kind of hoping I have a fever. At least that would explain why I feel absolutely wretched.

“You’re lying.”

“I know.”

“So tell me.”

“It’s complicated.”

“So let me try to help you.”

“You’re not going to like what I have to say.”

“You won’t know unless you tell me.”

We go back and forth like this until she finally wears me down. “You have to swear . . . this doesn’t leave the two of us.” I survey the busy hallway, watching for eavesdroppers.

Savannah holds up her hand. “I solemnly swear.”

“Don’t be sarcastic. This is serious,” I warn, pushing her hand down.

“What’s up?”

I let out another huge sigh, stomach heavy and twisted. “It’s this thing with Parker,” I confess, shaking my head. I can’t believe I’m admitting this out loud. It just makes it more real, and at this point I’m not sure I can handle real.

“What about him?” Savannah pries.

“Well . . . I kind of spent some time with him on Friday night . . . after you all left, and Blake was gone. I was about to leave and he showed up. I, um . . . went for a ride on his bike, and we talked for like, ever in my car.”

Her mouth drops, forming a perfect oval. She blinks a few times. “What? Are you serious?” She lowers her voice. “Jaden. . . .”

“I know! I know!” I cry. “I am so completely confused right now.”

“Does Blake know?”

“No,” I say quickly. “And you cannot tell him.”

“Does anyone else know?”

I finally locate my notebook, and cram it into my backpack. “I didn’t get home until midnight. My mom met me and told me Blake called. She asked where I was and I had to tell her. I mean, she knew I wasn’t with Blake. I told her that Parker and I hung out for a while. I didn’t tell her about the motorcycle thing. So really, you can’t let that get out, Savannah.”

She moves in closer. “Was she mad?”

“Livid,” I reply. “She said I needed to get my priorities straight. She doesn’t want me going anywhere near Parker.”

“If it wasn’t for this stupid English project it wouldn’t be a problem,” she muses.

“I know. . . . But Savannah . . . I like Parker. I’m glad I got the chance to know him. I just wish everyone else could see him the way I do. He’s not weird or scary . . . he’s just . . . I don’t know. He’s Parker.” I shrug.

“Jaden, you have to tell me the truth,” she begins, her blue eyes wide. “Do you like Parker? Or do you like Parker?”

“Is there a difference?” I ask.

“Yes, and you know it.”

“I like Parker. I mean, I don’t think I like him. I just, you know, like spending time with him.”

“Yeah, but do you think you could grow to like him?”

“That’s what’s so freakin’ scary,” I admit.

“Do you know how he feels about you?”

I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear, wishing I’d brought an elastic with me. One less thing to worry about. “No. I have no clue.”

She chews on her thumbnail for a minute, thinking. “So what did you tell Blake?” she finally asks.

“I called him Saturday. I just said I was really busy with school stuff. He didn’t ask. Do you think he knows something? I mean, has he said anything to you?”

She shakes her head. “No. Not to me. But then, I wouldn’t expect him to.”

I lean against my locker as the warning bell rings. “What am I gonna do?” I whine. “This is crazy.” I want to bash my head against the locker until I pass out, and then I want to wake up to a world without this insanity.

“Well, it looks like at some point you’re going to have to make a decision.”

I hike my bag further up my shoulder. “I know.”

“I’d hate to be you, though,” Savannah says, voice flat.

“Tell me about it.” We head down the hallway. “But you cannot breathe a word of this to anyone. Not until I can figure something out.”

“Taking it to the grave,” she swears.

*   *   *

I toss a small bag of Sun Chips toward Parker. It lands on the table just in front of him with a dull “smack,” crinkling the plastic. “Sorry. I was kind of distracted at lunch,” I explain.

“No one asked you to keep bringing me food.” Still, he reaches over and picks it up.

The library is empty today—the entire room ours. It’s quiet. The odor of musty, mildewed books permeates the air—a familiar smell of late, one I immediately associate with Parker.

“That doesn’t keep you from taking it,” I point out, sitting down in the chair beside him. “Besides, I thought you liked Sun Chips.”

“I do,” he replies.

“They’re better for you than regular potato chips,” I remind him.

“My dad’s not a big fan of either,” he says. “He’s more of a pork rind kind of guy.”

My nose wrinkles in disgust. “Ew.”

“Tell me about it.”

“He should let you do the shopping.”

“I do the shopping. Pepsi, potted meat, bread, beanie weenies, and pork rinds times fourteen . . . every week.”

“Ew,” I repeat.

“Sometimes I get lucky and we have a real meal . . . like Hot Pockets.”

“Parker, that’s not a real meal.”

He shrugs. “That’s what happens when two bachelors live together.”

“Two bachelors, huh? Remind me to stay away from your bathroom,” I mutter. I know what it’s like to live with boys. Before we moved, Daniel and Phillip and I shared a bathroom. Needless to say, it didn’t take long for it to turn absolutely nasty, and that was with Mom cleaning it once or twice a week. Maybe it’s frustrating to have to use a wrench to get water, but at least my bathroom is my own. It’s nice not having to worry about Daniel forgetting to put the seat down, or Phillip forgetting to lift it.

Parker smiles at me, then nudges my knee with his. “I’m just trying to make you feel sorry for me. Is it working?”

“Yes, I feel completely sorry for you,” I say, rolling my eyes, voice laced with sarcasm. I do feel sorry for him, actually, but I don’t think he’d appreciate knowing that.

“Good. So how are we going to divide up these papers?”

I unzip my bag and shift things around, searching for my English notebook and a pen. Already I can feel my shoulders relaxing, the tension in my neck and back fading, coiled muscles loosening. I exhale, letting go of the demons that plagued me the entire day.

“Well, we have to do a summary, bio on the author, three character analyses, three themes, and an oral analysis on what we learned,” I say, reading the list on our requirements sheet. “Aren’t you so glad you have me as your partner to help out?” I tease.

“Of course, because God knows I can’t complete a project without you,” he replies, eyes shining. Bright.

“Be serious.” I laugh, cheeks warming, balling my fist and punching him playfully on the shoulder. “You need me.”

In the next moment Parker perks up, glancing at the door and pulling back in his seat.

“What?” I ask.

He clears his throat.

“Jaden?”

I freeze at the sound of Blake’s voice behind me, his footsteps thudding against the carpet as he moves closer. My heart fumbles a beat.

“What’s going on? I waited for you in the parking lot,” he says, pointing his thumb toward the door. There’s a jealous edge to his voice.

“I’m sorry. I, um . . . I thought you had practice,” I reply, voice trembling. The guilt simmering inside has to be smeared across my face, revealing everything Parker and I have done together since we started this project.

I can feel Parker’s eyes evaluating me

Blake’s brow furrows, eyes guarded. “Season’s over, remember?”

No, I don’t remember, actually, but I nod, and agree, pretending it slipped my mind. “You can sit down if you want,” I say, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite make it to my lips. “We’re just trying to divide up these assignments, you know, for our English project. We’re almost done.” I talk quickly, the nervousness dancing in the pit of my stomach affecting my speech patterns. I try to take another breath, but nearly choke on it. Parker and I are sitting so close: side by side, knee to knee. How did I not notice this? But more importantly: does Blake notice?

I clear my throat. “Oh. Parker, this is Blake. Blake, this is Parker.” A formal introduction is a good place to start.

“What’s up?” Blake asks coolly.

“Not much,” Parker replies.

“So, what did you decide to do your project on again?” Blake asks, not taking his eyes off Parker. I glance back and forth between them. The tension in the air is palpable . . . or maybe it isn’t, and I’m making too big a deal of all this. I’m not quite sure. The entire world is tilted, off kilter.

“Ethan Frome,” Parker answers. “You?”

“Animal Farm,” says Blake.

“Good choice.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Since we read it in tenth, we figured it would be a piece of cake.”

I steal a quick glance in Parker’s direction. He raises an eyebrow, but his lips remain sealed together in a perfect line.

I swallow hard. “So, um, topics,” I say, sitting up and tucking my hair behind my ears, wishing for the hundredth time I could just pull it back in a ponytail and get it off my face, already.

“Do you want the summary or the author bio?” Parker asks, turning his attention back to me. There’s something in his tone—this civil iciness. I recognize it instantly from our first encounters—this detached indifference. It’s not the Parker I’ve gotten to know over the past few weeks, and I can’t say I like it—or that I’m happy with Blake for making it return.

“I’ll take either,” I say. I wipe my damp palms across my jeans, ignoring the thick knot woven inside my stomach.

“How about I do the summary and you write about the author?” he suggests.

“Sounds good,” I agree, breathless, noting this on my paper. “Who should our characters be?”

“There are really only three major characters: Zeena, Mattie, and Ethan. And not to be pushy, but I want Ethan.”

“That’s fine. If you don’t mind doing two of the themes, then I’ll take care of Zeena and Mattie.”

“That works,” he says. “What themes did we decide on?”

Out of the corner of my eye I can see Blake, feel his stony glare piercing us. Immediately I imagine the worst: Savannah spilled my secret, or I wasn’t as discrete as I originally thought. I work to keep my breathing steady and my heart beating at a normal pace. As awkward as this is, I can’t let Blake think I’m nervous. This is a simple library study group . . . the end.

I glance over the notes I took during one of our previous sessions. “I like the idea of winter . . . and isolation. I mean, I know it was yours,” I quickly add, “but since I really don’t like it—um, winter, I mean—I kind of feel like I relate to Ethan in that way.”

“No, it’s fine,” he replies. “You can have winter. I’ll take something else we talked about, like love, or jealousy or something.”

Across from me, Blake snorts. My face flushes, ears burning.

“Those would be good,” I assure Parker, working to distract him from my boyfriend, who apparently finds all this tremendously amusing. The effort is futile.

“Is there a problem, Hanson?” Parker demands to know.

“Not at all,” Blake replies, casually leaning his chair back on two legs, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

Oh, God. Not here.

“Okay, because for a minute there I thought you were in on some little joke I missed or something.”

“No.” Blake eases his chair back to the floor. “I just wondered why you would want to write an essay on love.”

“It’s an important part of the story, Blake,” I interrupt.

“It’s just not a guy topic, that’s all.”

“Are you implying something?” Parker asks, casting a menacing glare. “Because if you are say it to my face, asshole.”

The library assistant shushes us from her station. “Once more and I’m asking you to leave,” she warns.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her. Then, turning back to Blake and Parker, my voice low: “Guys, stop it, all right? Blake, we’re almost finished here. Two minutes.”

Blake stands, chuckling, pushing his chair back. “Fine. I’ll be in Non-Fiction.”

We watch as he saunters to the other end of the library.

“Nice guy,” Parker mutters. “I hope he doesn’t get lost.” He jerks his chin toward the shelves.

“I am so sorry,” I whisper, pressing into the corners of my eyes, temples aching. “I don’t know what’s gotten into him.”

“I have a theory or two,” he replies, watching me closely.

He’s right, and it’s stupid of us to sit here pretending that Blake isn’t pissed about the fact that Parker Whalen and I are spending time outside of school together. And that’s only half of it.

“I know.”

He exhales, face softening, eyes losing their harsh edge. “Anyway, it’s fine. I don’t want to keep you. Are we good on our topics?”

I bite into my lower lip, nodding. “Yeah, I mean, if something changes I’ll let you know.” I cram my notebook into my bag and toss it over my shoulder as I stand.

In the next moment Parker moves closer, leaning into me. I can feel the heat radiating in waves from his body, his cheek next to mine—almost touching. I inhale a warm, sea breeze—a mixture of saltwater and spices and pine that might be called irresistible. I barely hear him as he speaks.

“If I meet you at your third floor window tonight, will you let me in?” He whispers softly against my ear, hardly a murmur. A shiver of electricity races up my spine. I’m not sure I understand what he’s saying. What he means.

“What?”

“You said you can get to your third floor by climbing the oak tree to the second floor roof, right?”

“Yeah, but . . .”

“So if I knock on the attic window tonight, will you let me in?”

I pull away from him and stare into the depths of his dark eyes, trapped in their never-ending nothingness—their everythingness—knowing what I’m about to say is so, so completely irresponsible, but unable to resist at the same time. “Yes,” I answer quietly.

“What time?”

“It would have to be late,” I whisper, glancing toward the librarian working the front desk, like she’ll hear us if we’re not careful. “Midnight, even. And you can’t park your motorcycle at the house. You’ll have to walk down the road.”

“That’s fine. I’ll do it.”

I study his face for a moment: the freckles and his lips and his cheekbones and his hair, which at that moment, I want to slip my fingers through, feeling him. “Why are you doing this?” I ask, point blank.

“Because . . . I don't know. I want to spend more time with you . . . outside of school, and this project, and. . . .” He glances toward Non-Fiction then back at me, eyes boring holes into mine. “Other people.”

A shiver trembles along my skin. “I could get in so much trouble,” I practically mouth.

He grins easily—that signature, lop-sided, Parker smile, and I melt. “I won’t get you in trouble,” he promises. “Cross my heart.” He draws an X across his chest with his finger.

“No one has crossed their heart since fourth grade,” I say, rolling my eyes, yet somehow unable to keep from smiling.

“You want a blood oath? A vile of my DNA to wear around your neck?” he asks.

I let out a tiny giggle, cheeks burning.

“You better go,” Parker says, stepping back, putting more distance between us. “Don’t want to keep Mr. Perfect waiting.”

I wince at the sound of the nickname. Because why would I even agree to do this—to sneak Parker over to my house after dark—if everything is perfect? It makes no sense whatsoever.

I glance toward the door. “I guess I’ll, um, see you later.”

I turn on my heel and head to Non-Fiction, where Blake is perusing a volume of America’s best essays. “All done?” he asks, tossing the book on the table beside him.

“Yeah,” I breathe. “All done.”

Chapter Sixteen

My head is spinning and I’m on the verge of throwing up what little I managed to eat at dinner. A sliver of panic trembles in my stomach. My room is freezing—I shiver—but I’m sweating, and my heart thumps so loudly, beating in my ears, I just know it’s going to wake my parents.

“There is nothing I cannot handle,” I whisper.

My parents’ bedroom is downstairs, on the opposite side of the house. The odds of them hearing us are slim. I have enough dirt on Phillip to blackmail him into keeping quiet. Daniel, though, is an entirely different story. I can only hope, if he happens to hear us, that Sarah can talk some sense into him before he goes homicidal.

I glance at my alarm clock for the millionth time, watching as the bright, red digits change from eleven fifty-one, to eleven fifty-two. I inhale sharply, crawling out of bed. I tiptoe across the floor, avoiding any soft areas—places I know will creak—and quietly open the door. Everything is as I hoped—the lights are off downstairs and in every room upstairs, Sarah and Daniel’s door is shut, and I can hear Phillip’s muffled snoring down the hall.

I breathe a quick sigh of relief, then shut and lock my door. This isn’t a habit of mine, but in the event of an emergency it’ll help if no one can barge into my room unannounced—especially if I’m not here to meet them.

I grab my comforter off the bed, dragging it along as I slip inside the closet. I lift my arm and wave around, searching for the dangling string to the light bulb. In the next instant everything is lit—my clothes, my shoes, boxes of summer things: tank tops and bathing suits and flip flops, and the set of stairs at the back of my closet leading to the third floor. I squint for a moment, blinking back the brightness.

I cross my closet carefully and climb the steps, one by one, walking as softly as possible. The attic is black and freezing, and the cold air bites at my fingers and nose. I pause, allowing my eyes to adjust to the darkness. When I can finally distinguish the various boxes and toys and old pieces of furniture, I take that final step up and, inhaling deeply, creep across the room.

I peer through the dirt-smudged window. The streetlights illuminate certain sections of the road, but the back of the house remains cloaked in shadows. I search for signs of Parker—his dark jeans and black leather jacket—sneaking through the night.

I suck in a breath and hold it for a moment, listening to my heart pound in my chest—slowly—one suspended beat after another. I lower myself onto my beanbag chair, the styrofoam inside crinkling beneath me, and wait.

And then I realize: Parker might not make it. Something might’ve come up. Maybe he changed his mind; he doesn’t want to see me after all. Maybe he considered the very real possibility that we’d be crucified if someone caught us.

But even with doubts coursing through my veins, I can’t imagine Parker flaking out on me. He’s a lot of things, but reluctant isn’t one of them. I keep my senses tuned, listening for the sound of his motorcycle, branches rustling, footsteps on my roof.

I don’t hear a thing until: rap, rap, rap—the softest tapping ever, so quiet that for a moment I think I imagined it. But then I look up, and spy Parker’s broad outline just beyond the glass. I feel a lift of excitement, my pulse accelerating. I move to the window, unlock it, and struggle to lift the sash. It pops loudly, cracking where it’s sealed shut. I stop breathing and listen for a moment, holding the air inside my lungs, not moving until I’m sure no one stirs below us. The window lifts easily. Parker passes me his dark boots. I take them, then step back as he crawls inside, bringing a fresh burst of cold air with him.

“I didn’t even hear you,” I whisper.

“That’s because I’m stealth,” he replies as I lower the sash. “Everything okay?”

“Everyone’s asleep,” I assure him. A wave of relief washes over me. Surely he can get out before anyone sees him, if it even comes to that. Him being here—with me—it can work. I smile, teeth chattering, kind of happy to see him: his pale hands and face and his nose pink from the cold.

“So. . . . What’s this all about?” I ask, curious.

“What’s this about?” he repeats, blowing into his cupped hands, warming his fingers. “I thought you liked hanging out with me.”

For a moment I think I’ve offended him. “I—I do,” I stammer, tucking my hair behind my ears. “This is just . . . random. You. Sneaking over. In the dark.”

Parker sinks to the floor, leaning against the wooden slats beneath the window. I sit down on the beanbag chair, wrapping the comforter securely around my shoulders. The air is thick and icy. With so little insulation in the room, we may as well be sitting outside. It might be safer outside. I don’t know.

I watch him for a moment. Our eyes lock. “I just can’t figure you out,” I confess.

“What’s there to figure out?” he asks, studying me carefully.

“I don’t know,” I reply. In a month he went from antisocial to . . . friendly. My friend, even. It’s so strange.

He sits up. “If you’re uncomfortable, or want me to leave, I’ll go. But the way I see it, life is short. Time is slipping away whether we want to admit it or not, and I’m not wasting a second of it. I had an idea . . . that maybe I wanted to see you, and I went with it. If I didn’t I would’ve stayed awake the entire night wishing I’d said something, and kicking myself for not taking a chance. I hate regrets. Besides,” he continues after a few, quiet moments. “You need more excitement, remember? Consider this an educational experience.”

“An educational experience?” I repeat, not understanding.

“Yeah. The art of living.”

I laugh softly, hugging myself to keep warm. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“You can’t tell me this isn’t exhilarating,” he says, eyes sparkling.

I suck in a cold breath. Exhilarating . . . in more ways than one. “It’s the riskiest thing I’ve done,” I tell him. “Ever.”

“Taking off with me on my motorcycle the other night was pretty risky.”

I blush at the memory. “Yeah, well, you’re in my attic in the middle of the night. This kinda tops that.”

He smiles, gazing at me from beneath his lashes, eyes narrowed. “Wow, Jade. You’re really shattering the whole ‘good girl’ stereotype, aren’t you? I bet if I showed up at school tomorrow telling everyone you rode on my motorcycle and sneaked me into your house no one would believe me.”

“You better not,” I warn.

“Why? You’d thank me for it.”

Thank him for screwing up everything I’ve worked so hard to build? For destroying my reputation because of two nights that might end up being mistakes? “No. I wouldn’t.”

“I bet you’ve never invited Hanson over after your parents fell asleep,” he continues. “You’re letting my degeneracy corrupt you.”

“You’re not bad.”

“Really?”

“Really. It’s a façade. That’s what people want to believe so you go with it, because if they really knew who you are life wouldn’t be as exciting.”

Parker laughs softly, lowering his head, but he doesn’t say I’m right or wrong either way.

“So,” I go on. “Do you usually sneak around town after midnight? I mean . . . what would you be doing right now if you weren’t here?”

He shrugs. “I go out every now and then . . . when I can’t sleep or whatever, but usually I’m at home.”

“What do you do at home?”

“Study. Read. Listen to my dad cuss out referees for making pathetic calls.”

“Sounds exciting,” I mutter.

“Yeah, pork rinds, basketball, and liquor. . . . But that’s good because the more he drinks the quicker he passes out, and at least I get some peace and quiet.” He smiles. Like this is funny.

“Is that why you wanna leave?” I ask.

He pauses for a moment, thinking. “Partly. The truth is we just don’t get along. We never did. He’s happy doing minimum wage work at a minimum wage job—if he even goes in to work at all. I’m better than that.”

“You see, that’s pretty condescending. Because if I recall, you’re the one with stellar grades who’s foregoing a college education,” I remind him.

“Touché.”

“I’m serious, Parker,” I continue. “If you want to make a difference . . . to be different, then you should go to college. What if you end up just like him?”

“First of all: I am nothing like my father. Second: there are plenty of good jobs out there for someone without a college degree. You can still be a hard worker without a piece of paper.”

I lean back, the beanbag chair rustling beneath me as I shift, and fold my arms across my chest. I can’t believe we’re almost fighting—again. “Yeah, well, one day you’ll look back and remember that girl you once knew in high school who thought you deserved better than that.”

“We’ll see,” he replies, with a sly smile. “Miss Harvard.”

“Shut up.” I kick him in the knee with my foot, playfully. Flirting.

The room creaks, settling; a gust of wind pushes against the house. It groans around us, closing in. We watch each other, listening. Holding our collective breath. It takes a few moments before the breeze dies, before my shoulders fall, relaxed.

“I guess that means you haven’t heard from them yet,” he finally asks, his voice quieter.

“No. But I’ve been accepted to every other school I applied to, so I guess that should make me feel better.”

“No, not really.”

I sigh, studying my cuticles, pushing them back with my fingernail. “Good. Because it doesn’t. The other schools . . . I mean, they’re okay . . . but they’re not what I want,” I mumble.

“Why Harvard?” he asks.

“I don’t know. Because . . . it’s like the best of the best. It’s the reputation.”

“So you’re picking a school based on its reputation? That’s it? No other factors were considered?”

Who is he to give advice about college? I toss him a dirty look. “Of course I considered other factors. Academics. Student Life. The potential connections. The fact that it’s one of the top schools in the country.”

He smirks, shadows falling across his face. “You keep coming back to that.”

“The truth is: I’ve always wanted to go there. For as far back as I can remember, even. It’s Harvard or nothing.”

“You can’t say that,” he states.

“Why not?”

“Because if by some fluke you don’t get in, then you’ll miss out on college, and end up doing minimum wage work at a minimum wage job.”

“I can still be a hard worker without a piece of paper,” I toss back.

A wide grin spreads across his face. “You’re a force, do you know that?"

“Yeah, well, there’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

“I’m realizing that,” he agrees, nodding.

I run my fingers through my hair, wrap a tendril around my finger, coiling it, examining the ends. When I look back at him, Parker is still watching me, eyes warm and serious all at once. What is he thinking?

“Tell me something,” I whisper, letting my hair fall.

“What?”

Tell me what you’re thinking. “I don’t know. Anything. Tell me something real. Something I don’t know.”

“About what?”

Us. Me. Whatever it is we’re doing. I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter. You.”

I watch as he breathes in and out. Thinking. Debating.

“I’m pissed at my mom for kicking me out of the house.”

He tells me about her. How broke they were. How he never had anything growing up. How she jumped from boyfriend to boyfriend, thinking they had the answers—that they held some secret key to her happiness. How awful coming home was after she remarried. How he hated the guy who first offered him weed. That he quit smoking (everything) cold turkey. How he felt when he was arrested—like he was the biggest screw up ever. What it’s like to be an only child. And how, more than anything else, he can’t wait to leave for good. Finally leave it all behind.

He stops there, refusing to go on. “Your turn,” he says.

My nose scrunches. “My turn?”

“Yeah. It’s only fair, right?”

“Okay. What do you want to know?” I sit up, straighter.

“Same idea. Something real. Something no one else knows.”

I have to think for a moment. Something no one else knows. That implies I’m hiding something. I don’t have anything to hide. Except for Parker, maybe. But then. . . .

“I, um, I don’t really know how to relate to my dad,” I say, swallowing hard. “He’s busy. All the time. He doesn’t pay very much attention to me, or do things I’d like him to do. Things I need him to do. Like fix my faucet.”

Parker doesn’t interrupt or finish what I’m trying to say. He just watches—listening—eyes trained on me. And so I go on. I tell him what it was like growing up the baby sister of two brothers, that I feel more connected to Daniel than anyone else in my family, and the thing that scares me the most is failure: not living up to everyone’s expectations.

“But that’s not even logical,” he says. “I mean, if that’s true, then you’re already setting yourself up to fail because you can’t please everybody.”

“I know. It’s just that, it’s like everyone is anticipating me going on and doing something amazing—saving the world, or whatever,” I reply. “They expect it.”

“Which is why you need to start focusing more on Jaden and less on what everyone wants Jaden to be. You need to relax. When was the last time you went out and did something crazy, for you?”

“Saturday . . . and now tonight,” I remind him. Hopping on the back of a motorcycle with a guy I barely know. Sneaking him up to my third floor attic. Feeling . . . something for him, though I can’t quite figure out what.

“Yeah, well, it’s been a long time coming. You can’t let the opinions of other people get in the way of who you want to be.”

“I know, but in a lot of ways it’s my own fault. Their expectations are so high because I set them. They’re all sitting back, waiting for me to become . . . I don’t know . . . Jaden McEntyre, M.D.”

“Who cares? You’re not living for them.”

“I know . . . but . . .”

“You have a ‘but’ for everything, do you know that?” He stops, pausing, brow furrowing as he considers something—something else. “Wait a minute. What are you saying? You want to go to med school, right?” he asks.

I open my mouth to answer, then shut it. And it hits me: Do I want to go to med school? Has anyone even asked me if that’s what I really want to do? I close my eyes for a moment, pressing my thumb and index finger into the bridge of my nose. Why would he ask unless he had a reason to think that’s not what I really want? Is that what I want? Am I even ready to make that kind of decision?

He leans forward, whispering: “Jade.”

“What?” I mutter.

Parker removes my hand from my face, wrapping his fingers tightly around mine. He pulls my hand to his lips, and I can feel his warm breath, the raspy shadow on his chin from not shaving. My eyes flutter open, my stomach flip-flops. “Please tell me you want to be a doctor, and it’s not something somebody told you you should do that sounded like a good idea at the time.”

I swallow hard, stuffing my emotions deep inside, heart bumping against my ribs. “No. I mean, med school is the greatest challenge, right? I want to see if I can make it.”

“This isn’t about a challenge,” he says, a flash of anger in his eyes. “This is about finding what you love to do: doing something that makes you happy.”

“Helping people makes me happy,” I reply, defiant, wrenching my hand away from his grasp.

“If it doesn’t work out. . . .” he trails off.

If it doesn’t work out? I shrug. “I don’t know. But isn’t that the point? To go to school and figure out what you want to do?”

“Yeah, keeping in mind it’s your decision and no one else’s.”

“I make all of my own decisions, thank you,” I say.

“Okay, then. Let me rephrase that: keeping in mind that your decisions shouldn’t be influenced by other people.”

Listen to him taking the moral high road, like he has all the answers. He isn’t even going to college. “You should take your own advice,” I snap, fury simmering, bubbling inside.

A smile hovers at the edge of his lips. “You’re really going there again.”

“You started it.”

“Yeah, well, friends don’t let friends screw themselves by stressing about what other people think.”

I raise an eyebrow, surprised by this admission, tiny sprouts of hope blossoming, dissolving my anger entirely. “So . . . you’re saying we’re friends?” I ask, cautious.

He pauses a beat. Then another. “I think so. Don’t you?”

A smile pulls at the corners of my mouth, lips tingling. Parker Whalen is my friend. “I’m just making sure we’re on the same page, that’s all. You’re not the easiest person to read.”

He shrugs.

“In that case,” I go on, “friends don’t let friends screw themselves by not thinking about the future at all. So don’t expect me to let up on the whole college thing. As your friend I have a license to annoy you about it. Bring it up. Beat you into submission.”

“So this is an abusive relationship,” he confirms.

I laugh softly, unable to meet his eyes. “This is a friend . . . caring about her friend.”

*   *   *

Without my phone or a watch, there’s no possible way for either of us to know how much time has elapsed, but in the distant corners of my subconscious I know the early hours of the morning have accelerated past, leaving us suspended. Even when the conversation begins to wane and I’m stifling yawns, I’m disappointed to hear Parker say he has to leave. Because part of me doesn’t want him to go. As exhausted as I am, I’d relinquish sleep altogether for the chance to stay up the rest of the night talking—just being with him—something I’ve never felt about anyone. Ever.

“I guess it would be kind of obvious if we both show up to school half-asleep,” I reason.

“And I don’t think Mr. Perfect would appreciate the rumors about your late-night escapades on the third floor,” Parker teases.

I furrow my brow, scowling. “Which is why it doesn’t leave this room.”

“He’s not going to find out from me, so don’t worry,” he assures me. He takes his index finger and traces an X on his chest.

I smile at this, standing carefully, my joints stiff and full of fatigue. “It’s been fun,” I admit. And as soon as I say it, I know it’s the truth. It has been fun. Fun and scary and strange and surreal and amazing all at once.

“We should do it again sometime.”

For a moment we stand there, motionless. It hurts to look at him, but I can’t tear my eyes away. I can’t seem to get enough of him. I swallow hard. I don’t know how to end this. . . . I don’t even know if I want it to end. I bite my lower lip, chewing on it, self-conscious. He’s so close. The light from the window falls across his face, highlighting his features. His strong jaw line. His dark eyes. I feel this dangerously inexplicable urge to move closer to him, and I wonder what he’s thinking behind those hypnotic eyes. If he’s feeling the way I’m feeling—that, if he leaned in, just a little bit more, I might actually kiss him.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he finally whispers, eyes trained to mine. “Well, later today, I guess,” he clarifies.

I work to hide my disappointment. “Okay.”

He backs away, moving slowly toward the window, raising the sash. An arctic draft whooshes inside.

And when he smiles at me I just know, when I lay my head on my pillow in a few, short moments, it’ll be the last thing I see before I shut my eyes, and the first thing I’ll remember when I wake up.

I pull my comforter tighter as he climbs outside, trying to keep my body heat from escaping, even as goose bumps rise to the surface of my skin. I shiver, watching as he lowers himself to the second floor roof, disappearing to the other side of the house. I close and lock the window, then peer out at the street for one last glimpse.

He resurfaces briefly under a streetlamp—hands buried deep in his pockets, breath smoking, mingling with the frigid air—before vanishing into the shadows.

Chapter Seventeen

I’m responding to Blake’s morning text message, yawning, when . . .

“Good morning, Sunshine,” a low voice whispers in my ear.

A series of tingles race up and down my spine. I flip my phone shut, forgetting to press send, remembering a moment too late.

“No thanks to you,” I say quietly, so no one will hear. I grab my calculus book. “When I finally got to bed,” I continue, “it was like, three-thirty in the morning. My alarm goes off at six-thirty. That means if I fell asleep right away, I’m running on three hours of sleep. And I’m gonna be honest with you: I didn’t fall asleep right away.”

Parker leans into the locker beside me, adjusts his backpack on his shoulder, then runs his fingers through his hair. “Yeah, well, you didn’t have a ten-minute walk or a twenty-minute drive home,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m running on two hours. If I fell asleep right away.” Traces of darkness linger beneath his lower lashes, adding to his perpetual shroud of mystery. At least I have the luxury of concealer to hide my midnight escapades.

“We should’ve just stayed up,” I muse.

He smiles wryly. “Scandalous.”

I notice, as I hoist my bag over my shoulder, a few people around us are staring, not so subtly. The group of girls down the way? Craning their necks in our direction. The couple navigating the halls with their hands in each other’s back pockets? Slowing considerably as they pass, turning their heads to keep their eyes on us. There are others, too. Gawking. Whispering. Faces eager with curiosity. It’s like some huge, irrelevant newsflash that is, in my opinion, hardly worth spreading: Parker Whalen is talking to Jaden McEntyre in the hallway. Big Deal. Apparently I’m the only one who feels this way.

I inhale, ignoring the ogling. “I feel sorry for everyone around me, because by lunchtime . . . it’s over. I’m going to be a total beyotch.”

Parker laughs at this. “I doubt that.”

“Don’t,” I say seriously.

“There’s no way Jaden McEntyre gets bitchy in public. That’s just not happening.”

“Believe it, because it happens.”

“Not in public. You might go home and yell into your pillow or freak out in the mirror, but you don’t lose your cool in front of people, even if you have come dangerously close.”

I roll my eyes. “I hate how you think you know me,” I grumble, touching the Harvard crest before shutting my locker door.

“Yeah, well, give me fair warning if you really plan to go postal on someone today, because I’d pay to see it.”

“If you’re lucky you’ll be on the receiving end,” I threaten. “Oh, that reminds me. Here: take this.” I hold out my purse, not thinking. Parker stares at the little black number for a moment. “It’s just for a second,” I assure him. He slowly reaches out to take it from me. I slide my bag off my shoulder and unzip it. It takes some digging, but I finally find what I’m searching for. I take my purse back, trading it for a brown paper bag.

He eyes me suspiciously, then opens it and peers inside. “What’s this?” he asks.

“Lunch,” I tell him, matter of fact.

“So we’re beyond the soda and potato chips?”

“Sun Chips—there’s a difference—and yeah, I packed you everything I packed for me.”

“I can’t believe you’re bringing my lunch now,” he mutters, expressionless.

“Would you rather eat pork rinds and beanie weenies?” I ask. “God, Parker, it’s no wonder you don’t bring any food to school. And I’m sorry, but I’m officially foregoing the sodas. First, because they’re bad for you, and second, Phillip was pissed the other night because they keep disappearing. But more importantly: they’re bad for you.”

“First, I didn’t tell you about the pork rinds so you’d feel sorry for me. And second . . . you were right. You really are kind of bitchy.”

I close my eyes and rub the inside corners with my index fingers. They fill with sleep, dry and heavy. “I told you if you weren’t careful. . . . I swear . . . sleep deprivation brings out the worst in me.”

“You know,” he says, peering inside the bag. “It’s okay. Because ham and cheese is my absolute favorite . . . and an apple? It’s like, the lunch of champions.”

I stifle another yawn. “It doesn’t get much better than that, right?”

“Only if you were eating with me,” he says.

I eye him, unconvinced, but he’s serious. He’s asking me to spend my lunch break with him? I let out a nervous laugh. “I’d love to, except I got so much flack last time. If I do it again I’ll be forced into some kind of intervention. Why don’t you eat with me?” I brush his jacket sleeve with my fingertips; the scratched, worn leather feels smooth against my skin. The shabbiest areas show patches of gray, but the coat itself looks warm and comfortable and inviting, and I wonder what it would feel like over my shoulders. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to Savannah and Ashley . . . they’re so great.”

The warning bell rings overhead, its shrill timbre echoing through the halls, bouncing off cinderblocks, traveling. I jump, instinctively jerking my hand away. Remembering where I am. Who I’m touching. We walk in step down the hallway, heading toward English, my ears still ringing, humbler after having been called out.

“I doubt that would go over very well.”

It takes me a moment to catch on to what he’s saying. “Oh,” I mutter, struggling to control my disappointment as we maneuver through the crowd. “You mean Blake.”

“I don’t think he’d appreciate my being there very much.”

I sigh. “Probably not.”

“But if you change your mind you know where to find me.”

We continue walking in silence, letting the hallway chatter fill the space between us. I disregard the occasional surprised expression as we pass, keeping my eyes straight ahead, focused.

“So,” I say, nearing the door to Ms. Tugwell’s classroom. “How long do you think it’ll take for us to fall asleep in this class?”

“Depends on how warm the room is.” He reaches for the doorknob. “Let’s at least try to stay awake long enough for her to take attendance. She wants us to be present,” he continues, pulling the door open and letting me walk through. “She never said anything about being coherent.”

*   *   *

Following this, I experience what’s probably the longest day of my entire life. We don’t fall asleep in English, but as the day progresses the lack of rest catches up with me. I zone in and out of consciousness, knowing the notes I’m taking in my classes will be unintelligible when I go over them later. I keep my head low and propped up with my hand, disappearing behind the person in front of me, hiding (somewhat ineffectively) from my teachers.

What’s worse, my thoughts keep slipping, drifting to the night before, migrating to Parker. He’s right: I play it safe and I’m boring. I’m textbook Type A: Ivy League, pre-med, taking on every cause known to man—from feeding the stray cat to filling shoeboxes for needy kids across entire oceans. Active in the Student Government Association. Always volunteering to bake cookies, or decorate for the homecoming dance. The first one to arrive and the last person to leave. The one student every teacher can count on to do the optional reading and practice questions.

So why, all of a sudden, does it feel like something is missing? Something I didn’t even realize was missing. Parker is right. It’s as if I have all the education, but not the experience. I have a life, but I’m not living. There’s no excitement, nothing unpredictable about my life and the choices I’ve made. Until he came along.

When I arrive at lunch an incredible wave of guilt washes over me. Not only because I let a guy I barely know sneak up to my third floor attic after everyone was asleep, but because I liked it . . . and would do it again if I knew there was no way I could get in trouble. Here I am, sitting beside my cute and incredibly sweet boyfriend (over-protectiveness and jealousy aside) who always puts me first, knowing I spent one of the most amazing times of my life with another guy. And then not being able to tell Savannah or Ashley? A few weeks ago I was open and honest; now one of the most important parts of me is locked up, vaulted. I have secrets.

“God, Jaden, you look awful,” says Savannah.

Leave it to my best friend to employ brutal honesty to prove a point. “Thanks,” I mutter, opening my lunch bag and pulling out my sandwich. I glance out the window . . . just to see if Parker is there . . . and eating. He is. A quick surge of pleasure warms me from head to toe.

“Jaden,” Savannah says. She waves her hand back and forth to get my attention. “Earth to Jaden.”

I snap back to reality. She throws me a look—a strange look, a subtle warning. I’m staring, and it’s obvious. Or maybe I’m reading too deeply into it; the world, it seems, is becoming much harder to interpret. Skewed in part by the massive dilemma that is Parker Whalen.

I clear my throat. “Yeah?”

“What’s wrong with you today? You look tired . . . or sick or something.”

“I am,” I say. “I mean . . . I’m not sick, but I’m tired. I didn’t sleep well last night. I tossed and turned. . . .” I can’t even finish the sentence. You’re such a liar, a tiny voice sings. Like my conscience isn’t already in overdrive.

“You’re not still worrying about Harvard, are you?” Blake asks, draping his arm around me, planting a soft, wet kiss on my temple.

Savannah eyes me carefully. She has to know. It must be some best friend sixth sense or something. I refuse to meet her gaze.

“I’m not. I mean, I’m not trying to let it consume me,” I clarify. It’s definitely better to let them think I’m losing sleep over Harvard, not that I’m sneaking random guys up to my attic.

“Well, you look awful,” Ashley confirms.

“I used concealer.”

“No, it’s not just that,” she goes on. “It’s your eyes. They’re not even here. Like you’re really preoccupied or something.”

“Okay, Ashley,” Savannah mutters. “This was not a segue for you to remind everyone you’re taking that college-level psychology class online this semester. And by the way, three months of Intro to Psych doesn’t give you the right to go around analyzing the rest of us.” Her blue eyes roll dramatically.

“I wasn’t analyzing anyone,” Ashley retorts. “And you should consider taking that class. You might learn something.”

Savannah lifts her hand, stopping her. “I told you: no college. Thirteen years of school is enough, thank you.”

In an instant the conversation shifts, and it’s not about me or the bags under my eyes, or being stressed out about Harvard . . . it’s like any other day. That is, until the final bell rings.

I should’ve known something was happening the moment I pushed through the double doors and stepped onto the sidewalk. People stand outside; some stop mid-parking lot. Smiling. Laughing. Some wander around as if in a daze, shielding their eyes. It takes me a minute, as I head toward my car, to get it. But then I see—beyond a thin stretch of wispy clouds—a reflection of light in my window: a hazy orb hanging low, floating mid-air. I turn and gaze at the bright blue sky, squinting. It’s like surfacing for air after giving up hope, after resigning to drown, suffocating. My shadow spreads like a canopy across the pavement. Instinctively, I tuck my hair behind my ears, and watch it replicate the motion. After months of darkness and clouds, and rain and cold and winter . . . this is what I’ve been dreaming of. The breeze is still chilly, but the clouds are finally dissolving: the sun is out . . . and it shines, brilliant.

*   *   *

To go to a restaurant, my family needs a formal, operational mission plan. We’re heading to a steakhouse in a town about twenty minutes away. We’re meeting Phillip, who’s picking up Becky Summerlin (who is apparently returning his calls now) from her parents’ house. Daniel and Sarah are in her car, with Joshua in the backseat. Mom insisted I bring Blake along, if only to make things more comfortable for Becky, so the two of us are in my car, and she and Dad are in his truck. Four vehicles to get one family to dinner. Sometimes I wonder why my mom never invested in a minivan.

I ease into the road behind Daniel and Sarah, following them down the street. I check my rearview mirror.

“I’m glad you called,” Blake says. “I haven’t seen everyone in a while.”

“I know. It’s just that, with school, and the wedding . . . things have been really busy. This is the first time we’ve done anything in like, a month,” I explain. “And we probably wouldn’t be,” I continue, flipping on my left turn signal, “if Mom wasn’t so adamant about us officially meeting Phillip’s new girlfriend.”

He grabs the handle above the passenger window. I glance over at him, fingers gripping the steering wheel. I hate when he does that. Holding the handle, I mean. It’s like he’s implying I’m a terrible driver; that, in addition to his seatbelt, he needs something to hold on to. It reminds me of driving with my dad.

When I was practicing for my driver’s test, I could always see him out of the corner of my eye, mashing brakes that didn’t exist—like I wasn’t stopping fast enough or something. It was annoying. Though Mom assured me that Dad treated Daniel and Phillip the same way, it was decided early on that, if at all possible, she or Daniel would ride with me.

“Why are they going this way?” I wonder aloud as I continue to follow Daniel and Sarah. “We should’ve stayed straight.”

We turn down a side street full of oak trees and little bungalow-style houses. Daniel presses his brakes and pulls over, parking at the curb. “What is he doing?” I mutter, pulling in behind him. Leaves and branches and other street debris crunch beneath my tires, the car gliding to a stop. I shift to park and roll down the window. Daniel climbs out of the car. “What are we doing?” I ask him.

Dad pulls over beside us.

“What’s going on?” Mom asks through the open window.

“Just park for a minute,” Daniel replies.

I roll my window back up and unbuckle my seatbelt. “It looks like we’re stopping here,” I inform Blake. “At least temporarily.”

We climb out of the car, shut the door, then cross the street, where Daniel is waiting on the sidewalk. Sarah and Joshua are right behind us.

“What’s going on?” Dad asks Daniel.

“Sarah and I thought you guys might want to take a look at our new house.”

“What?” Mom cries. Her hands fly to her mouth. “When did this happen?”

“We closed on it last week,” Sarah says. “We didn’t want to tell anyone just in case it fell through.”

For the first time I notice we’re standing in front of a little bungalow with a contract pending sign in the yard. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell us!” I say, taking in the huge trees, the tiny front yard, the cracked sidewalk, and the house—Daniel and Sarah’s house.

“It was hard, believe me,” she confesses.

Dad and Daniel walk toward the front porch; Blake grabs my hand as we follow, squeezing it lightly. It’s cooler than mine, and damp somehow.

“I made sure we got an inspection,” Daniel is telling Dad. “There’s a lot of work to do. It’s a definite fixer-upper, but structurally, everything is great. I figured it wouldn’t take too long to renovate, even if Sarah and I did most of the work ourselves.

“And, you know, if others want to help we won’t turn anyone away,” Sarah teases.

“Of course we’ll help,” Mom says. “And if there’s nothing for me to do I’m always happy to watch my baby boy,” she continues, reaching out to take Joshua.

Daniel pulls a key out of his leather wallet and unlocks the front door. The house could use some work. The porch needs bracing; it sags slightly in the middle. The screen door needs replacing, and the entire exterior is in desperate need of fresh paint. The current coat is chipped and peeling, leaving the distressed, gray wood showing in many places. What isn’t flaking has turned a dingy, spotted brown.

“The good news is the last owners installed a central heat and air system,” Daniel says as we walk inside. “That was the only thing we were really concerned about.”

The six of us walk around, assessing the floors, peering out the windows, taking in the two, small bedrooms and the bathroom, which boasts hideous, avocado subway tiles.

“Hey, Sarah,” I say. “Nineteen-seventy called. It wants its bathroom back.”

She groans. “I know. We have so much work to do. The bathroom is as good as demolished. We aren’t keeping anything. We’re thinking about new carpet in the bedrooms, and hardwood floors in the entryway and living room, and updating the kitchen. Everything needs new paint . . . ,” she trails off, overwhelmed by the sheer amount of work the home needs.

“You’ll have us to help,” I assure her. “I know how to paint. And Daniel . . . God, he grew up doing this stuff.”

Sarah smiles at me. “I’d really like to get us in here before the wedding, so we have just over two months.” She gazes around the room, at the old carpet, the cracked walls, the dust. “It’s like, where do we even begin, you know? I’m sure we’ll be here every weekend from now on.”

“Oh, it’ll be fun. The paint and carpet samples? Actually having a reason to go to Home Depot? I think it’s awesome.”

Blake fixes his arm around me. I flinch, having forgotten he was even here. “I’m sure Jaden will be a lot of help, anyway. This is her kind of project.” He squeezes my side, pulling me close before letting go and heading over to the kitchen, where my dad and Daniel are discussing laminate versus engineered stone countertops.

“This is really great, Sarah,” I say, watching as he strolls away, his steps sure, confident. “I’m so happy for you guys.”

“Yeah, things are finally starting to come together for us. Can you believe at one time I thought my life was falling apart? I didn’t think we were ever going to make it to this.”

“It’s hard . . . not knowing, I mean,” I muse, examining the few, brown water stains on the ceiling.

“Tell me about it. I don’t know how I’m going to handle it all. Planning a wedding, renovating this place. . . . I’m totally asking for a nervous breakdown.”

“It’ll work out,” I promise her. “It always does.”

I walk through the little house, arms folded to keep warm, taking in the random cracks in the walls and ceiling, the dents in the baseboard—superficial things that, in a few months, will be completely erased.

Outside, the trees cast dark shadows over the street. Blake reappears beside me. “They definitely have their work cut out for them.”

“Yeah, but it’ll be fun. Making something new again. Breathing life into this place,” I say, caressing the jagged edge of the window moldings.

“I knew this was your kind of thing.” He moves behind me, running his fingers through my hair—a move he learned early on that I enjoy. I close my eyes.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I mumble.

“You know, the way you’re always helping everyone. Trying to make things better.”

“Saving the world,” I add, sarcastic.

“There’s nothing wrong with saving the world,” Blake says. “Not what can be saved, anyway.”

“What are you saying? There are things that can’t be saved?”

“Can’t be. . . . Don’t want to be. You know.”

He moves his hands to my shoulders, massaging them gently. Lips inching closer to my neck.

A gruff voice punctuates the stillness. “Hey, you. Break it up.”

My eyes fly open. Blake jumps back, jerking his hands away.

I spin around and glare at my brother, eyes rolling. “Seriously, Daniel.”

Chapter Eighteen

I slam the car door shut, sucking in a breath of fresh air, feeling the sun warm my shoulders. The days are getting longer, the entire world painted in bright, new greens.

I jog up the street and move toward the mailbox, stopping to check it out of habit. I’m surprised, when I pull the door open, to actually find mail inside. The driveway is empty. Mom must’ve taken Joshy somewhere. I remove the pile of mail, then flip through it. Bill, bill, bill, a credit card offer for Phillip, a couple of catalogs. . . . And there, hidden away in the stack, is something addressed to me. I glance at the return address on the crisp, white envelope, and I recognize the crest immediately: VE RI TAS. Truth.

For a moment, my heart stops beating. It picks up again, pounding harder, blood roaring in my ears.

This is it.

I take a ragged breath, stuff the envelope in my backpack, and move to the front porch. No one answers as I open the door and call out, my heart striking one, suspended beat after another. I run into the kitchen and dump the rest of the mail on the counter, race upstairs to my bedroom, and shut the door. Shaking and out of breath, I open my bag and pull out the letter, then toss it onto my bed. I stare at it for a moment, my body warm but my hands freezing and clammy, as if my own temperature can’t regulate itself properly.

I take a deep breath, sliding my damp palms across my jeans, trying to steady my nerves. I’ve waited forever for this moment. Knowing the answer is two steps in front of me leaves my head spinning. I reach out and pick up the envelope, then carefully tear it open. An excited smile pulls at my lips as I remove the letter. Even the paper feels official—soft and thick. I open the folds. Dear Miss McEntyre. . . .

I skim ahead, reading quickly. Although we were very impressed by your academic achievements . . . your active involvement in important . . . only a small number of applicants who applied . . . We Regret To Inform You.

“We regret to inform you,” I mutter aloud, collapsing on the edge of my bed. I let out a tiny, barely audible laugh. A gasp. “I didn’t get in.”

The blood completely drains from my head; my heart hammers in my chest.

They didn’t accept me.

A gigantic swell rises inside, stomach churning, like a river flooding its banks, the current seizing everything in its path. My plans, my aspirations, my dreams: swept away. It was Harvard or nothing . . . and here it is, my entire future in front of me: nothing. The letter in my hands living proof.  A heavy numbness washes over me, as if to protect me from this new information, this knowledge, myself.

How could this happen? I did everything right. I took Honors and AP classes. I’m involved in every freakin’ activity known to man. I’m up for Salutatorian for God’s sake: number two in my class. I’m going to med school; I’m going to make a difference. What did I do wrong?

And then a new realization: what am I going to tell my parents? My hands shake, the letter trembling with them. Tears materialize in the corners of my eyes, stinging, blurring my surroundings. I suck in a shallow breath. What am I gonna tell Blake? And Savannah? What about my teachers? Everyone is expecting me to go to Harvard. How do I explain this? What do I even say?

Do not cry, Jaden.

The front door opens and shuts. I freeze.

“Jaden?”

Mom.

“I’m upstairs,” I say, springing into action. I force the letter back into the envelope, fingers struggling clumsily, then wedge it inside a random book perched on top of my desk.

“Would you mind helping with the groceries?” she asks. “I’ve got Joshua with me.”

I hurry to my bathroom, check my face and eyes. Though red, they look more tired than anything, and my face isn’t at all splotchy. It is, however, pale. A ghastly white.

I fan my eyes so the first of my tears will disappear, and pinch my cheeks, resuscitating them. I can’t say anything—not yet. I have to figure this out.

As soon as I’m fully composed I head downstairs, meeting Mom in the foyer. “If you could bring the rest in, that would be great.”

“Sure,” I reply, faking a smile.

A few minutes later I enter the kitchen, arms full of cloth grocery bags. “Good day?” she asks me, sifting through the stack of bills and magazines.

“Yeah,” I reply, without hesitating. “Always.” The enthusiasm sounds false, even to my own ears.

“Good. Thank you for picking up the mail.”

I remove a carton of eggs and carry it to the refrigerator. “No problem.”

“Did we get anything special?”

“I didn’t see anything,” I answer, pulling on the handle.

It’s too easy, keeping my news a secret. Dad takes his dinner to his office, and wedding plans and house renovations dominate the conversation at the table. Everyone is consumed with their own projects. I help with the dishes then head to my room, citing “a lot of homework” as my excuse for not being social. On my way inside, I touch that Harvard sticker out of habit. When I remember, I rip it off the wall, pulling a strip of paint with it, exposing the gray drywall. I crumple it into a small, sticky ball and hurl it across the room. It smacks against my closet door before crashing to the floor and rolling, vanishing beneath my bed.

Don’t cry.

Later, I step into the shower. The scalding water transforms my pale skin to glowing pink—steam spewing to the ceiling, filling the room. My lungs are paralyzed, and the heat burns my throat. I can’t swallow or breathe or think.

Don’t cry, Jaden. You cannot cry.

When the last of the hot water vanishes, I emerge into the thick fog, my dark hair dripping puddles down my back and onto the floor. I wipe the haze off the mirror with my towel, barely recognizing the girl who appears, staring back at me.

*   *   *

“Jaden, honey, you look exhausted.”

Mom is feeding Joshua his breakfast at the table. I’m running behind, which is unusual. Everyone else has already left for the day.

I thought sleep would take away the redness and puffiness around my eyes, but even after applying a religious amount of concealer, the traces of suffering linger. I did my best, but it obviously isn’t good enough.

“Are you feeling okay?” she continues.

“Not really,” I reply, pulling one of Phillip’s granola bars from the box in the cupboard. “I think I may be getting a cold. Or something.” The lies are coming more quickly, easier.

“Well,” she begins, shoveling a spoonful of baby cereal into Joshua’s mouth, “you know you always catch one when the weather changes. And it’s been getting warmer.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re running kind of late. Are you going to make it?”

I glance at the clock on the microwave. “I just won’t be early.”

I grab the two bag lunches I made the night before and two bottled waters from the refrigerator. If Mom noticed we’re running out of waters and lunch meat faster than usual these last few weeks, she hasn’t let on. For that, I’m grateful.

“Have a good day,” she calls as I head out the door.

Thankfully, I have the entire ride to school to compose myself, to clear my head. As long as no one asks about Harvard, or if I’ve heard anything, I’ll be fine. As long as the conversation doesn’t navigate to college period, I’ll be great. I can do this.

There is nothing I cannot handle.

The one thing I don’t count on, however, is the only person in the entire world who I can’t hide anything from. Someone who seems to know me better than I know myself, whether I want him to or not.

“Jade!” he calls as I cross the parking lot.

My body grows rigid, muscles tensing. Of course. Today. Of all days. This is the day he’d pick to corner me in the parking lot. Forget that he barely says a word to me half the time. My jaw clenches, teeth grinding in frustration. I keep moving, feet striking the pavement with purpose. If I can just get inside . . . get to my locker, everything will be fine. My heart thumps in my ears.

“Jade!”

It’s as if our roles reversed—we’ve come full circle—because at one time, not too long ago, even, I was the one chasing him across the parking lot. I should laugh at this. It’s funny.

His footsteps are quick—quicker than mine—and in a matter of seconds he’s behind me. “Jaden, wait.”

I ignore him and push forward, brushing my hair away from my face.

“God! What is wrong with you?” he asks, voice clipped and angry.

I wince, swallowing back the nausea rising at the words. You can’t cry, Jaden. Tears sting the corners of my eyes. Don’t cry. I can’t stop. I can’t look at him. I can’t cry because he’ll know. Everyone will know. The entire world blurs behind salty tears, a swirling mix of asphalt and blue skies and a thousand shades of green.

Keep moving.

He reaches out and grabs my arm, spinning me around to face him. “Jaden,” he says firmly.

His stony eyes search mine, hard, his features tight. Tears stain my vision. I can barely focus. But I can see his expression soften. I jerk my face away from him, unable to hide.

“What happened?”

His voice, laced with fear and worry: that’s all it takes. The tears spill over and run down my cheeks. I wipe them away with the back of my thumbs, but the more I swipe the harder they fall. I can’t stop. I let out a sob in the middle of the parking lot. In front of Parker Whalen. With people watching.

He puts his hands on either side of my face, turning me back to him. “What happened?” he repeats, voice anxious. Unhinged, even. “You have to tell me.” The endless possibilities seem to play out in his eyes.

“I . . . I d-didn’t get in,” I stammer. Admitting this out loud—saying the actual words—it cements the whole awful idea into reality. It’s official: I’m not going to Harvard. I’m done.

I can’t tell if he’s relieved by the news, but everything relaxes: his eyes, his jaw. His hands release me, falling to his sides. I lean into him, not wanting him to let go, resting my head on his chest, burying my face in his cool, leather jacket. He curses under his breath and wraps his arms around me, squeezing, holding me. “I am so sorry,” he whispers.

“I’m such a hack,” I mutter, breathing in the soft, worn leather. The smell of Parker. “No one is gonna take me seriously ever again.”

He pulls away. “Just because you didn’t get into your choice college, that doesn’t make you a hack. I mean, I know it can’t feel good . . .”

“What am I gonna tell everyone?” I interrupt, clumsy tears streaming down my cheeks. I wipe my runny nose across the cuff of my jacket sleeve.

“The truth. They aren’t going to think any less of you.”

“I—I can’t.” As hard as I’ve worked to become the Jaden who held it all together. . . . I’m a pathetic, crying, blubbering mess. “I can’t go in there.” I glance toward the building, the halls filling, people staring at us as they pass.

He pauses for a moment, searching my eyes. “Are you saying you want to get out of here?” he asks, seeming uncertain if that’s what I really want, or if it’s the stress talking.

Is that what I’m saying? I think so. “Yes.”

“Then give me your keys.”

I sniff. “What?”

“Hand them to me.”

They jingle softly as I pass them over.

He takes my hand, locking his fingers with mine, and pulls me across the parking lot. He moves quickly. I jog to keep up with him as we dodge cars.

When we reach my white Civic, he presses the keyless entry remote and the doors unlock.

“You know you could get in trouble for this, right?”

I nod.

“And you still want to do it?”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure?” He watches my face for signs of hesitation.

I waver, but only for a moment, before nodding again. It’s perilously easy for me to make this choice: to step out into this world, to leave everything else behind. “Yeah.”

He opens the driver’s side door. “Then we’re gone.”

Chapter Nineteen

Once we hit the highway I reach for my purse, digging for my cell phone. I push the power button until it trills, shutting off. I don’t need anyone trying to find me. Not right now.  I open my glove box and pull out the small package of tissues I keep tucked away for emergencies. I blow my nose, then reach for the visor and lift the mirror. My eyes are red, but tearless, and the only remnants of my hugely public emotional breakdown are the little black flakes of mascara sprinkled below my lashes. I rub beneath them with my fingers, working to make them disappear.

“You okay?” Parker asks.

I take a deep breath, my lungs shuddering. “Yeah,” I reply. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry? For what?” His brows furrow.

“For that. Back there.”

He glances over at me. “You don’t have to apologize. You have every right to be upset.”

“Jaden McEntyre doesn’t get upset. Not in front of people, anyway,” I mumble.

“Apparently she does.”

I frown, the fields and pine trees and telephone lines blurring past.

“It’s not a bad thing, you know,” he goes on. “It’s okay to cry. To let people know you’re hurting.”

“Yeah, well, I’m the one who’s supposed to keep it together.”

“No. You’re not. The only person who expects that is you.”

I bite into my lower lip. “Still.”

“No. Not still.” He pauses for a beat. “Anyway. It doesn’t change anything. You’re still the same, boring Jade.”

I glance over at him, feeling the smile tugging at the corners of my lips, and our eyes meet.

“If anything,” he goes on, “it makes you more real.”

We continue driving until the Hamilton skyline appears in the distance. “Wow. When you get away, you really get away, don’t you?” I muse, gazing at the wide expanse of buildings.

Parker smiles. “Well, I figure if you’re gonna screw things up by skipping school, the day better be worth it.” He glances over his shoulder and changes lanes, picking up speed.

“So you’re saying you’re a pro. At skipping school, I mean.”

“Something like that. The difference is that skipping school to get trashed leaves you with a mad hangover and feeling worse at the end of the day—and nothing to show for it on top of everything else.”

I sigh. “I wouldn’t know a thing about that.”

“Yeah, well, I do. That’s why today will be different.”

“I’m all for getting trashed,” I confess.

“I’m sure you are, except I’ll clue you in on a little something: when it’s over, your problems still exist.”

“All right. What do you suggest?”

“The zoo,” he states, matter of fact.

I turn my head, eyeing him strangely, wondering if I misheard, if he’s speaking in some sort of weird boy code. When he doesn’t explain or elaborate, I clear my throat. “The zoo?”

“Yeah,” he replies, glancing over at me, eyes meeting mine. “That’s okay, right? I mean, you aren’t allergic to chinchillas or anything, are you?”

“No,” I reply, laughing.

He turns his attention back to the road, smiling wryly. “See? It’s working already. It’s impossible to have a bad day when you’re at the zoo.”

It’s no surprise, when we pull into the parking lot of the Hamilton City Zoo, that it’s nearly empty. A few school buses are parked at the front, and two vans from a retirement village, but other than that the place is deserted. The morning sun shines brightly overhead; a cool, spring breeze blows past, tousling my hair. I zip my jacket to my neck as we climb out of the car.

“Do you come here often?” I ask as we head toward the ticket booth. A colorful sign advertises a new penguin pavilion.

“No. I’ve never been here before,” he confesses. He clears his throat, hesitating. “It was just this thing with my mom. When I was a kid, we fit in this low-income bracket that made us eligible for discount tickets to the zoo. I got in free and Mom got in half-price. It was cheaper than going to the movies, even, so whenever times were tough, and we couldn’t spend a lot of money, we’d go to the zoo. If things were really bad it was the library, because that didn’t cost a dime. I actually saw the library more than I ever saw the inside of the zoo, to be honest.”

“So that’s how you became a Wuthering Heights aficionado,” I tease.

“I like good stories,” he says. “And there’s something great about a guy who can take himself from nothing to something.”

“I can’t believe you like Heathcliff,” I mutter.

“I can’t believe you like Mr. Darcy. Two adults, please,” he says, leaning toward the speaker at the glass ticket window. He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet.

“You don’t have to pay for me,” I say, opening my purse. Parker is faster, though, and slips a twenty across the counter before I manage to locate my wallet among the lip glosses and sunglasses and tissues.

“Please,” he replies, rolling his eyes as he passes me a ticket. “Don’t go all feminist Nazi on me. It’s a gesture. Accept it.”

I snatch the ticket. “Fine. Gesture appreciated,” I mumble.

We stop just inside the gate and pick up a map highlighting the various exhibits.

“Where to?” he asks.

“I don’t know.”

“Well . . . we can go left, or right. Your call.”

Left or right. Two directions. Two different paths leading to the same finish. One not necessarily greater than the other. Just . . . a simple choice. A random act of preference.

I study the map. If we go left, we’ll hit the reptile room first. If we go right, the African Savannah.

Parker clears his throat.

“I know. I know. I’m thinking,” I say.

“No. It’s not that.”

I glance over at him. “What?”

“It’s just . . . your hair.”

“My hair?” I repeat.

“Yeah,” he says. His hand inches closer, fingers carefully brushing the strands away from my face. “It’s really red today.”

“Oh. I know. It’s the, um. . . .” I glance up at the sky, swallowing hard. “The sunlight. It’s auburn, so when I’m inside or in the dark, or it’s cloudy outside, it looks brown. But when I’m in the sun . . .”

“It’s almost copper,” he finishes quietly, the corners of his mouth twitching, amused.

Our eyes meet and I smile. “Yeah. It is.”

He watches me for another beat before clearing his throat and stepping back. “So. Which way?”

“Right,” I answer. “Lions, elephants, and antelopes.”

“Oh my,” Parker says, eyes wide.

“You’re so corny.” I punch him playfully on the arm, smiling brighter as we begin walking.

*   *   *

Our next stop is downtown Hamilton. We pass under the skyscrapers: massive office buildings towering above, like a world in themselves, dwarfing the rest of us. We drive through the NSU campus and into the historic district, which boasts little cafes, gift shops, boutiques, bookstores, and art galleries.

“Where are we?” I ask, opening the car door after we park.

“You’ve never been down here?”

I shake my head. “No.”

“Come on.” He waves me over. I walk around the car and meet him in the street. He grabs my hand as we dash across, eluding the oncoming traffic. “There’s a sandwich place,” he continues, “You haven’t lived until you’ve eaten here.”

My hand remains relaxed in his as we head down the tree-lined sidewalk, passing students and shoppers and businessmen and women in dark suits. It surprises me how natural it seems, how comfortable my hand feels wrapped around his—my fingers tucked safely between his fingers. His hand isn’t too cold, or too warm. It’s not sweaty or clammy. It’s . . . perfect. I work to appear unmoved by his touch, even as my pulse ratchets, and my shoulders fall a little when he finally releases me.

He pushes open the door to a deli, a little bell jingling as we pass through. Inside it’s darker, and the tables are full. There’s the buzz of conversation and the occasional shout of the cook as he yells out a number; the sizzle of meat frying on the grill; great whooshes of smoke rising to the ceiling; the sound of the stereo overhead, the strains of a guitar, something alternative.

“I’m recommending the cheesesteak,” Parker says, stepping back.

“Sounds good to me.”

He glances around. “It doesn’t look like there’s any room in here. Do you want to grab a table outside?”

I raise an eyebrow. “And let you pay for my lunch, too?” I reply, crossing my arms.

“God, Jade. Don’t make this so complicated.”

“It’s just that, instead of playing hooky it looks like this is a date. I wish you’d let me pay for my own food.”

“Well, the way I see it, we drove your car, and you’re going to have to fill up when we get back to town,” he explains. “My paying for the zoo and your lunch is like you paying for my gas to get here.”

I consider this.

“That’s what I thought. I’d call it even. What do you want to drink?”

“If you have to ask, you don’t know me as well as you think you do.” I smile and turn on my heel, heading for the exit. The little bell jingles again as I wander outside, moving toward the wrought-iron patio tables set up along the sidewalk.

The three and four-story buildings impede the sun; it’s cooler in the shadows. Goose bumps rise to the surface of my skin. I pull my jacket tighter and sit down at a table for two. There’s an art gallery and studio space across the street, a little gift shop, a night club, a clothing shop, a coffee house. . . . A banner advertises APARTMENTS FOR RENT.

“I like this place,” I tell Parker when he arrives with our food.

“Great, isn’t it?” He passes me a bottled water, then sits down across from me.

“Hey. What happened?” I ask, reaching for his wrist. Parker pulls back, tugging at the sleeve of his leather jacket, covering a dark bruise.

“God. It’s my stupid dresser,” he explains, smile collapsing. “It’s parked right by the door. I hit it at least once a day.”

“Ouch.”

“Tell me about it. Anyway. I like this part of town—the whole vibe. It’s artsy and fun. It would be a great place to live,” he continues, nodding toward the building across the street.

“Yeah, I saw that there were apartments,” I reply, gazing up at the fourth floor windows.

“And it’s walking distance to campus. See that building right there?” he points to the far end of the street. “That’s the Language and Literatures building.”

“Are you trying to tell me something?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Just conveying the obvious.”

I open the wrapper of my cheesesteak. “Good, because for a minute there I could’ve sworn you were trying to convince me to go to NSU.”

“What’s wrong with that? Didn’t you apply here?”

“I did,” I reply mechanically.

“Didn’t you get in?”

“With a scholarship.”

“Don’t they have a med school?” He presses.

I sigh. “Yes. Your point?”

“They actually have a pretty good med school,” he states, matter of fact. “Best in the state.”

I roll my eyes. “Again. Your point?”

“My point is: life doesn’t end just because you didn’t get into Harvard. You can still go to med school, you know . . . still make a difference.”

“I know,” I reply, picking at the soft bread of my sandwich, the inside steaming hot. “It’s just that . . . Harvard was important to me. And I thought I did everything right. I mean, I was nervous about getting in, but that’s just because I wanted to know what their decision was. I never really sat back and wondered what I would do if I wasn’t accepted,” I confess. “It’s like, the biggest fail ever.”

“You know what the problem is?” He doesn’t give me a chance to answer before going on. “And don’t take this the wrong way,” he warns. “It’s just that I don’t think you’ve been told ‘no’ very often. You’re the baby of the family, the only girl, the teacher’s pet. You’re used to getting everything you want when you want it.”

I frown, eyes dropping, hesitating. “Yeah, well, what’s wrong with that?”

“What’s wrong with that is that it’s not how the real world works. That’s why, sometimes, it’s good to be flexible. When you don’t get what you want, you make other plans.”

I don’t respond to this. So yeah, maybe I’m not used to hearing “no,” but that’s because I don’t wait for things to happen; I make them happen. Getting into Harvard is the first big thing I haven’t been able to make happen, and it sucks.

I pick up my cheesesteak and take a bite. The meat and cheese melt in my mouth, dripping onto my plate, delicious.

“Can I give you a little free advice?” Parker continues, lips pressed in a cautious line. “Do with it what you want, but I think you should forget Harvard and move on. Yeah, it’s a huge bummer, but you can’t just up and abandon everything because one little thing didn’t go exactly as planned.”

I set my sandwich back down and wipe my mouth quickly with my napkin, digesting everything he’s saying, feeling my temper flare. “Speak for yourself. I mean, speaking of abandoning things. You’re just going to bail, anyway. Why should I listen to you?” I ask, still chewing.

“That’s different: I’m not bailing.”

“What do you call it then, Parker? You said yourself you’re leaving. What are you going to do? Where are you even gonna go?”

“I call my plans moving on, too. Just in a different way.” He scoots to the edge of the chair and reaches for his own sandwich, tone defensive.

“I know. And I get it. I just . . . I don’t understand why college can’t be part of that.”

He frowns. “I thought this whole day was about you. We aren’t supposed to be talking about me and my problems.”

“It’s just sad, Parker, that’s all,” I say, voice softening. “You’re so smart.”

“Yeah, well, so are you.”

“So where does that leave us?” I ask.

“Two very smart people without an absolute, concrete plan for the future,” he confirms.

I smile.

“But before all of that, two very smart people who are probably going to be in the deepest shit imaginable when they get home,” he clarifies, brow creasing. The words are left hanging in the air between us. “But you know,” he continues after a few, quiet seconds, “the moment—good, bad, whatever it is—doesn’t last forever.” He shrugs. “You’ll figure something out. I’ll figure something out. Life goes on.”

*   *   *

We return to school just after four o’clock in the afternoon. Parker’s motorcycle is the only vehicle left in the student parking lot.

“Back to reality,” I mumble as he pulls my car into the space beside it. “But the bright side is I had a really great time today.” I clutch the postcard of the tree-lined street Parker paid twenty-five cents for at one of the gift shops. It’s of the same neighborhood we ate at and shopped in. The photo was taken early in the morning, the streets are empty, and a few rays of sunlight peek through a low-lying fog. “One of the best days I’ve had in a long time, even,” I finish.

“I’m glad.”

We climb out of my car, stretching our legs. Parker leaves the engine running. He was right: I’ll have to stop by the gas station on my way home. He grabs his bag and helmet from the back seat as I circle to the driver’s side, thinking that this was one of the most perfect days I’ve ever had. And not necessarily because of what I did or where I went . . . but who I was with.

I spin around to face him. “It’s just that, I know I’m gonna have to explain everything now, and I don’t know what to say.”

He looks up at me. “About Harvard?”

“Yeah,” I reply, folding my arms.

He moves in, standing almost on top of me, his dark eyes grasping mine. “Tell them that Harvard made the biggest mistake imaginable and didn’t admit you. But it’s okay, because you’re still gonna go on and do great things.”

“You make it sound so simple.”

“It is simple. No one is going to think any less of you—especially not your family and friends. And if they do . . . their priorities are screwed up, not yours,” he finishes, voice soft and eyes gentle. His words send flutters rippling through the pit of my stomach.

My breath hitches in my throat as Parker tucks my hair behind my ear for me, tracing the contour of my face. My eyes close, and I lean into his hand. His thumb moves across my lips, brushing them, and when I open my eyes he’s inching closer. I feel that familiar pull—that part of me I keep failing to silence—and let myself imagine what it would mean to kiss him.

Then, like Ethan and Mattie on the sled, rushing toward that tree, an image of Blake . . . my mom . . . Savannah . . . flashes through my mind. I swerve, jolting to reality.

I spring back, bumping into my car door, heartbeat erratic. I steady myself, and clear my throat. “Um, thank you. Again. For everything.” I go to tuck my hair behind my ear, but Parker has already done it for me. I run my fingers through it anyway, cheeks simmering with an excited, embarrassed, and frustrated heat all at once.

He smiles ruefully, backing away. “Any time.”

Chapter Twenty

On my way to the gas station, I finally pull out my cell phone. When I turn it on, I have twenty-one missed calls and nine voicemail messages. I groan. Maybe I should’ve left it on. The first is from Savannah. She speaks in hushed tones, and I can hear school hallway static behind her.

“Okay, I’m just warning you that Blake is about to call. It’s second period and come to find out you have apparently bailed today, and rumor has it some people saw you leave with Parker Whalen. I’m not judging you, Jaden, but your boyfriend is pissed. Half the school is talking about it. Just . . . get your story straight, first, I guess.”

The message beeps.

The next is from Blake, short and to the point. “It’s Blake. Call me.”

The message beeps.

The next is Ashley. “Hey, girl. Did you seriously skip school today with Parker Whalen? Because if you did, I don’t know why I wasn’t informed. Cell it.” Beep.

Another message from Blake. “It’s Blake again. Just trying to figure out what’s going on today. Call me.” Beep.

“Jaden, honey, it’s Mom. The school called wondering if you were sick. I told them you weren’t feeling well this morning, but went to school anyway. Where are you? Give me a call back.”

I groan.

“Jaden, it’s Mom again. You’re not at school and you haven’t come home. Where are you and why isn’t your cell phone on? I better hear from you soon.” Beep.

“It’s Savannah, again. Call me.” Beep.

“Jaden, it’s Blake. Why aren’t you returning my calls?” Beep.

“Jaden, it’s past lunch and I haven’t heard from you. You’re grounded the moment you walk through the front door.”

My cell phone trills just as I’m pulling into the gas station. Savannah’s name lights up the screen. I answer it.

“Oh my God, Jaden! We’ve been trying to call you all day!” I move the phone away from my head, ears ringing.

“I know. I just . . . had a moment, that’s all.”

“I’m sorry . . . does ‘moment’ mean ‘complete and total loss of discretion’?” she asks.

I smile. “Yeah, something like that.”

“So you were with Parker?”

“Yes, I was with Parker.” There’s no sense lying. It sounds like everyone already knows, anyway, and it’s not like I can keep something like this from my best friend.

“And?”

“And what?”

“Do you mind explaining this a little better? I mean, Blake is going crazy, and your mom called—she’s totally freaked. I don’t know why you couldn’t of just left a note.”

“It wasn’t planned.”

“What happened to you?” she asks.

“I was. . . .” I trail off, and let out a huge sigh. “I was having a bad day, and Parker, I don’t know, took me away for a while.”

“Where did you go?”

“Hamilton. The zoo. Lunch. We did some shopping.”

“Oh my God,” she mumbles. She lets out a tiny laugh, like she can’t trust her own ears. Parker Whalen? Lunch and shopping?

I smile. “I know.”

“I don’t get it, though. Skipping school? Come on, Jaden. That’s not like you at all.”

I take a deep breath. At some point, I’m going to have to start talking. “I got my letter from Harvard yesterday,” I finally tell her.

Her tone instantly lifts. “Really?” she asks. She pauses for a moment, getting it. “Oh. Really.”

I sigh. “Yeah. Really.”

“So, um, I guess things didn’t exactly work out like you thought?”

“You could say that.”

“Oh, no! Jaden, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I reply, shrugging. “That’s life, right?”

“But I know how important it was to you. Does, um, anyone else know?”

“No. And that was kinda the problem, I guess. I didn’t tell anyone, so when I got to school this morning I was already upset. And then I ran into Parker, and it was obvious I was upset . . . so he was the first person I told. You’re the second.”

“You should’ve called yesterday! I would’ve come over!”

“I know, I was—I am, actually—really bummed out about it.”

“So . . . is this something I should keep to myself?”

“No point. I’m going to have to tell my parents. I know my mom is furious. And well, I guess the fewer people I have to tell the better.”

“You know I can help with that,” she replies. I can tell she’s smiling, trying to make me feel better.

“I know. I’m counting on you. Just let everyone know I don’t really want to talk about it. No apologies or pitiful looks, k?”

“Got it.”

“So, um, what did Blake say?” I ask after a few, quiet moments.

“Nothing. He didn’t say a word all day. It was really awkward.”

“He knows,” I confirm.

“Everyone knows. Please be honest with me, Jaden. Do you like him?”

I know she’s talking about Parker. I sigh again. I want to give her a complete and honest answer to this question. I want an answer, period. But in the end: “I don’t know,” I confess.

“You can’t do this to Blake,” she says calmly. “If you need time to think about things . . . or whatever . . . you can’t just keep leading him on. It’s not fair to any of you.”

“I know,” I reply, inhaling deeply. “You’re right . . . I just . . . I don’t know. I mean, I might not have anything to worry about after today. It’s probably not even my decision to make. I’m probably as good as dumped.”

“Possibly.”

Another silence falls between us. At that moment, Blake is the least of my problems. I still have to get gas, and face whatever wrath waits at home. I tell Savannah I’ll see her in the morning and turn off the phone for the last time that day.

*   *   *

I didn’t anticipate how nervous I’d be when I finally park my car at the street in front of my house. I also didn’t count on Sarah being home—or Daniel, or Phillip. I just assumed it would be something they’d hear about later—not be part of. I take a series of deep breaths, trying to calm my racing nerves. There is nothing I cannot handle. My hands tremble as I reach for the front door knob, but before I can turn it, the door swings wide.

I open my mouth to speak, but the words become trapped in the back of my throat: nothing comes out.

“Get inside,” Daniel demands.

His voice is like ice on my skin, the chill escalating. My mouth clamps shut, and it’s all I can do not to burst into tears at the sound of it. He’s livid, noticeably worried . . . which, knowing him, probably pisses him off even more. I’m not sure which is worse: my mom and dad being mad at me, or Daniel. No one has ever been this kind of angry at me. Maybe that’s the worst part of all this: if I’ve never been told no before, I’ve also never been in serious trouble.

I follow Daniel into the dining room, where everyone except for my dad is sitting around the table. The wall clock, slowly ticking the moments away, reverberates throughout the room.

I take a brief inventory. Daniel? Fuming. Mom? Mad. Sarah? Concerned. Anxious for me, even. Phillip? The same as always—leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, only wanting a front row seat to the show. I will myself not to roll my eyes and take another deep breath. “Mom,” I begin.

“No. You sit down,” she commands.

I swallow hard, and pull out the chair at the head of the table. Daniel sits down beside me.

“Before I say anything else, I want you to know that you are grounded,” she says.

My eyes well with tears. I bite into my lower lip, nodding.

“You are forbidden to do anything outside of school. Anything that is not related to school. There are no extracurricular activities. You’re done . . . for the rest of the school year. That means no Blake, no Savannah, no ball games, no walks, or charities, or fundraisers.”

I nod again, the warm tears spilling over to my cheeks.

“Do you have an explanation for what happened today?” she asks, folding her arms across her chest, face grim. “At this point it doesn’t even have to be good.”

I shake my head, wiping my runny nose with the back of my hand. “No.”

“You can imagine how surprised I was to get a call from the office, Jaden. You didn’t look well this morning, but being sick never kept you from school. This is the first time you’ve ever missed perfect attendance and, good excuse or not, I’d like to know what was behind your decision to skip classes and not tell anyone.”

I can’t lie. It’s a small town. They’ll find out one way or another. It’s better for me to tell them everything than for them to find out through a third party. Besides, there’s no telling what kinds of rumors will circulate around school. My reputation as a conscientious Bedford citizen is officially over.

“I, um, was having a bad day,” I begin quietly, “and decided I couldn’t go to school.” I offer a small shrug, as if it were this simple.

“And you didn’t come home?” she asks, not understanding.

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because. . . .” I swallow hard. “I thought I needed to get away for a while. So . . . I left town.”

Mom shakes her head in disapproval. I can’t read her expression. Disappointment, maybe? It’s as if she’s seeing me—truly seeing me—for the very first time, in all my disgrace and imperfection.

“I’m afraid to even ask this, because I think I already know the answer, but does this have anything to do with Parker Whalen?”

“You better say no,” Daniel interjects.

“Daniel,” Sarah says.

I lower my eyes, unable to meet anyone’s gaze. This is where it gets ugly. “Yes,” I murmur, lip trembling.

Daniel slams his fist on the dining room table. I jerk to attention at the sound. “I knew it! What the hell is wrong with you, Jaden?” he shouts.

“Daniel, stop,” Sarah begs.

I burst into fresh tears, sinking under his anger. “I . . . I know! I probably shouldn’t have done it!” I cry.

“Probably? Probably? You are so effing naive sometimes! What were you even thinking?” His eyes flash, jaw tightening.

“I . . . I wasn’t. I just . . . I couldn’t go inside.”

“Why not?” he demands to know.

I open my mouth to tell them about Harvard, the words poised on my lips. But seeing their faces . . . Mom and Daniel so angry, so disappointed. . . . “I just . . . I needed to get away, that’s all.”

“This had to be his idea,” Daniel states.

“It was mutual,” I correct, not wanting Parker to take the entire fall. “I went with him.”

“Where did you go?” Sarah asks.

“Hamilton,” I whisper.

Daniel shoots to his feet, chair scraping across the hardwood floor, holding his head in disbelief. “You let a guy you don’t even know drive you all the way to Hamilton? That’s over an hour away, Jaden! What if something would’ve happened? Jesus Christ! No one could even reach you today!” His voice grows louder with every panting breath.

“You know,” Phillip interjects calmly, “this isn’t the first time one of us has skipped school.”

I look over at him, surprised. We all do.

“That’s not the point,” Mom says, eyeing him suspiciously. “I punished you boys for the same.”

“Yeah, the days you knew about.” He sits up and folds his hands, resting them on the table. “Come on, you had to know we skipped school way more than that.”

“That’s not the point,” Daniel repeats. “Jaden is better than that. We were stupid. She knows better. She’s going to Harvard for God’s sake.”

I flinch, cringing, but before I can correct him . . .

“Maybe that’s the problem,” Phillip replies. “Maybe she’s tired of being Good Little Jaden all the time. I mean, God. No one can be that perfect. I don’t think she’s ever been grounded in her life. She’s never made a single bad decision. When were we not proud of every little thing she’s done? At least she’s acting like a normal teenager.” He sits back in his chair. “Frankly, I’m relieved. I was beginning to think she was a freakin’ prude.”

I feel a half-smile tugging at the corners of my lips, appreciating the effort he’s making in defending me.

“She’s grounded now,” Daniel says, matter of fact.

Phillip rolls his eyes. “She’s eighteen years old and this is the first time she’s ever been grounded? Come on, you guys. So she skipped school with a guy we don’t know . . .”

“Who has a pathetic reputation,” Daniel points out. “She was warned about him, and now he’s bringing her down.”

I notice this argument is no longer focused completely on me; they go on as if I’m not even here.

“Yeah, well, we had pretty pathetic reputations, too,” Phillip reminds him.

“Boys are different. They’re supposed to be wild and uncontrollable,” says Mom.

Phillip laughs. “She’s a senior in high school. You’re what, graduating in a month and a half?” he asks me.

I bite my lower lip, nodding.

“If skipping school one day in her entire high school career is the only thing you can find to punish her for—and I’m sure it is—then I’d say she’s done an okay job,” he goes on. “God. Let her live a little. It would be nice for her not to be such a control freak all the time. For once, she actually seems like a normal human being. So she had a serious lapse in judgment. Jesus. It’s about time.”

The room grows quiet, except for the ticking clock as the pendulum swings back and forth. I check the hands. Five excruciating minutes have passed.

Still, no one speaks. I wipe the last of the tears from my eyes, refusing to meet anyone’s gaze.

Mom finally breaks the silence. “Despite all of that,” she states calmly. “You’ve crossed some serious lines today—our trust was broken. Because of this, you are grounded. The terms still stand. You may drive yourself to and from school, but that’s it. No activities of any kind . . . no friends, no dates. And when does your project end?”

“Project?”

“Your project . . . with Parker.”

I have to think for a moment. “Two weeks,” I answer.

“You are to finish this project, and then I don’t want you seeing him again. He’s proven himself a problem.”

He’s not a problem, I want to tell her, but knowing better, I keep my mouth shut.

“No phone calls. No television. You’re staying close to home for the remainder of the year. We will revisit this issue after graduation.”

Sarah clears her throat. “What about prom?” she asks.

“No prom,” Mom replies.

Phillip rolls his eyes. “You can’t not let her go to her senior prom.”

“Yes, I can,” she snaps.

“It’s okay,” I assure them. “I understand.”

She pushes her chair back, scraping it across the wood floor. “This is disappointing, Jaden, and it better not happen again.”

I nod.

“You have thirty minutes in your room. Get washed up and get back down here. You’re cooking dinner.”

I wipe my palms across my jeans, drying them, and stand. It’s not until I reach my bathroom that I finally breathe a massive sigh—of relief, disappointment, frustration—I don’t know. What I do know, I realize as I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, is despite what I just endured, which was not only a first for me, but could have been much, much worse, in my opinion, I don’t regret what I did. Yes, I skipped school with Parker; yes, it was wrong; but I can’t completely say that, if given the chance, I wouldn’t do it again. The truth is . . . I would.

Knowing this, I reach for the wrench perched on my sink, turn on the water, and wash away the rest of my tears.

Chapter Twenty-One

I roll over and glance at the bright digits on my alarm clock. It’s just after midnight; I’ve tossed and turned for more than an hour. I move to my other side, stare at my dresser for a moment, then flip back over. I adjust my pillow beneath my head, fluffing and squeezing, and shut my eyes tightly, willing myself to fall asleep. I’m not even remotely tired. My mind wrestles with one anxious thought after another: what to do about Parker, about Blake, what I’m going to tell my parents about Harvard.

Moments later I hear tapping. My eyes fly open, and I remain absolutely still as I wait, focusing on the noise. It’s soft. But it’s there. Tap. Tap. Tap.

The window. I fling my covers aside and plant my feet firmly on the cool floor, then tiptoe toward my window. I reach forward and draw back my curtain, then carefully lift one of the blinds. I smile when I see Parker, crouched low on the roof. He points up, then stealthily creeps away.

My pulse quickens. I grab my comforter from the bed and lock the door, then hurry to my closet, entering as quietly as possible. I feel my way along the wall, shrouded in darkness.

Parker is waiting for me as I cross the third floor.

“What are you doing here?” I hiss as he climbs inside. I try to feign disapproval, but the smile behind my voice is obvious. The truth? I’m happy to see him.

“I would’ve called, except I don’t have your number,” he whispers. I shut the window behind him. “That complicates things.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered, because I’m not allowed to answer the phone ever again.”

“I figured. How bad was it?” he asks, lowering himself onto my beanbag chair. It rustles beneath him. I sit down on the floor, and, even though it’s not nearly as cold as it was a few weeks before, wrap my comforter around me.

“Honestly? I’ve never really been in trouble, so it was bad . . . but it could’ve been worse, I guess. I have nothing to base it on.”

“What are the terms?”

“I’m grounded for the rest of the school year. I can’t go anywhere with anyone, or do anything. No fundraisers or walks . . . no phone calls. Oh, and I’m never supposed to see you ever again,” I add.

He smirks. “That bites. Good thing our project is almost due.”

“Are you finished?”

“No,” he replies. “You?”

“No.” Silence. I clear my throat. “So, um, are you grounded or anything?” I ask.

“Nah. I got home expecting hell, but the old man wasn’t there. He didn’t say anything about it tonight, so I figure he doesn’t know, or doesn’t care. Tomorrow I’ll just forge a note saying I was sick or something. My absence won’t even be unexcused.” He smiles, but it’s not a smile that brightens his eyes, or lights up his features. It seems contrived, more forced than anything.

I groan. “You are so lucky.”

“That my dad doesn’t know enough to realize I skipped school? Or the fact that he might know but doesn’t care?”

I bite my lower lip.

“You’re lucky, Jade,” he goes on. “Lucky to have people around you who give a shit. Don’t ever underestimate that.” He pauses for a moment. “So . . . what did they say about Harvard?”

“Nothing,” I say, sighing in frustration as I look away. “I couldn’t do it.”

“You have to tell them.”

“I know.” I groan again, feeling my forehead. “I just . . . I don’t know how, or what to say. It’s not the right time.”

“If you’re waiting for perfect timing, you’re gonna be waiting a long time,” he points out. “There is no such thing, even. You just do what you have to do and hope for the best.”

I exhale, the air escaping my lungs. He’s right. Always.

“They love you, Jade. They aren’t going to be mad at you, or disappointed, despite what you may think,” he adds.

“I know.” I shift position, moving closer to the beanbag chair—something to lean on. This puts me right next to Parker, almost touching him, though I’m not sure if he’s as aware of it as me. I prop my chin up with my hand. “It’s a good thing our project is almost over, I guess,” I continue after a few, quiet moments. “No more hanging out in the library. Or ditching school.” I hate thinking that in a few short weeks it’ll all be over. Parker will move on, I’ll move on, and there will be nothing left to connect us, nothing to bring us together.

“We can always have a third floor rendezvous,” he teases. “They can’t take that away from us.”

I sit quietly, pushing my cuticles back with my fingernail, wondering what’s going to happen to us when we’re done. When school is out. We’ve only had a month and a few weeks together, but part of me can’t imagine not seeing Parker anymore. I can’t really remember ever not knowing him, not being with him like this. I swallow back the heavy lump in my throat. It’s not even something I want to think about. “How did you know I’d be up?” I finally ask, curious.

He shrugs. “I had a hunch you’d have trouble sleeping. I figured I could at least keep you company.”

My skin tingles, sending warm shivers through the length of my body. “Admit it,” I say, grinning widely. “You like me.”

He laughs softly, cheeks reddening in the darkness. “I’m not admitting anything.”

I lean into him, eyes narrowing. “You wanted so badly to hate my guts, and you can’t do it. I think it’s awesome.”

“I didn’t want to hate you. I just didn’t want to like you,” he clarifies. He glances at my lips, then studies me quietly. And his eyes, they’re full of something. Something I haven’t seen before. A wanting. A longing. A craving. And he’s right there. So close I can feel the heat of his body.

My stomach tumbles to my knees, heart fluttering. And it’s happening. That moment. That pull between us, drawing me in. Only this time I can’t find anything to hold me back; there’s nothing stopping me. “There’s a difference?” I ask, inching closer.

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” he whispers, his breath warm on my lips.

I close the space between us, touching his skin, kissing him softly on the cheek, just to the corner of his mouth. He slides his fingers through my hair, turning into me, and our lips connect, sending jolts of electricity coursing through my veins. I let out a quick gasp of air, knowing we’ve crossed that invisible line, jumped off a cliff we can never re-climb. This changes everything.

His lips move hungrily across my cheek, grazing my jaw line, kissing the curve of my ear.

My fingers curl around his leather jacket, and in a moment of impulsive want I push him back, straddling his lap as the beanbag chair rustles beneath us. Parker’s hand slips beneath my tank top, pressing into the small of my back, pulling me into him. His body is warm, and I run my fingers over his muscular chest, around his neck, through his hair, as our mouths crush together.

His hand slides the strap to my tank top aside, and he moves his lips, kissing my shoulder. My heart does a nervous flip, accelerating, rendering me breathless. The entire world goes weightless, his arms wrapping protectively around me as I face this irrational and crazed longing to keep him close to me forever. Because there is no one else. There is nothing. There is no Harvard. No Blake. No Ethan or Mattie or parents. There’s only Parker . . . and me. A wave of satisfaction washes over me. And suddenly my world is dizzy with promise, with the only dream that matters: us.

I snap away from him. Tugging against his leather jacket. Fumbling. He works to shrug it away, pulling his arms through the sleeves. He lifts us upright, and I wrap my legs around his waist, pressed tight against his body as he moves me backward, lowering us both to my comforter crumpled on the attic floor. A surge of heat rushes through me, and I’m swallowed in darkness.

He pauses, lips inches away, and I’m aching for them, because I’ve never wanted something—someone—so badly. And there’s only one thing I can hear above the heavy rush of my breaths and pounding heart: the little voice in my head, telling me something I’ve known for quite a while but couldn’t admit to myself: I am unequivocally, madly, desperately in love—I’ve completely fallen for Parker Whalen, the strong, silent, rebel who seems to know me inside and out.

His liquid black eyes reach me, assessing mine, and I suck in a quick burst of air, breathing in the smell of leather and traces of sweet cologne mixed with night air: an intoxicating mix that is, somehow, Parker.

“I think . . . I might . . . ,” I try to speak, my thoughts tangled in a thorny web of emotions.

A flush crawls across my neck, my heart unsteady as he moves in slowly, face bending to mine. My eyes close, and his lips brush my lips with warm kisses, moving slowly, fingers sliding my hair away from my face, caressing my skin, leaving it tingling in his wake.

My hand slides beneath his white t-shirt, feeling the smooth skin of his muscular back. I pull it, tugging. He grabs the collar and slips it over his head, the thin cotton stretching.

And there, in the moonlight, its pale incandescence falling across his toned abs, bruises in one stage of healing or another. Clear, even in the darkness. Some nearly faded, others fresh. New. They spread across his stomach and his chest and arms as secrets hidden, silent, each with its own nauseating history.

“Oh my God,” I choke, working to pull myself up, heart pumping faster. “Parker,” I whisper. “What happened to you?”

His eyes fix on mine, and he swallows hard. “Jade . . . I’m not . . . ,” he trails off, running his hands over his face. When I see him again his expression is stone, eyes conflicted, haunted. “I can’t.” He backs away from me, reaching for his t-shirt, standing as he pulls it on. “It’s nothing,” he says. “Don’t worry about it.” I feel a spike of panic at his chilly tone, words like ice curving along my skin.

“You have to tell me what happened,” I beg, choking as I struggle to find my feet, legs shaking beneath me, my head light.

He’s already zipping his jacket, but he can’t take it back; he can’t hide. Not from me.

“Parker,” I hiss.

He lifts the window sash.

“We can’t do this,” he says.

“Did your dad do it?” I ask, moving in front of him, blocking his path to the exit. “Did this happen today? Because of me?”

Parker scoffs, eyes narrowing. “Damn it, Jaden. Don’t give yourself that much credit. Not everything is about you. The school, this town, the entire fucking world. This might come as a shock, but the universe doesn’t revolve around you.”

“That’s why you want to get away, isn’t it?” I confirm, ignoring him. “He hurts you.”

He laughs curtly, shaking his head. “It’s not what you think.”

“It’s not funny! You have to tell someone!”

“Are you even listening to me?” he asks, glaring at me, his obsidian eyes cold. Dark and hollow. Like before.

He can deny it all he wants, but I know what I saw, and there’s no way—all those bruises? There’s no way those are all accidents. “Parker . . . this is a big deal! He can’t do that to you!” I struggle to keep my voice low, knees trembling.

“I have to go. I shouldn’t be here. None of this should’ve happened.” I listen to his heavy breaths. Watch the ragged rise and fall of his chest and shoulders.

My eyes narrow. What is he saying? He regrets coming here? It—all of it—was a mistake? “What?”

“Get out of my way,” he demands.

I step aside, biting into my lower lip as Parker lifts his leg and climbs out the window. I have to do something. To say something. To stop him.

“Look, I know you think that I’m like, this huge goody two shoes or whatever, and I realize I’m not the best person to give advice about something like this, but I know when . . .”

“You don’t know anything,” he interrupts. “Just keep that in mind.”

In the next moment he’s fully outside my third floor window, standing tall on the roof. “No one hears about this. No one. Got it?”

I rub my arms, hugging myself, eyes wet.

“Jaden?”

I wipe my running nose against the inside of my wrist, and trace an invisible X across my chest, crossing my heart. He eyes me carefully for a moment, his expression softening—hurt registering in his features—but this seems to satisfy him.

And so I wait, silent, as he climbs down that huge, black oak tree, then watch as he hurries away, disappearing into the smoky fog.

Chapter Twenty-Two

I spend a restless night tossing and turning. Imagining awful things. Like Parker. His bruises. Flinching to avoid a blow. When I’m yanked from the nightmares the following morning, I still have eleven minutes before my alarm is supposed to sound. I shut it off and lie quietly, feeling the dull ache behind my eyes; collecting my thoughts; wondering when, exactly, my life became so complicated.

I’m not sure what I did to deserve all of this, but I know if it continues, I’ll never dig my way out of the hulking abyss I’ve managed to sink into. And so I slowly crawl out of bed and walk to my desk. Unsure exactly which book I crammed my letter from Harvard in, I pull out each one and flip through the pages until the white envelope flutters to the floor. There’s truth in what Parker said. This isn’t about my not doing something right; it’s about not getting everything I want all the time.

I didn’t not get into Harvard because I hadn’t worked for it. Maybe there were people out there who worked a little harder, who deserved it a little more. Maybe I don’t belong at an Ivy League school. Maybe something, or someone out there, knows me better than I know myself, and Harvard isn’t the answer.

More than anything else, though: this can be fixed.

In twenty-four hours my problems have taken on a life all their own: rooting and spreading; they’ve mushroomed in such a way that it seems silly not to cross this one, minor thing off the proverbial list. In the grand scheme of things—life and the universe—my not getting into the school of my choice is inconsequential; it’s trivial, even.

My door creaks as I ease it open. The house is still, quiet, save the ticking of the grandfather clock echoing through the foyer. I tiptoe to the middle of the hallway and stop. Two doors. Two options.

In the end, I choose Phillip. I pick him because he stood up for me. He deserves to know, first, why I needed to get away. It doesn’t explain everything, but it’s a start.

I listen at his bedroom door, at the sound of his light snoring. I drop the letter to the floor, and slide it beneath the crack with my toes. With any luck, it’ll be the first thing he sees when he wakes up. He’ll set things in motion for me.

I sigh as I return to my room. Part of me wants another day—a day to be sick, a day to get out of town. I need time. I need to figure this out. Because I don’t know what to do about . . . well, anything.

As I shower, I wonder what waits downstairs. I wonder what I’ll face when I drive onto the school parking lot. I wonder what I’ll say when I see Parker. When I see Blake. I wonder what people will say to me. About me. About what I did. Sympathetic smiles. Encouraging nods. Staring. Whispering.

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. Parker’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 felt 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?”

He remains still for a moment, motionless, face white as he searches mine.

I suck in a quick breath, and wait.

“I’m telling you that we’re over,” he finally confirms.

The words slice through me, stinging. They leave that quick, gut-punch feeling in their wake. I let out a sarcastic laugh, feeling a sudden burst of arrogance. “What? What’s over? What have we started that you want finished?” I demand to know.

“We can’t do this,” he says.

“We can’t do it? Or you can’t do it?” I ask him. “Or maybe you don’t want to do it.”

He steps back, expression flat.

“Come on, Parker,” I continue, with the vain hope that something I say will make some kind of difference. “What’s the problem? If you don’t like me then tell me. If you don’t want us to go any further then fine, but I’m going to tell you something: that’s not what I want at all.” I fold my arms across my chest, feeling a raw shiver skitter up my spine. “And run away all you want, but you can’t hide anything from me. So stop pretending like none of this is a big deal.”

His brow evens as his features relax, but he doesn’t respond.

I laugh again. “I’m giving you the perfect out. Our project is almost over, we’ll be graduating, and we’ll never see each other again. If that’s what you want then say it!”

The animosity returns. His jaw tightens. “That’s how it was supposed to be in the first place,” he manages bitterly, his troubled eyes locked to mine.

“So what happened?” I ask, lifting my arms. “I don’t understand. What’s the problem here?”

When he doesn’t answer, I continue. “I’ll tell you what happened. What happened is that . . . I fell in love with you, Parker. That whole thing about timing? You were right: there is no such thing as perfect timing. And this is the worst timing ever, actually, because you’re going to go on, you’re going to graduate and leave. And that’s fine, but I’m telling you, right now, at this moment, I think . . . I think I love you.” My voice breaks, cracking as I say the words. “I love you more than I’ve ever loved . . . anything. And you have been on my mind for weeks. And being late that day—you being my partner—is the best thing that ever happened to me. And forgive me if I thought that maybe you felt the same way. Was I wrong thinking that?”

He swipes away the blood trickling from his nose with the back of his hand.

“You can at least give me that much, Parker. You can run away, you can hide forever, but look me in the eye and tell me you don’t love me, first.”

He shakes his head, and looks toward the gray, cloud-filled sky. “I don’t love you,” he mutters easily. “I can’t.”

“You didn’t even look at me and say it!” I shout, infuriated. If he’s going to end things between us, I deserve to be told directly. “Look me in the eye, and tell me you don’t have any feelings for me. Or are you scared? You’re scared because maybe you do have feelings for me and could possibly want me as much as I want you.”

Another cool breeze blows between us, raising goose bumps on my arms. I swallow, forcing the hard lump settling in the back of my throat away. “You know, I didn’t ask for this,” I go on after a few, silent moments. “My life was a whole lot easier before you came along. It wasn’t perfect, and yeah, it might’ve been boring, but it was manageable. But you did come along, Parker, and I can’t ignore that. You can push me away, and try to forget anything ever happened between us, but I can tell you that, for me, something definitely happened. At least I’m being honest. You said you never told a lie: so tell me the truth.”

Parker stands, unmoving, silent. And for a moment: a flicker of weakening in his eyes, as if he’s about to give in. But then it vanishes—almost as quickly as it appeared.

“It’s better this way. Trust me.”

“For who?” I challenge.

He doesn’t respond.

“Look me in the eye, tell me you don’t love me, and I’m gone.” My teeth clench, grinding, jaw smarting from the pressure.

“I don’t love you. I don’t have any feelings for you.” He speaks the words calmly and quietly, doing just as I asked. “I’m not one of your projects, and I don’t need you or your food or your sympathy.”

Tears sting the corners of my eyes. I grapple for a breath that will satisfy, chest heaving, desperate for air. “Fine, Parker. Consider it a clean break. You can run away knowing you didn’t leave anything behind. Good luck with that.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

It’s easy to slip into the routine of being grounded. It’s calming, actually—not pushing forward, hurrying to the next thing. I have enough to worry about with school, our English project, and Daniel and Sarah’s wedding and house renovations. The future looms on the horizon, but it’s so vast and distant I can barely wrap my mind around it. And that’s fine, because I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to make any decisions or commitments—not to anyone. And so for now, I’m taking things the best way I know how: day by day.

Blake and Parker and I are the topic: discussed between periods, analyzed over ham and cheese sandwiches and sodas at lunch. Rumors swirl surrounding Blake and Parker’s altercation in the parking lot. Blake ran Parker off after one blow. There wasn’t even a fight, because Parker clearly had the upper hand. Blake is going to press charges. Parker is going to jail. . . . All depending on who you want to believe. Blake and I aren’t speaking. Parker and I aren’t speaking. It’s all my fault. Those rumors are true.

The day after the fight, Parker enters our English class, his head high, the faintest trace of a bruise along the bridge of his nose. The typical morning din hushes, an awkward, intense silence filling the room as conversation ceases, everyone watching. I can feel my cheeks growing warmer with every passing second, my pulse quickening as he makes his way to his seat. I force myself not to look at him, focusing instead on Ms. Tugwell, her lecture, and taking the neatest, most comprehensive notes on O. Henry’s use of irony ever.

I don’t spot Blake until lunch time. Our eyes meet briefly as he crosses the cafeteria. The cut underneath his eye is taped, jaw and ego bruised. I sit with my back to the cafeteria window so I won’t be tempted to peek at Parker—if he’s even there—but in the end it doesn’t matter . . . because he isn’t.

There’s something else, though. Something hovering over me: thick and burdensome and altogether consuming. Parker’s Secret. And my promise to keep it. That, and the fact our final project is due very, very soon.

Parker and I finished our research and divided the tasks; all that’s left is to write our papers and present our oral report. I assume, since I’m working on my half, he’s working on his. Still, it’s hard—knowing I can’t bounce ideas around with him like before. I would’ve liked to hand him my essays for proofreading, because I know that has to be something he’s impeccable at—finding the flaws and helping to correct them. I would’ve liked to practice my speech in front of him. Because when it comes down to it, his is the only opinion that matters.

It doesn’t help that every time I pull out my notes on Ethan and Mattie, he’s the first person I think of. Every time I walk into my closet I see those stairs out of the corner of my eye, and my mind wanders. When I sit on my bed, I remember him sitting there, too. Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, I see straight to the third floor. When I pass the library, I think of our table. When I look in the mirror above my dresser, my eyes automatically shift to the postcard of the Hamilton street where Parker and I ate, strolled, and shopped. He’s everywhere.

But mostly, he’s inside: in the changes in me.

I’ve overstepped so many boundaries already: climbing onto his motorcycle that night, not suppressing my feelings for him even though I had a boyfriend, letting him sneak into my house, skipping school with him.

Looking back, it’s easy to see when I began to slip away, the path I took to lose myself. Or maybe. . . . Maybe I’m not lost at all.

I don’t feel lost. If anything I feel . . . found.

That’s when I realize: I got it wrong. All wrong. This entire time? It wasn’t meant for me to change Parker, but for him to change me.

*   *   *

“Jaden, do you have a minute?” Ms. Stevens asks. I reach for my purse, ready to leave for the day. I want to tell her no. I want to go home. I want this day to be over.

“Sure,” I reply, following. She shuts her office door behind us. It clicks softly, muffling the shouts and squeals and locker doors banging against one another. The leather cushion squishes as I sit down in the chair in front of her desk. I remove my elastic, smooth my hair, then put it up in a ponytail again.

Ms. Stevens sits down, opens a manila folder, and adjusts her small, stylish glasses. “There are a few things I’ve been wanting to discuss with you, actually. In fact, I’m not really sure what to address first.” She glances over her notes.

I suppress a sigh. I knew this was coming.

“First, I think we should talk about your recent lapse in attendance.”

“It’s okay. I skipped school. You can say it,” I reply.

She hesitates before continuing. “It’s not like you. I was surprised to hear you didn’t have a note, that’s all.”

I shrug.

“You realize you no longer have perfect attendance.”

“Yes.”

“You also realize an unexcused absence is an automatic five demerits. That means a letter goes home.”

“I know.”

“So your parents are aware you skipped school?” she asks, eyeing me curiously.

“If they didn’t know I probably wouldn’t be grounded right now,” I point out.

Ms. Stevens clears her throat. “It was brought to the attention of the administration that you skipped school with Parker Whalen, only Parker brought a signed note the following day.”

The blood driving through my veins seems to stop flowing. My hands grow cold.

Parker. I can tell her. I can tell her what I know. What I saw. It’s what she’s here for. She could pick up the phone. Make a few calls. Everything would be okay. This isn’t something I have to keep inside. I can help.

I open my mouth to speak, then close it again, biting my lower lip. Finally: “I don’t know Parker very well,” I lie, eyeing the floor.

“The student body seems to think you do,” she insists.

“Since when have you known freshmen to get anything right? And when were people not talking about Parker Whalen?” I answer calmly.

“Okay. So you’re fine with the absence and demerits?”

I smile. “Not if I can put in an appeal.”

She lets out a tiny laugh. “You’ve already confessed.”

“Well, in that case, I’m fine with it.”

“All right. Moving on. This probably isn’t anything to be concerned about, knowing you’re grounded, but Mrs. Davis called and said you wouldn’t be able to continue your work with the annual walk for the food bank.”

“No. I had to step out. Apparently being grounded means I’m not allowed to save the world until summer.”

Ms. Stevens smiles, scribbles something on her sheet, then clears her throat, serious again. “There’s another issue I thought you should be aware of.”

“Wow. This is getting better and better,” I mutter.

“I’m not used to us having these conversations,” she confesses.

I grab the leather armrests and sit up straighter. “Okay . . . what next?”

“It’s about your chemistry class. Are you having trouble?”

“No,” I reply, genuinely surprised. This is a question I’m not expecting. “Not even.”

“Okay, because I talked to your teacher. There was apparently a quiz you made a C on, and a test where you scored a very low B.”

I stifle a laugh. “I hardly call that ‘having trouble,’” I say, surprised at how Parker-like I sound. I know about the B and the C. I stuffed both the test and the quiz in my notebook without a second thought. The truth? The class is AP, and the material hard. With everything going on in my life, the best I can offer anyone at the moment is average.

“No, you’ve done very well,” she says. “It’s just that this brings your A in chemistry down to a B.”

“Okay.”

“That brings your overall GPA down. Daniel Cho is now in the running for Salutatorian. It’s only by a few points, but I’m not sure if you can bring the average up in time. I planned to meet with him next week.”

“Great.” I take in a lungful of stagnant, office air. I’m suffocating, that river rising, drowning me from the inside out. “You know I didn’t get into Harvard, right?” I ask. “Is that on your list, too?” I’m not trying to sound snarky, but. . . .

She glances at her papers, creasing her brow. “It wasn’t on here, specifically, no. I was going to ask if you’d heard anything.”

“I heard,” I state.

“I’m very sorry. I know you were hoping for good news.”

“C’est la vie.”

“That’s life . . . right,” Ms. Stevens says, offering a sympathetic smile. “So what about your back-ups?”

Already she moves on. No point wasting time being miserable over a rejection from the college of my dreams. “What about them? I got accepted everywhere else,” I reply, shrugging my shoulders.

She pulls open one of her desk drawers. Pens roll inside, paper clips rattle against each other. “Have you planned any campus visits?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, I have a girl I want you to call and set something up with. She’s an admissions rep at NSU. You know they have a terrific medical school.” She scribbles the number on a little yellow Post-it note. “Her name is Reagan, and she’ll be able to tell you anything you want to know.” She reaches across her desk, handing it to me. I study the string of digits.

“Sure, okay.”

“You have a few weeks left, Jaden,” Ms. Stevens says, the office chair bleating as she leans back. “It’s not time to pack up yet.”

“I know.”

“You’ve worked hard to get where you are. I’d hate to see you blow it in the final days.”

I stand and gather my things. “I think it’s safe to say I’ve already blown it,” I tell her, throwing my bag over my shoulder.

She rolls her chair back. “I wouldn’t go that far,” she replies, rising.

“Skipping class, demerits, not getting into my dream school . . . come on.”

“Let’s just chalk it up to a case of senioritis. It happens to everyone.”

“Not to me.”

“It’s not over,” she reminds me. “So maybe you didn’t get into Harvard. You were accepted by a half a dozen other terrific colleges. Yes, you skipped school. What student hasn’t? And yes, you have a few demerits on your record. You know, I went back and checked your file. The last demerit you had was your freshman year. You had one—for chewing gum on campus. And I’ll bet it happened after school hours.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“And you were in the parking lot.”

It was pretty unfair. I sigh.

“My point is,” she continues, “you are a great student and person, Jaden. You’re going to figure this out.”

I force a smile, only making it halfway. “Thanks.”

“Make an appointment for you and your parents to visit NSU. Talk to Reagan, and let me know how it goes.”

By the time I reach the hallway it’s empty; the only car left in the student parking lot is a white Civic. Mine. Alone.

Tears blur my vision as I move toward it. I work to keep them from spilling onto my cheeks, stopping several times to wipe my nose against my sleeve as I fumble with the keys.

Don’t cry, Jaden. Do not cry.

The warm afternoon infiltrates the small space, and the air is heavy and stale. I suck in a huge breath, but it’s more stifling than refreshing, and my throat constricts, like someone is strangling me from behind.

Don’t cry. Don’t. . . .

But I can’t hold back anymore. I can’t do this. A piercing headache throbs behind my eyes. I lean back into the seat, covering my face with my hands, frustrated and angry and sad and embarrassed. Embarrassed for being called into my guidance counselor’s office. Embarrassed because half the school is gossiping about me because I skipped school with a guy I liked, who I thought could maybe like me, too. Embarrassed because I made a C on an AP Chemistry quiz, and now I won’t be Salutatorian and Danny Cho is going to take my place. Angry because I’m a terrible person for being upset over Danny Cho, because Danny is a really nice guy and totally deserves the honor. Angry because I didn’t get into Harvard, that I’m about to graduate, and I still don’t know where I’m going to college. Sad because my brother is getting married and taking Sarah and Joshua with him. Sad because I hurt Blake, because I hurt myself. Sad because I love Parker, and he doesn’t love me back. Sad because Parker hurts, and there’s a good possibility that his dad beats him. Angry because I want to help him but don’t know how. Because he doesn’t want to be helped. Because I promised. Frustrated because everyone expects so much more from me and I can’t deliver. . . .

And it’s all my fault.

Time passes as I sit, suspended, crying while my head aches, until there are no more tears. When I finish, I wipe away what remains of my eyeliner and mascara. Daylight streams through the window, sweltering and oppressive. Dust motes float listlessly, flickering in the sun. I reach for my keys to crank the engine, heart stopping when I see his silhouette framed in the side mirror, watching, moving closer.

Chapter Twenty-Five

He raps on the glass with his thick knuckle. I glance over at the hulking figure shadowing the car and crack the window. What is he even doing here?

“You look kind of upset. You okay?” he asks, leaning into me.

I inhale deeply, wiping beneath my eyes, and my lungs shudder. “Yeah. Bad day. That’s all.”

He laughs. “I can help with that.” He stuffs his hand deep inside his coat pocket. It’s too warm for a coat. I refuse to look at his face.

“I have to go,” I tell him, reaching for the power window button.

“Whoa. Hold on a minute. You’re Blake Hanson’s girl, aren’t you?”

“Was.”

“I hadn’t heard. That’s too bad. You know, I remember your brothers,” Vince De Luca goes on. “What are they up to these days?”

I clear my throat, swallowing hard. “Um, they’re still working with my dad. Daniel is getting married next month.”

Vince laughs. “That’s awesome. Man, I miss them. They were some crazy sons of bitches.”

I force a smile. “I’ll tell them you said hi.”

“Yeah, you do that.”

He steps away from the car, turning. “Hey, man! What’s going on?”

“Not a whole lot,” a familiar voice replies. I jerk my head toward the sound.

Outside the sky is veiled in thin, cottony clouds. The sunlight warms my cheeks and forehead and the tip of my nose. There’s a lift in the atmosphere when I spot him, and something stronger than butterflies beats erratically inside.

I watch as Parker Whalen approaches, then does some weird boy handshake-hug with Vince. He eyes me carefully, intense. Anxious. And it’s so unlike anything I’ve ever seen before that it sends an irrational chill up my spine, leaving my skin tingling.

This all seems so . . . wrong. So . . . planned. And it hits me.

“I got what you needed,” Vince says, voice low, reaching inside the pocket of his jacket.

No.

I’m frozen where I sit, hands gripping the steering wheel, head spinning, the entire world blurring around the edges.

No. No. No.

A cold rush of adrenaline takes over. I knew Parker had a past. Everyone knew it. He admitted it. But he said he was done with it. He swore he didn’t do it anymore. Any of it.

I feel my face tighten, trapped in a furious silence, a wave of resentment rolling down the entire length of my body.

There’s an exchange, and I can’t decide if I want to yell at him or cry, punch him in the face or fall into his arms.

He lied.

He lied.

To me.

The only person willing to give him a real chance.

I listened to him. I believed him. He let me fall in love with him.

My heart smashes to pieces, shattering until all that’s left are fragments. Splinters.

My hands clench tighter around the wheel, fingers aching, and I want to scream. To hit something. I close my eyes and inhale deeply, struggling to collect myself.

“Here are my boys!” Vince says, heading in their direction.

When I open my eyes I see Tony’s truck pulling into a space further down the row. Another basketball player is riding shotgun, and Blake is in the backseat, alone.

Before I have a chance to react, Parker is there, at my door, kneeling. His eyes wide, intense. “You need to get out of here,” he warns, voice strangled. He glances over his shoulder, where Vince is speaking to Tony through the passenger’s side window of his pick-up.

“What are you doing, Parker? I thought. . . . You swore. . . .” I choke on the words, the rest trapped at the back of my throat.

Don’t cry.

“I said a lot of things, Jade. But right now I need you to trust me, okay? You have to listen to me,” he demands. His voice, it’s not angry: it’s urgent. Frantic, even. And that’s when I realize I’m not supposed to be here. I’m not supposed to be witnessing any of this. I’m a liability.

“What’s happening?” I whisper.

“I can explain everything to you later, I swear. Just please do this for me. I need you out of here—fast.”

“What do I do?” My voice, it doesn’t even sound like my own. It’s strained, saturated with fear.

“You need to crank your car, back out of this parking space, and pull away like nothing is wrong. Do you hear me? Do not let him think anything is wrong.” I shift my eyes to Vince, struggling to focus on the instructions Parker is giving. “Make a right turn onto the street and wait for me at the gas station at the end of the block. Go. Now.”

Hands cold and shaking, I twist the keys in the ignition, nodding. “Okay.”

The engine roars to life.

Parker rises, eyes trained on something in the distance. Instinctively, I turn toward the direction he’s staring. And I see it. Parked behind thick bushes at the edge of the neighborhood across the street. Mostly hidden, but visible enough to know. . . .

A cop car.

I swallow hard and reach for the gear shift.

Someone curses, and in the next moment my car jolts, something hurled into it. The driver’s side is shadowed and Parker is there, blocking the window. I jerk my hand back, heart thrashing.

“Let her out!” Vince demands.

“No,” Parker replies, voice firm.

“Step aside, or you’ll both regret it.”

Parker doesn’t budge. Vince’s voice is calmer now. “Sweetheart? You might wanna tell your boyfriend to start listening.”

“Parker?” I call, hesitating.

“Stay inside the car,” he insists.

“Open the door!” Vince screams. He drives something into the window. The glass shatters, crippling from the blow, raining onto me. I flinch, shielding my face with my arm.

“This has nothing to do with her!” Parker says, a fresh wave of anger behind his words.

“We’ll see about that.”

He reaches through the broken window and lifts the lock. “Get out.”

I reach for the door handle, fingers trembling, and pull.

The door swings open, and Vince leans inside, his massive hand locking around my arm, squeezing it. He drags me out of the car and I fall onto the gritty pavement. Kicking. Wrenching. Working myself free. He grabs my ponytail and pulls, yanking it by the roots. I scream. My scalp stings, and the pain brings tears to my eyes.

My purse falls onto the ground, its contents scattering.

My lungs spasm, and I gasp, searching for fresh air.

“Don’t move,” Vince whispers into my ear. He’s so close. His hot breath reeks of alcohol, medicinal and rotten. My stomach rolls, flipping over itself, like I’m going to vomit.

Blake and Tony are out of the truck now, watching. Parker motions for them to stay away, then turns back to me. “Stop it, Vince,” he says.

“Which one of you set me up?” he demands to know.

Parker’s eyes meet mine, and they’re so dull, muted, but I can see the fear permeating them, even as he works to keep his voice level. “Come on. You had to know you’d get caught one day.”

“She set me up!” Vince screams into my ear.

“I set you up!” Parker shouts. “She has nothing to do with it, and this is only making it worse. Let her go. We’ll talk. We can work something out,” Parker tells him, eyeing me. “You have options.” There’s a thick edge to his voice, and for a moment I don’t even think he believes himself.

“You were supposed to be my friend!”

“I’m not anyone’s friend.”

“I don’t believe you.” Vince squeezes, pulling my hair tighter, and suddenly my knees are buckling, and I’m falling, swirling, plunging forward. The bright, white paint of my freshly-washed car rushes toward my face. My head slams into the side, body jolting as we connect. A numbness washes over me as the metal crunches beneath my skull. And the pain begins, radiating in waves, moving from my forehead and scalp down my neck and spine, all the way to the nails on my toes. The entire world spins. Shimmering and black and beautiful.

I collapse, knees weak. Someone is there, lifting me to my feet. But my strength is gone and I can’t stand. A sweaty arm wraps itself around my throat. Squeezing. Tighter. Tighter. Pressing against it. I wrap my fingers around it, digging my nails into the greasy skin. It doesn’t budge. I force my eyes open. Trying to focus. To breathe. I blink back tears.

And I see him through the haze, the blur. Parker. Eyes hard. Angry. Gun pointed directly at us. Blood—warm and sticky—oozes from my head, running down the side of my face and neck and Vince’s arm, staining my clothes. He tightens his arm around my neck. I don’t feel the pain anymore. I struggle to breathe. To satisfy my lungs. The world sparkles, glittering, enveloping me.

Breathe.

“Parker.” My lips move, but no sound comes out.

“Let her go,” Parker demands. “It’s done, Vince. And I will not lose sleep over killing you.” He grips the gun steadily, aimed at the face of his target, unflinching, eyes narrowed. “Don’t make me.”

“I dare you to try.” Vince pulls me directly in front of him, and in one, heart-stopping moment there’s a click, and a cold, hard piece of metal is jammed into my temple. Driving. I wince, head tilting, choking on nothing. Parker’s jaw tightens, face ashen.

“How does it feel, man? Think I have it in me?” Vince laughs. It’s short, bitter, devoid of humor. “Guess what? I do.”

I close my eyes tightly. Because I can’t breathe. Because there’s a gun to my head and he’s going to shoot. And I know that this is where I die. How I die. How we both die. Lying in a pool of blood like some kind of ghetto Romeo and Juliet. And I can’t help but think that neither of us should be here. Not Parker. Not me. This didn’t have to happen. We shouldn’t die. Not like this. And I think of my mom and my dad and Daniel and Phillip and Joshy and Sarah and Savannah and Blake and I wonder if I’m going to a place where I can see my grandpa and if Parker will be there and I’m not going to Harvard and somehow it doesn’t even matter anymore and I can’t breathe and its all disappearing and I feel like I’m slipping . . .

And then, through the haze, there are cars. Squealing tires. Blinding lights. They’re so fast.

And a voice from Heaven, raucous and garbled: “Drop your weapon!”

Parker shouts something as they come in, not taking his eyes off me.

Vince loosens his grip, startled by the chaos. It’s just enough for me to react, to make one last effort. And so I ram my heel into his shin, and, as he stumbles, slip beneath his arm, falling, crashing to the pavement, pressing my cheek deep into the gravel.

A crackle of gunfire. My ears hum, ring. And everything is muffled. I open my mouth to scream, but I can’t tell if anything comes out. Another gunshot. And then there’s someone on top of me. More shots, but they’re muted. Far away. Like the entire world is covered in a thick, wooly blanket. And my lungs won’t fill even though I can breathe and I’m panting and coughing. I taste blood and gun powder. Sharp and metallic and acrid.

Someone rolls me over and Parker is there. The fog crowds my vision. Sunlight blinding my eyes. His mouth is moving but I can’t understand what he’s saying. He’s searching, checking, lips forming the same words. Over and over and over again. Fingers wiping the blood off my face.

The sound is slowly coming back. I close my eyes. There are new voices. But I’m underwater. Drowning. The pain pressing in on all sides. I hear Parker, voice shaking, violent and anxious, and my heart hurts listening to him.

“Are you okay?” someone shouts.

My eyes flutter open, and I see him. Mouth set with concern. Pulling off his leather jacket, and unstrapping . . . something. It snaps apart.

“I’m fine!” Parker says. “Just give me your keys!” He pulls the black vest over his head, off his chest. There’s a tear in it. Frayed edges. It’s like . . . something. My eyes narrow, squinting.

Nothing makes any sense anymore.

I close my eyes.

“Jade? Jaden can you hear me?” he asks. I open my mouth to speak, but my throat burns, flaming. I can’t.

“You’re going to be fine, okay? You have to stay with me,” he urges.

The voices grow louder. The ringing—the humming—the fog—it’s all dissipating, like I’m breaking the surface.

In the next moment Parker’s arms wrap around me, lifting me off the ground. Carrying me. I move into him, burying my face in his neck.

The world is coming back and I’m gasping for air, and I’m crying. I didn’t even realize. My shoulders heave. Coughing. Desperate.

“I’m sorry. I am so sorry.” Parker speaks into my ear, over and over and over.

He pulls open the door of a squad car and sets me down in the passenger’s seat. He moves my hair out of my face, and his bloody fingers wipe beneath my eyes. Smearing my hot tears.

“Shit,” he mutters, examining my forehead. He pulls his shirt over his head, and I see the bruises again. The newest one. Violent and flowering across his stomach. He bunches up the fabric and presses it against my hairline. It stings, the searing pain ripping, spreading. I feel it everywhere.

“Hold this.” I place my palm against it. It’s shaking. Unsteady. I shiver, freezing.

Parker reaches around and buckles my seatbelt, fumbling, like he can’t move fast enough, face drained and dirty, and sweat beading along his brow. He keeps trying to swallow, forcing something back, and swipes at his eyes with the back of his hand. They’re glassy and wet, red around the rims.

I lean back and close my eyes, head throbbing. Listening to the sirens blaring. The police scanner. Parker, speaking into the radio. Reports going back and forth. Arrests. Letters. Numbers. Codes I can’t even begin to process.

I open my eyes and turn toward the window as we pull away. Tony, Blake—they’re both handcuffed. And Vince—lying by my car, edged in a puddle of blood.

Chapter Twenty-Six

“I’ve never seen a patient so well-guarded,” the nurse says, smiling. I know she means well, but I struggle to find the humor in the dozen or so cops swarming the hallway outside my room. She wipes my forehead with antiseptic, and it stings.

The room is cold and sterile. The hospital bed is hard and it makes squishy noises whenever I shift. Everything smells like hand soap and bleach and flowers.

The nurse and the doctor on call worked quickly, cleaning the wound and stitching the laceration on my forehead closed. She’s re-bandaging the site when I hear it: heavy footsteps thudding against the tile floor. A loud, angry voice.

“What the hell did you do to her?”

The nurse pulls open the door. Three of the officers are holding Daniel back, and the others have moved in front of Parker, protecting him. If I had more energy, I’d roll my eyes. I should’ve known he would be the first to show up.

“Daniel.”

I don’t know how he hears me, but he shoves the cops aside. “Get out of my way.”

“I’ll leave you alone for a minute,” the nurse says, heading into the hallway.

“They’re going to arrest you,” I warn him as he closes the door.

“Jaden, what happened to you?” he asks, eyeing my forehead. I’m thankful I’m cleaned up and in a hospital gown. Minus the bandage and a few scrapes, I look okay. I got a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror on the way in. My face and hair streaked with blood, my shirt stained a rusty brown. If he would’ve seen me like that. . . .

“It was an accident. I stayed after school. For a meeting. It was some kind of set-up and I got in the way. It has nothing to do with him, I swear. He was just . . . doing his job.” I let out a frustrated sigh. “Are mom and dad coming?” I ask. The heart monitor bleeps beside me, and I fight the urge to yank off the plastic piece squeezing my index finger. It’s all so dramatic.

“They’ll be here any minute.”

“Can you do me a favor, then? Can you please relax and try to convey the idea that I’m okay and that it’s not Parker’s fault? I need to talk to him. And on your way, could you maybe act like you’re thankful he saved my life?”

He exhales loudly, then turns to leave, pulling on the door.

“She wants to see you,” he says. “I don’t know why. What I do know—and all of your little officer friends can hear this—is if you ever, ever, hurt my sister again, I will disfigure you so badly it’ll take weeks to identify what’s left.”

“Daniel,” I mumble.

He turns back to me. “Sorry. That’s the best I can do.”

He disappears down the hall and Parker enters, shutting the door behind him. Someone loaned him a clean t-shirt.

“Are . . . you okay?” he asks, hesitating.

I don’t answer. I don’t know.

He takes a deep breath. “Look, Jaden, I am so, so sorry this happened.” He pauses, exhaling loudly. “No one was supposed to be at the school this afternoon. If I had any idea you were still there. . . . ”

“First, I think I should thank you,” I tell him calmly. “You know, for saving me.”

He runs his fingers through his hair, eyes aching and raw. “I didn’t save you,” he chokes. “It happened because of me. Every time I close my eyes I see. . . . And you have to know that I will never forgive myself . . .”

“Still,” I interrupt, “it happened. And you’re obviously good at whatever it is you do, because it could’ve been worse. For both of us.”

He exhales.

“So. . . . Who are you?” I ask, gaze leveling.

“Parker Whalen.”

My eyebrow lifts. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“Parker Whalen. High school student?” I press.

He clears his throat. “Officer Whalen, actually,” he says slowly. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his badge, handing it to me. The gold shimmers in the light, glittering. I run my fingers over the shield, the star in the middle. It’s heavy and cold and official.

I set it down beside me. “What’s your story? What are you doing?”

“I was on assignment. At your school.”

“You were after my boyfriend.”

“I know it looks that way, but it’s not like that, I swear. Until a couple of weeks ago I didn’t even know Blake knew Vince.”

“You were undercover the whole time,” I say, shaking my head, trying to understand.

“Yes.”

“So . . . everything I know about you. It’s all . . . a lie.”

He swallows hard. “Jaden, I know it seems that way. And yeah. I had a backstory. I had to. I couldn’t fall for you. And you have no idea how wretched I felt lying in bed at night trying to think up stories to tell you, knowing they weren’t even true. All those things I said. . . . I didn’t have any other choice. But you know me, Jade. You do. Deep down I’m the same guy. I love the zoo. And Sun Chips. And I think Mr. Darcy is a pretentious . . .”

“Your dad?”

“Retired sheriff,” he replies, sighing. “Small town.”

“Your mom?”

“Married to him for twenty-six years. Somewhat happily for most of those. They live outside Hamilton.”

“You said they were divorced. You grew up broke.”

“I grew up surprisingly middle class,” he confesses.

“Brothers? Sisters?” I ask.

“I have an older sister in college. I’m twenty-one years old, Sagittarius, and this was my second undercover assignment.”

Like it even matters. I don’t care how old he is. Not really. Not when I fell in love with an undercover police officer planted inside my high school. And he let it happen when he knew. . . . My pulse steps up, a spark of anger flashing.

“You were kicked out of your old school,” I remind him, matter of fact. “You were into drugs.”

He nods. “I was. I can’t lie about that. But I was never kicked out, and never arrested. Not officially.”

“Your motorcycle?” I ask. “The drug money?”

“No drug money. I bought it after my first few paychecks.”

“The bruises?”

“Occupational hazard. And . . . paintball.”

Paintball? PAINTBALL?

I swallow hard, refusing to look away, feeling a flare of resentment. “How long have you been a cop?”

“A couple years.”

“And this is something you always wanted to do?” I ask.

“Seemed like the right choice at the time,” he admits, voice low. He shrugs, as if even now he’s debating whether or not it was the best decision.

My eyes narrow, squinting, because I’m trying to see him. To understand. “And you just . . . hang out at high schools and fall for girls in your classes?”

“No.” He swallows, his dark eyes holding on to mine, glistening. “I pose as a student to keep an eye out for drug activity. I’ve only fallen hard for one girl. And I’m still kind of freaking out because about an hour ago I thought I’d lost her. And if that happened. . . .”

I look away, scoffing, because I can feel the tears and I see how miserable he is about all of this and I don’t want him to change anything I’m feeling at this moment, because if nothing else, I deserve the chance to be angry at him. I’m allowed to be furious. “There’s nothing like a gun to the face to help sort out all your conflicted feelings,” I tell him.

“I know I hurt you, Jaden. I hurt you every way a person can possibly be hurt. But if you can forgive me, I promise . . .”

I squeeze the inner corners of my eyes. A tear escapes, dripping. “I don’t blame you for any of this, so there’s nothing to forgive. I’m glad that you were there, and you knew what you were doing. I just. . . .” My voice gives. Throat closes. And my nose tingles and I’m all wet and snotty.  I take a deep breath. My lungs shudder. I stare at the white ceiling tiles. “I don’t know who you are, Parker. I thought. . . . You let me believe. . . .”

“I had to stick to my story, Jaden,” he interrupts. “It’s my job. I’m undercover. I would’ve loved, more than anything in this world, to meet you under different circumstances. But it wasn’t safe for either of us. And what happened to you today . . . you have to know that I’d give anything to take it back. I will not lose a second of sleep for killing that bastard,” he goes on, pointing to the door, “but what happened to you today is going to haunt me for the rest of my life.”

He fades around the edges, sparkling, mingling with my tears. I believe him. I do. And that’s what’s so bad about all of this. I’d rather him be cold. Heartless. Maybe then telling him goodbye wouldn’t hurt so much.

“You have no idea what you’ve done to me, Jaden. You just, barged in and flipped my entire world upside down,” he says, voice heated. “I didn’t know what to do.”

I sit frozen on the bed. A chill ripples, moving through my spine.

“I will quit my job. I will turn in my badge. I’ll give it all up—I swear I will—if that’s what it takes to make it right.” Our eyes fix on one another, and I can see the sacrifice—the truth—carved into them. And I know: he would give up everything. In a second. For me.

There’s a knock on the door, and the nurse sticks her head in, interrupting us. “Jaden, your family is here.”

I sit straighter, more rigid. “It’s fine.” I clear my throat, swallowing, suppressing additional tears. “He’s leaving,” I manage.

Parker watches me carefully. I refuse to meet his gaze again. My life—this thing—it’s complicated enough without bringing guns and police officers and emergency rooms into it.

“I know how Ethan feels now,” he says, a trace of defeat in his voice. A tiny laugh, but there’s no humor in it.

I glance over at him, a thousand moments surging through me. Him. Me. Us. I push the thoughts away, racing from the memories, leaving them behind.

“Watching someone suffer because of something stupid he did? I get it. And you’re wrong, because it devastated him.”

I exhale slowly and drag my thumbs beneath my eyes. I can’t let my family see me upset. I’m the one who’s supposed to keep it together. I have to keep it together. He eyes me carefully, then reaches for the tissue box on the counter, pulls one out, and hands it to me.

I can almost hear his thoughts.

It’s okay to cry.

I nod.

Then, after what feels like a lifetime passing between us: “I need you, Jade,” he says, voice quiet.

I inhale deeply, lungs shuddering. “I need you to go,” I whisper.

He picks up his badge, the hurt registering in his features, fingers lingering. He studies it for a moment before shoving it deep into his back pocket. Then I watch his retreating figure as he leaves, disappearing down the hall.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Daniel teaches me how to spackle. Apparently there’s a technique. Too much putty on the knife, and it’ll take forever to dry and sanding will be a nightmare. The idea is to scoop enough to fill the crack, then scrape away everything else. And so, armed with my putty knife and sticky, violet putty (which I’m told will turn white when dry and ready to sand), I make my way around Sarah and Daniel’s living room, filling cracks and knicks and cuts and nail holes in the walls.

“This is gonna take forever,” I mumble, examining the two walls I puttied in the hour I’ve worked. They’re pock-marked, with a hundred or more spots (small and large), where holes have been filled. “I didn’t realize how many craters were in this house.”

“Yeah, well, that’s what happens to old houses when the foundation shifts,” Sarah says.

I move to the next wall and slap some putty on a wide crack. I scrape the excess off and marvel at how easily it fills. After a coat of paint, no one will know there was ever an imperfection.

Instinctively, I reach out and touch the scar on my forehead. The stitches are gone, but it’s still pink and fresh, new.

“Originally Daniel thought we should strip the drywall altogether. Start over from the ground up.” She sighs. “But we do not have the time or the money for that. I’d much rather pay for spackle and sandpaper than drywall.”

Cursing, and lots of it, interrupts our conversation. We wander to the bathroom, where Daniel is installing the faucet and handles for the shower. The tub and sink were successfully set up the day before. The tiling—which is what he really wants done—is not. A few bundles of tiles are stacked neatly in the hallway, surrounded by dust and demolition debris.

“It’s not working,” he says.

“Did you buy the right one?” she asks.

“Sarah, I do this every day of the week.”

“Obviously not well if you can’t install a faucet.”

“I’m not a plumber!”

“I get that,” she says, “but I can’t not have a faucet.”

I suppress a smile. Welcome to my world.

Daniel sighs, stepping over tiles and into the hallway. “Right,” he mutters. “I need an adapter. Or something.” He wipes the sweat off his forehead with the dingy sleeve of his t-shirt. “The water isn’t turned on anyway. I’m just gonna take the whole thing off and take it to Home Depot. I know someone who can probably help.”

I check the time on my cell phone. “It’s lunchtime,” I point out. Then: an enormous crash.

“I hope that wasn’t my countertop,” Sarah mutters.

“Hey, loser!” Daniel barks.

“It’s fine,” Phillip replies.

“You didn’t break anything, did you?” she asks, squeezing her eyes shut.

“Nothing important.”

Sarah exhales. “That’s good to know.” She turns to me. “All right. We need lunch. Daniel, why don’t you go to Home Depot, then swing by McDonald’s on the way back and pick us up something. Jaden, if you could go with him and have them mix my paint, that would be great.” She grabs my putty knife. “I’ll finish spackling.”

“Phillip, we’re getting lunch,” Daniel calls.

“Where?”

“McDonald’s.”

“Good, I want some Chicken McNuggets.”

“We aren’t taking orders,” he announces. “Everyone gets double cheeseburgers—no pickles, no onions—fries, and Dr. Peppers.”

“You’re such a freakin’ dictator,” I say. “What if I don’t like double cheeseburgers? And you know I don’t drink sodas.”

He shrugs his shoulders. “Sorry. It’s better to keep it simple. Otherwise I’ll get confused and screw everything up.”

“So instead of putting you out none of us should get what we want,” I charge.

“Since when did you get such a mouth?” he asks, pausing long enough to glare at me. “You’re the flexible one.”

“I’m flexible,” I argue, swiping the sweat away from my brow with the back of my hand, looking away.

“Good. Because if I’m paying I’m ordering. Let’s go.”

Within ten minutes Daniel and I are in his truck heading toward The Home Depot, in the next town over. The parking lot is nearly empty when we arrive: obviously the masses have better things to do on a Sunday than sand spackle. I focus on the task at hand, pushing everything else away, examining the paint chips Sarah handed me as we walked out the door. I need to pick up three gallons of primer, and have them mix a gallon of the light blue she chose for Joshua’s room, and two gallons of the taupe they planned to paint the master bedroom, hallway, and living room.

“I guess you can go ahead to the paint counter and order that. Pick up a couple of trays and edgers, too, while you’re there. I’ll be in plumbing,” Daniel says. We breeze through the automatic doors. I grab a cart and wheel it to the paint section. Daniel continues straight.

My head throbs. A muted, pulsing ache. I should’ve taken something before I left.

The headaches will subside in a few weeks, or so I’m told. In the meantime, I’m popping Tylenols like candy. In addition to the laceration on my forehead, I was diagnosed with a concussion, which meant an overnight stay in the hospital. In between x-rays and CT scans, I had to answer questions, detailing my account for police of everything that happened. Talk about being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I didn’t see Parker that night, but he stayed. Sarah told me. And I haven’t seen him since.

Between the breaking news story—Vince’s death, and the arrests of half the Bedford High boys basketball team—and my involvement, it’s safe to say his cover was blown. I missed an entire week of school after it all happened, and when I returned the rumors swirled. Parker Whalen, undercover cop? I trudged from class to class, paid attention as best I could, turned in my work on time. But I didn’t offer any information, and I refused to talk to anyone except Savannah and Ashley.

I sigh, overwhelmed, and when the guy manning the paint desk asks if I need help, I tell him yes. We walk down the aisle together. He picks out a couple trays, rollers, edgers. . . . Everything we’ll need. He explains the difference between flat paint, and satin, and semigloss. I try to listen, but ultimately let him make the decisions.

“This will probably take ten or fifteen minutes,” he explains as I hand him the paint samples Sarah selected.

“That’s fine. Can I just leave this here?” I ask, motioning toward the cart.

“Sure.”

I set off to Plumbing. When I find Daniel, he’s busy talking to an employee at the far end of the aisle. I move slowly, studying the random parts—brass and plastic and copper—valves and washers and tubes. Something here might fix my bathroom sink. But with all the names and numbers and sizes, I don’t know where to begin. I scratch an itch on my neck at the base of my ponytail.

“You ready?”

I jump, startled.

“Jesus, Daniel.”

He eyes me carefully. “You all right?”

I swallow the hard lump forming in the back of my throat. Heart hammering in my ears, head aching.

Why am I always a second away from crying? “Fine,” I mumble.

Daniel doesn’t utter a word as we walk to the paint counter. He doesn’t say anything on the way to his truck, or after we climb in and shut the doors. The ride to McDonald’s is quiet, too.

“You’re not fine, Jaden,” he finally says, pulling to the curb in front of the new house, in a spot shaded from the midday sun.

“Am I supposed to be?”

“I’d like you to be.” He shifts the truck to park and we sit there, quiet. “What can I do to make it better?” he finally asks.

I let out a tiny laugh. “There’s nothing you can do, believe me.”

“We just hate seeing you like this. Mom. Phillip. Sarah. It’s like you’re not you anymore.”

“I’m doing the best I can.”

“I know. And you’re putting on a pretty great show of pretending things are okay. But they’re not. We can see it.”

I swallow hard.

“This . . . guy. You still love him, don’t you.”

It’s not a question. Tears sting my eyes. “I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“Jaden, he’s not—”

“Look,” I interrupt. “I know you’re trying to protect me, but you can be nice to the guys I’m interested in. And this isn’t just about Parker. You hated Blake."

“And look how right I was about him.” He pauses, sighing. “It’s just a big brother thing.”

“It’s annoying. Who I like is my decision. I mean, you can’t throw yourself in the way every time I fall for someone. I’ll be in college soon,” I remind him.

“I know. I know,” he says, nodding. “It’s just that . . . you’re my little sister, Jaden. You’re important. And there’s not a guy out there who’s good enough for you.”

“That’s for me to decide, Daniel. You had your chance. You picked Sarah. Phillip has Becky. It’s my turn now.”

“I know,” he agrees, shutting off the engine. “But Sarah and Becky are so much better than either of us.”

“Then I deserve the chance to make someone better, too.”

He releases another pent-up breath as I reach for the door handle. “Do you still love him?” he asks, watching me carefully.

I push on the door, climbing out, focused. “He’s gone. You guys win. Why does it even matter?”

*   *   *

“We’re back!” Sarah, her sister, Melissa, and I walk through the front door, lugging David’s Bridal bags. Ours are manageable. Sarah’s is monstrous.

“Let me see!” my mom says, meeting us in the foyer. She sets Joshua down on the hardwood floor. He rolls onto his hands and knees and crawls to Sarah.

“Hey, little baby!” she says, pursing her lips to a kissy face. She hangs her dress on top of the front living room door, then unzips the garment bag.

My mom gasps as Sarah lifts the white satin. “Sarah! This is beautiful!” she cries, caressing the tiny, pearl-like beads sewn onto the bodice. They shimmer in the sunlight.

Behind us, Joshua has pulled himself to his feet and is standing next to the couch, holding on with one hand.

“Joshy,” I say.

Sarah turns, squatting to the floor, level with him. “Come on, baby,” she calls, holding out her arms. He lets go of the couch, wobbles for a moment, hesitating before steadying himself, then, with confidence, takes a step toward Sarah. “Come on,” she encourages, the pitch of her voice high and light. He tentatively takes another step, then plops to his rear, diaper squishing against the floor. “You’re doing such a good job!” Sarah says, scooping him in her arms and blowing a raspberry against his chubby baby cheek.

“What’s going on?” Daniel asks, entering the foyer.

It only takes a second for us to react.

“No!” Melissa yells.

Mom throws herself in front of Sarah’s gown. I lift my garment bag, hiding it from view.

“What’s the problem?” he asks.

“It’s Sarah’s dress. You aren’t supposed to see it,” Mom informs him.

“Go to the den,” Sarah commands, pushing against his broad chest with her free hand.

Daniel rolls his eyes. “Please. You don’t buy into all that superstition bullsh—”

“Don’t say that word!” Mom and Sarah yell together. Sarah covers one of Joshua’s ears, turning him away.

“Sorry,” Daniel says. He takes a deep breath, then lets it out in one, massive huff. “I just don’t see what the big deal is.”

“The big deal is that it’s a surprise,” Sarah says. “So don’t even think about being sneaky and unzipping this bag.”

“In fact, you can keep it in our closet if you need to,” Mom suggests. “Daniel knows better than to snoop in there.”

Daniel leans against the stair rail, folding his arms. “Relax. I’m not going to snoop anywhere. Anyway, Phillip is on his way home. He’s bringing Becky by . . . and I’m hungry.”

“You know how to make a sandwich,” I remind him, wishing he’d disappear already—arms burning from the weight of my dress lifted above my head, shaking even. Clearly, I need to work out more. I’m nil in the upper arm strength department.

He narrows his eyes. “Ha, ha. I’m just saying that while you guys are busy tying bows, some of us have real work to do and we need to be fed.”

Daniel is going to the new house to install light fixtures. The rest of us have wedding-related tasks to undertake. Earlier in the week I helped Sarah design the wedding program on my computer. She picked up special paper from a craft store and promised to buy me a new ink cartridge if I used my laserjet to print a hundred and fifty copies. Tonight, Mom is going to fold them. The rest of us are making favors: tying Hershey’s Kisses into hundreds of little tulle circles.

“I hate not to cook if Becky is coming by,” Mom begins, “but if we’re going to get everything done tonight, it’s probably better if we just order pizza. What do you guys think?”

“I’m fine with that,” he says.

“It’s fine,” I agree.

“Well, call your brother first and ask if he and Becky plan to eat. If they are, make sure pizza is okay. If it is, pull out the number for Guido’s and call in our order. They still deliver, don’t they?” she asks.

“Yes,” I reply.

“Anything else?” Daniel teases, heading toward the kitchen.

“If there is we’ll let you know,” Sarah calls.

With Daniel safely out of sight, we turn back to Sarah’s dress.

“It’s gorgeous,” Mom says. “I love it.”

“Me too. I’m so excited,” Sarah confesses, smiling as she gazes at it. “But it’s really not safe in here.”

Mom carefully tucks the satin dress back into the garment bag. “I can put it in our room.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Of course not. If it’s in yours Daniel will be tempted to peek.” She zips the bag just as the front door opens.

“Thanks for answering your phone!” Daniel yells from the kitchen.

“We were coming up the street,” Phillip replies as he and Becky enter the foyer.

Becky is a year older than me, a year younger than Phillip. We were never really in the same circles, but coming from a small town, it’s hard not to know everyone. She’s on the quieter side, which is why it surprises me Phillip is even interested in her. He tends to gravitate to busty blondes who giggle a lot. Becky’s hair is straight, mousy brown, and she’s on the petite side. The first night we went to dinner with her, though, I noticed something: she’s a powerful little thing. First, in the parking lot, Phillip nearly tripped over himself to shut the truck door for her. He held doors open as she walked through, let her sit down first, let her order first, kept asking if she needed anything . . . it was almost chivalrous—something I never thought in a million years I would say about Phillip. He didn’t make one snarky comment the entire night—he didn’t pick on anyone or tell any off-color jokes. He didn’t belch, or release other, more obtrusive noises. (Honestly, though, how long is that going to last?)

The boy is completely whupped.

“Hi Becky!” Sarah and Mom and I call. She turns toward the front room, offering a shy wave—her cheeks turning pink.

“Hi.”

“Becky, do you like pizza?” Daniel asks.

“Sure.”

“Great! I’m starving. What do we want?”

“Just order four larges,” Mom tells him. “Get at least one pepperoni and one plain cheese. You guys can battle over the other two.” She pulls the garment bag off the door.

“Is that your dress?” Becky asks Sarah.

“It is, but we have to hide it because Daniel is being nosy.” She moves Joshua to her other hip.

“Come on,” Mom says. “We’re taking it to my room. We’ll show you. Jaden, do you mind making some tea?”

“Yeah, okay.” I hang my dress on the stair railing as I pass. Melissa and I make our way to the kitchen, while Sarah and Becky follow Mom to her room.

“I’m not doing pineapple,” Phillip says. “Pineapple is a fruit. It doesn’t belong on a pizza.”

“You don’t have to eat that one,” Daniel replies, punching a number into his cell phone with his thumb.

I open the cabinet and pull out Mom’s pitcher. Daniel heads out the front door, cell phone pressed to his ear.

“We’re more than halfway there,” I inform Melissa. “We’re up to one-fifty.”

“That is awesome!” she cries. “She is gonna flip out.”

I smile, grabbing two tea bags from the canister on the counter.

“Who’s gonna flip out?” Phillip asks.

“Sarah,” I say. “We’re buying her that two hundred and fifty dollar pink mixer she registered for.”

“That’s probably the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” he replies. “A two hundred and fifty dollar mixer? That’s pink? I swear to God. Weddings make people stupid. I mean, honeymoons? Guys don’t need honeymoons. And diamond engagement rings? Who the hell came up with that idea? Ring companies, that’s who. Like if I don’t buy a diamond I don’t love her enough? The bigger it is the more I love her? It’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Stop whining. This isn’t about you. But if you haven’t gotten them a gift yet and want to contribute I will gladly accept your money and put your name on the card,” I tell him.

“So if I give money I won’t have to go shopping for cookie sheets?” he asks.

“They need cookie sheets,” Melissa says.

“They need everything,” I add, “but yeah. Pretty much.”

“Saves me a trip. How much?” He pulls out his wallet.

“Well, you can make up the difference and give a hundred,” I say, throwing out a number.

“Are you for real?” he asks, eyeing me strangely. “You act like I’m made of money or something.”

I force my eyes not to roll. “Please. Your truck is paid for, you don’t pay Mom and Dad rent. You mean to tell me you can’t fork over a measly hundred bucks for your own brother?”

“I was thinking more like twenty.”

“You are such a Scrooge.” I wrinkle my nose. “Seventy-five.”

“Fifty,” he counters, pulling out a crisp, fifty-dollar bill from his wallet and passing it on to me.

I snatch it before he can change his mind. “Done.”

“Yeah, yeah. Thief.” He reaches behind him and sticks his wallet in his back pocket. “Put Becky’s name on the card, too. It’ll be from both of us.”

“Are you for real?” I ask, raising my eyebrow. “You’re taking her to a wedding and you’re covering her gift?”

“Uh-oh! Someone’s getting serious,” Melissa sings, teasing him.

“Can it,” he replies, lifting both of his middle fingers to the sky as he leaves the room.

*   *   *

“I’m sorry, Becky,” my mom says, grabbing a slice of pepperoni pizza. “We usually don’t order pizza on a week night. It’s just that things are so busy with the wedding and the new house. . . .”

“No, this is great,” she assures us. The dining room table is covered in candy and tulle and ribbon and paper, so we stand around the kitchen, eating our pizza off plastic plates—or, if you’re Daniel, hanging over the sink.

When Dad arrives he joins us in the kitchen. Because we have company, he ignores his cell phone when it rings, asks everyone, specifically, about their day, and rags Becky about her wanting to date Phillip (typical, father-like “What is a nice girl like you thinking?” banter). As we finish eating, Mom gathers our dirty plates and napkins.

She stops beside me and examines the scar on my forehead. “It’s looking better,” she says quietly.

I nod.

She smiles. “Do you need anything?”

I take a swig of my bottled water, studying the linoleum, and shake my head.

“Well, while you ladies are doing your wedding stuff, I’m going to watch golf,” Dad announces.

I clear my throat. “Um, Dad: if you aren’t busy tonight . . . I still have that thing with my sink faucet.”

“I know. It’s on my list,” he says, reaching for the Pepsi bottle, pouring a refill.

I sigh, exhaling as he leaves the room. I suppose it doesn’t matter. I mean, it’s not like I’ll be living here forever. My eyes dart to Daniel, standing in the doorway, watching me, cautious. My jaw tightens, smarting from the pressure. I toss him a dirty look, then turn away.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

I lie in bed staring at my ceiling. Occasionally, I glance over at the clock on my nightstand, surprised only a few minutes have passed since I last checked it. I roll onto my side and stare at my mirror, where the postcard of downtown Hamilton is stuck in the bottom corner. Though I can’t make out the image, I’ve memorized the scene. In fact, I’ve studied the photograph so much it interferes with my memories of that day. Now, when I picture me and Parker sitting at that table, it’s early in the morning and foggy, sun waiting to pierce the clouds.

I bury my face in my pillow, suffocating myself, wanting it all to just go away.

I’ve closed my eyes, drifting to sleep, when I hear the faintest, tap, tap, against my window. My eyes fly open. I remain absolutely still, fully awake, heart pounding, holding my breath, waiting to hear the sound again.

Behind my bathroom door, the water from the leaky faucet drips into the sink basin.

I throw back my covers and jump out of bed, tiptoeing toward my window, the cool floor creaking beneath my bare feet. I reach out, hand shaking, pull back my curtain, then lift one of the blinds.

Nothing.

I twist the blinds completely open and search outside. The moon illuminates the front yard and the cars parked along the streets, proving that everything is quiet: as it should be. I sigh and return to my bed, crawling under the covers, pulling the comforter all the way to my chin.

I shut my eyes as tightly as possible and force Parker out of my mind. Instead, I focus on the one sound that does exist, and that I can hear. The one noise that, no matter what, I can always count on: drip . . . drip . . . drip. . . .

*   *   *

Prom, which my mom ultimately decided I could attend, signifies the unofficial end of the school year. Forget the important final exams left to review and study for. With summer vacation fast approaching, no one cares. Even some of the teachers have given up. Ms. Tugwell, for instance, resorts to giving us a complete Jane Austen video tutorial, playing the BBC classic Pride and Prejudice and the Kate Winslet version of Sense and Sensibility over the course of the final weeks. My lips turn up into an almost smile when I realize Parker spared himself five hours of Mr. Darcy. Somewhere, wherever he is, and whatever he’s doing, he’s breathing a sigh of relief. I know it.

It’s on one of these mornings that Ms. Tugwell stops in the aisle beside me, flipping through a stack of papers. She pulls out a packet—my essays, paper-clipped together—and places it face down on my desk. I pick it up and examine the evaluation sheet on top. Jaden McEntyre, Parker Whalen: A+.

I glance over at Parker’s seat. It remains empty.

Then yearbooks arrive, and a new crop of issues springs up. We pass them to friends and classmates in our study halls and during lunch. Instead of listening to a review of indefinite integrals in calculus, we tell classmates to “Stay Sweet” and “Don’t Ever Change!” Leaving something witty for them to remember us by—something lasting. I urge them to “Have a Great Summer,” then sign my name.

On the seniors’ pages, I’m voted Best Smile and Most Likely to . . . yes . . . Change the World. Savannah gets a nod for Most Likely to Forget Where She Parked Her Car.

The minutes and hours tick by, easing us closer to the inevitable: that final day of school, when the bell will ring, dismissing us forever.

During the last week of school, and just a few days before graduation and the wedding—after my locker is purged of trash and left half empty—I decide to use a chance moment alone in the office to sneak back into Ms. Stevens’ office.

Sure enough, the key to her file cabinet protrudes from the tiny hole.

You should really think about hiding that.

I turn the key and pop the lock open, pulling on the handle of the long drawer until Parker Whalen’s file comes into view. I quickly slide Parker’s senior photo out from under the silver paperclip.

I deserve this much, at least—to have a real picture of him. The drawer clicks as it latches shut.

I study the photograph, Parker’s stoic expression, the boy who pitched my life upside down. I’ve found myself in a vast amount of trouble these last few months for something that didn’t work out. Still, there’s a reason fate partnered us together for our English project. There’s a reason we became friends. That we kissed. That what happened happened. Because I just can’t go on believing that it was all for nothing.

And so I tuck the photo safely away, sliding it into the back pocket of my jeans.

*   *   *

“Looks like he already stopped by,” Savannah says, nodding toward my car. “He’s early, today.” I refuse to look, moving instead to the picnic table that has, in the last few weeks, become ours.

“It’s red. So it’s probably another rose,” she continues, shielding her eyes, squinting at the parking lot as we sit down at the picnic table. I kick off my sandals and feel the cool blades of grass pricking at my toes, ignoring her.

“You’re going to talk to him, right?” Ashley asks.

I tuck my hair behind my ear, shrugging as I open my lunch bag and pull out my sandwich and Sun Chips.

“You should, Jaden. I mean, the guy was just doing his job,” Savannah reminds me. A balmy breeze wafts between us, tousling my hair. I close my eyes, gazing toward the sun, face tingling as it warms. “So yeah, you got a gun to your head and banged up a bit,” she goes on. “The dude is totally into you. And I’m sorry, but an undercover cop? Do you even realize how sexy that is? You are officially stuck between the pages of a trashy romance novel.”

Ashley laughs, covering her hand with her mouth, snorting. “I can totally see Jaden sprawled across the cover, wrapped in his arms, assets glaring back at us.”

“Officer Whalen, no! Please don’t arrest me,” Savannah purrs, voice high. “I’ll do anything.”

“Anything?” Ashley replies in a low, male tenor.

“I’m glad you think it’s funny,” I say, struggling to conceal my smile.

“Jaden, come on,” Savannah whines. She pulls her blonde hair back in a ponytail, securing it with an elastic. “It’s obvious you’re in love with him. You’ve been miserable since that day.”

“I walked into the middle of a drug bust, Savannah. There were guns.”

“I’m not talking about that day. I’m talking about the day after you talked to Parker. When he said you two couldn’t be together. You aren’t upset about what happened, or with him being a cop. That’s not what bothered you: the idea that you were in love with him, but he didn’t love you back? That’s what hurt you. And instead of being relieved it was a ruse you’re moping around here like your best friend died. Dude. I am totally here. And Parker obviously still wants you or he wouldn’t be going through all this trouble.”

“I don’t know what you guys expect me to do.”

“We want you to talk to him, Jaden,” Ashley says, mouth full, potato chip bag crinkling as she digs inside. “Call him. Leave him a note. Tell him you forgive him. It’s not difficult.”

I sit up straighter. “I did forgive him. I told him I forgave him that day at the hospital.”

“Then you told him to leave you alone,” Savannah reminds me.

“Which lasted all of three weeks,” Ashley points out. “If that.”

“Seriously. I don’t see how you can forgive him for luring you into a death trap, and I mean, we are talking total hostage crisis, but not forgive him for the little white lies he told because of his job. He wasn’t just lying to you. He was lying to everyone,” Savannah says.

“It’s not that easy. I don’t know who he is anymore,” I mumble, peeling my sandwich crust off and tossing it for the birds. It lands in a pile of thick, green clover. I brush the crumbs off my hands.

“So get to know him!” Savannah growls, eyes wide, voice growing louder. “God, Jaden! You are going to screw yourself into a corner if you don’t talk to him. This is like, a crossroads. You’re always going to look back and wonder if things could’ve been different, and this love story is going to turn into a tragedy. Your tragedy. You two deserve a chance to be happy together, and the only thing keeping you apart right now is you.”

I lean back, blinking at her, dazed. “God. When did you get so . . . insightful?” I mutter, brows furrowed. “And harsh.”

Her shoulders relax, and she sighs. “I’m working on it. The point is, he still loves you, Jaden,” she says, quieter. “And whether you want to admit it to yourself or not, you love him. He’s ready. He’s just waiting on you.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

I sigh, feeling the exhaustion in my arms and legs, the headache throbbing behind my eyes. That’s the ironic thing about sleep: the nights I need it most, I barely doze. I roll out of bed just as my clock switches to 7:17. In the morning. On a Saturday. But not just any Saturday: Wedding Day. I study my reflection in the mirror above my dresser, checking for any unexpected, pre-wedding breakouts, examining my scar, which almost disappears with the right concealer.

In the bathroom, I grasp the little wrench perched on the edge of my porcelain sink. I fix it around the thin, copper pipe. Three full turns, and water splashes into the basin.

After emerging from the shower, clothed and warm, towel wrapped around my wet hair, I venture downstairs. Mom is in the kitchen, trying not to make noise as she removes the frying pan from one of the bottom cabinets.

“Couldn’t sleep?” I ask, pulling out a chair from the kitchen table.

“Not today, I couldn’t,” she replies. “I thought I’d put on some eggs and bacon. Maybe pancakes for everyone.”

“Pancakes sound good.”

I’d be happy with a bowl of Cheerios, but for Mom it’s not about the food. It’s a distraction. Something to keep her busy. She’s whisking the batter when: “Knock Knock!” a voice calls through the side door. I jump out of the chair and rush to open it.

“Rise and shine!” Melissa bursts inside, lugging her David’s Bridal dress bag and . . .

“Is that a carry-on?” I ask.

“Yep. I have everything you could possibly need on wedding day: soaps, cleansers, facial scrubs, nail polish, nail polish remover, shampoo, conditioner, blow dryers, hair brushes, make-up, a sewing kit including needles and white thread—though I really hope we don’t have to break that out—duct tape, Advil . . .”

“Oh my God. Wait a minute,” I interrupt. “Did you say blow dryers? Like plural?”

“That’s exactly what I said. Besides, you look like you could use a hair dryer right now.” She nods toward my towel-wrapped head.

I reach up and touch the damp cotton. “Right.”

“I’m making pancakes, Melissa,” Mom says. “Are you interested?”

“If you are offering I am very interested,” she replies. “Has anyone seen the bride to be?”

“Not yet,” I answer.

“Let her sleep as long as she can,” Mom says.

“If she even slept at all,” I mutter. “I barely did and I’m not even getting married. You got the mixer wrapped, right?”

“Yes,” Melissa says. “We’re good.”

“Pancakes!” Phillip cries, entering the kitchen. “You are my favorite mom in the whole world.”

“She’s your only mom in the whole world,” I remind him, rolling my eyes.

“How many do you want?” she asks.

“Six.” Phillip sits down at the table between Melissa and me. Mom brings him a plate stacked high with pancakes. “Can I get some OJ?” he asks.

I give him a sisterly punch him in the arm. “Get it yourself, loser.”

“Ow!” He rubs it for a moment, then cocks his arm to strike me back. I flinch, pulling away, then watch as it falls back to his side, like he has second thoughts. “Whatever,” he grumbles.

He barely even teases me anymore. It’s like everyone is afraid they’re going to break me. When are things going to be normal again?

“Are you working with Daniel today?” Mom asks.

“Nope,” he replies. “I’ve got something to do in Hamilton, but I’ll be back in time to shower and change and pick up Becky at her parents’ house.”

“You are just like your father,” Mom says. “Is anyone going to stay and help Daniel today? I mean, what is so important that you have to be in Hamilton on his wedding day?”

Daniel walks into the kitchen. “I’m a big boy, Mom. Are those pancakes?”

“Yes, these are pancakes. And I’m just saying that it would be nice if someone would give you some company today.”

“I’ll be fine. Men don’t need constant companionship,” he says. “Going to the bathroom does not take a group effort and I don’t need my cuticles done.”

“Your cuticles look pathetic,” I tell him, poking at my pancakes with a fork.

“That’s what Sarah says,” he replies, grinning. “God, Melissa, what did you pack in that thing?” He prods the suitcase with his toe. It doesn’t budge.

Melissa rolls her eyes. “Everything I could possibly need to make sure your bride makes it to the park on time.”

“You have like, eight hours,” Phillip points out, mouth full. “If you can’t get her to the park on time with eight hours, then something is wrong.”

“The wedding doesn’t start without the bride, anyway,” Sarah answers, Joshua planted on her hip.

“Good. Everybody’s up,” Mom says. “Daniel? Sarah? How many pancakes?”

*   *   *

“Another big smile.” The shutter clicks. Flash pops. “Last shot,” the photographer says. This is the millionth one, or so it seems, and my cheek muscles ache.

We’re dressed and ready to go. Mom is pretty in pale blue—wearing a glittery, sleeveless dress that compliments my lavender. Sarah has slipped into her gown, veil clipped in place, soft, brown curls framing her face. Even Joshua is decked out in his little baby tuxedo.

“Do we have everything?” Mom asks as the photographer checks the screen on the back of the camera.

“Technically, as long as we have the bride we’re good to go,” I remind her.

“Is everyone dressed?” she asks. “Shoes?”

I check my feet.

“Pocket books?”

“I’m leaving mine here,” I announce.

“Me too,” says Sarah.

“Me three,” adds Candace, the other bridesmaid and Sarah’s friend from school, who arrived just before the photographer.

“I’m leaving my purse, but I’m bringing my carry-on. You know, in the event we need duct tape,” says Melissa.

Mom smiles. “Good. Does everyone have flowers?”

Four lavender and white rose bouquets lift to the sky. Mom touches her lapel, verifying that, yes, her corsage is pinned in place.

“Are we ready, then?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“What about the boutonnieres for the guys?”

“In my car,” Melissa replies. “Who’s driving who?”

“Sarah’s ride is waiting outside, and I can take Joshua in the truck,” says Mom.

“I’m with Sarah,” says Candace.

“I’ll ride with you, Melissa, if that’s okay,” I say.

“So everyone has a ride,” Mom confirms.

“Yes,” we reply in unison.

“And we have everything we need?”

Again: “Yes.”

She checks her watch. “We have twenty minutes before the ceremony.”

Across from me Sarah touches the edge of her finger-tip length veil. She sucks in a huge breath, then releases it all at once. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

*   *   *

The park where Daniel and Sarah are getting married is more like a town square than a park, really, with huge oak trees, a fountain in the center, a bronze statue of the town founder, and benches scattered throughout. Today it’s transformed: a large, white tent set up to one side; tables and chairs arranged beneath; one hundred and fifty chairs set up in front of the white gazebo adorned in sheer, gauzy fabric; roses and freesias.

Cars line the streets, circling the entire block. The first empty space we find is at the far end of a tree-lined Main Street.

“Well this is something we didn’t plan for,” I mutter as Melissa and I climb out of her car. Across the street, Sarah eases herself out, too. She steps onto the pavement, smoothing the folds of her satin gown. It’s like something out of a dream: a bride standing in the middle of the road, clutching her bouquet. People linger at the various storefronts, typical Saturday afternoon bustle slowing as people drop everything to watch us.

We know or recognize almost everyone, and a few “Good luck, Sarah’s” are thrown out as we make our way down the street. Already, sweat prickles at my skin. My nerves are shaky, at best, and though clouds still hide the afternoon sun, the humidity sucks the life straight out of my pores.

“It’s hot out here,” Melissa says under her breath.

“That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

The photographer snaps photos as we walk.

“What if she passes out?” I ask.

“I have a spray bottle of water in my bag,” she informs me, tapping the black strap on her shoulder.

“That’s great, but where will the bag be?”

“I’m going to make Daniel or Phillip sneak it into the gazebo when no one is paying attention.”

“God, you thought of everything. I may make you my maid of honor,” I muse.

“I take the job seriously.”

We continue walking, the soft strains of classical music filling the air, growing louder as we approach the ceremony site. Guests are still being seated.

Sarah’s aunt greets us when we arrive, ushering us to one side of the tent, closed off, hiding us from view. She and my mother go to work dividing up the corsages and boutonnieres, then head into the crowd to disperse them. We wait, feeling the seconds as they tick by.

“How are you doing?” I ask Sarah.

“Fine,” she replies.

“Nervous?”

“Very.” She takes another deep breath. “Joshy, don’t pull on the tablecloth.”

I glance over at my little nephew.

“I have some gum,” Candace offers.

“That’s okay. I’ll probably forget to spit it out and start smacking when I’m up there. And that wouldn’t be very bride-like.”

“Do you need a bottled water?” Melissa asks.

“Is that in your miracle bag, too?” I tease.

She throws me a dirty look. “The bag is secured,” she whispers.

“What? Already?”

“It was a covert op. Blink and you missed me.”

“What are you talking about?” Sarah asks, confused.

Melissa smiles. “Nothing,” we reply in tandem.

“Anyway,” Melissa continues, “I was actually thinking that maybe we should check with him.”

We follow her finger until our gazes rest on a guy—a very cute guy—manning the punch table. He can’t be older than any of us, and is wearing black pants, a white shirt, and a black tuxedo vest.

“Wow,” Candace murmurs under her breath.

I smile.

“I know,” Melissa replies. “Whoever he is, he doesn’t live in this town.”

“All right, ladies!” Sarah’s aunt approaches, motioning for us to line up.

I lift the mass of curls at the nape of my neck, fanning it with my hand. The clouds are breaking, and every other moment is filled with bright sunlight. A warm breeze passes through the tent, rustling the tablecloths, playing with our hair. When I look at Sarah, I can see tears welling in her eyes.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“They came.” She shakes her head, hesitating. “I can’t believe it. They actually came.”

And she laughs. Happy.

When the music is cued Candace moves into the aisle, like we practiced days before. Only then there were no people, no chairs, no white runner covered in flower petals. Then, we were pretending. This time, it’s real. I step forward, following Candace the moment Sarah’s aunt nudges me.

Daniel, handsome in his tuxedo, smiles at me as I approach the gazebo and find my place. As I watch Sarah, ready to make her entrance, my thoughts flitter back to the night before: graduation and the speeches given, which, even at this moment, seems like lifetimes ago. Specifically, I remember crossroads, and roads less traveled, and staying the course, follow the dream. An endless progression of cliché after cliché. But despite this, I marvel at how even the wrong choices can keep us on the right path. How the worst mistake can wind up being the best thing that ever happened to us. Because even though Daniel and Sarah chose a fairly rocky journey, everything seemed to come full circle to bring them back to this one, perfect moment: exactly where they’re meant to be.

*   *   *

Hours later I kick off my lavender shoes and sit down at the table to eat another piece of cake. It’s past dinnertime and I’m starving. Sarah and Daniel departed earlier in Daniel’s truck, after running through a shower of birdseed. A few family members still linger, mingling, but my duties as bridesmaid are officially over.

As I examine my feet, the monstrous red blisters gracing my tiny toes and heels, I groan.

“I can get you something for that.”

My cheeks flush, growing warmer. I tuck my feet beneath the chair, hiding them from the cute server, still manning the drink station.

“You can get me some water,” I say, smiling. Because honestly? I never want to see another cup of red punch ever again.

He bends down for a moment, disappearing, and re-emerges moments later, producing a Dasani.

“You . . . are my hero,” I say as he carries it over to me.

“I got it,” a voice interrupts. “You can go back to your little table.” Phillip snatches the bottled water from the server’s hand and sets it down in front of me.

The guy pauses for a moment, confused, before slinking away.

“Phillip,” I hiss as he plops down in the chair beside me. “You are so embarrassing. I expect this kind of thing from Daniel. Not you.”

“He’s not your type,” Phillip replies. “And he’s been eyeing every girl here under the age of twenty-five.”

“Does that include Becky?” I ask, twisting the plastic cap open. “And you’re jealous?”

“That includes Becky, and Candace, and Melissa, and Sarah, for God’s sake, and you. . . .”

“And that blonde who works with Sarah,” I add.

“Who?”

“The blonde. In the green dress. She sat with Candace all night.”

A flicker of recognition. “Oh. Everyone was checking her out.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re such a guy. So where is Becky, anyway?”

He nods toward the table where my parents stand, still talking to guests. “She’s on Joshua duty.”

She’s sitting at an empty table holding Joshy, who’s fast asleep, head on her shoulder.
“Poor little guy had a busy day.”

“There was a lot of excitement,” he replies.

“Sarah’s parents actually showing up,” I muse.

“Your over-priced, unnecessary pink mixer.”

“Our big brother actually settling down. Moving out.”

“Yeah, well, I’m thinking about one-upping all that,” he says.

I eye him warily. “What are you talking about?”

He reaches into his pocket and removes a diminutive, ebony ring box.

“Phillip!” I whisper. “No freakin’ way!” I glance over at Becky, still sitting with Josh, oblivious.

He pops open the lid, keeping the box tucked safely below the table. A dazzling square diamond, nestled deeply between the velvet folds, shimmers back.

“Oh My God. It’s gorgeous!” I cry, heart skipping a beat. “When are you going to ask her?”

He shrugs. “Later tonight. I heard about women and weddings. I figured I’d be more likely to get a yes if I asked her today.”

I take a swig of water, then shake my head in disbelief, swallowing hard. “I can’t believe you. You actually found a girl you like . . . and you want to marry her.”

“Why’s that so surprising?” he asks.

“Because you’re . . . you. You’ve never dated a girl longer than a week. I swear to God, I’m waiting for it to start snowing, or the zombie apocalypse, because the world is coming to an end.”

He smiles. “Maybe. But you know, when you love someone you love them. And every day you sit back pretending that you don’t is one less day you have with him.”

“Her,” I correct.

He shifts his eyes in my direction. “I wasn’t talking about me.”

He wasn’t talking about. . . . I swallow hard, forcing back the lump lodged deep in my throat. “Well, anyway. I like her. I hope she says yes.”

“Me too.” He closes the box with a snap and exhales deeply. “We’ll try to give you a breather, though.”

My eyebrows furrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He stands, slipping the ring box into the pocket of his black tuxedo jacket, a mischievous grin plucking at the corners of his mouth. “Because if she says yes, you get to play bridesmaid again.”

Chapter Thirty

In the time it takes to travel from the park to my house, the sun disappears below the horizon. The entire world shadowed in reds, purples, and dark blues. Melissa pulls her car to the curb, and we step back into the cool, evening air. I shiver, rubbing my arms as we cross the damp lawn.

Daniel’s truck, still covered in streamers and balloons and paint, is parked in the driveway.

“I figured you guys would’ve left by now,” I call, entering the foyer.

Sarah’s voice drifts downstairs, muffled: “We’re packing!”

“We would’ve been gone already, but Sarah couldn’t leave without saying goodbye to Joshua,” Daniel adds, appearing at the top of the stairs.

“They’re on their way. They were leaving right behind us.” I step out of my shoes and kick them into the front living room, feet aching. I flip on the light. Hairdryers, rollers, make-up, safety pins, garment bags, and clothes are scattered across the room. It’s trashed beyond all recognition. I heave a sigh, turning the light off. This is not something I can deal with right now. “I don’t think I’m gonna be able to walk right for a year,” I tell Melissa.

“I know,” she replies. “Sarah? That whole dyed-to-match thing didn’t work for us,” she yells.

“It’s too late now,” she points out as we head upstairs.

Sarah, already changed into jeans and a sweatshirt, is packing a suitcase. Her wedding dress is tossed on the bed in a heap of satin and tulle. “Wedding’s over!” I tease, passing her bedroom and entering mine.

I flip on the light switch in my bathroom, moving toward the sink, feeling the exhaustion in my legs from standing most of the evening. I study my reflection in the mirror. Definitely in need of a good night’s sleep, I think, examining the dark circles beneath my eyes. And the concealer on my scar didn’t hold up.

Without thinking, I reach for the wrench to turn on the water, but . . . it’s missing.

“What?” I murmur.

That’s when I see it: a brand new faucet. An entirely new fixture . . . with two handles sparkling in the light. I carefully twist the knob. Cold water pours out of the spout. It works.

I smile.

Behind me, Daniel clears his throat.

“What is this?” I ask, turning to face him.

He shrugs his shoulders.

“When did you do this?” I ask. “Because I know it wasn’t Dad.”

“You don’t know it wasn’t Dad,” he says, walking into the bathroom. I eye him suspiciously.

“All right. It wasn’t Dad,” he confesses.

“I just don’t get how you managed it.” My shiny new faucet glimmers. “I mean, you were at the new house all day. And we were here until right before the wedding started.”

“I didn’t do it,” he assures me, leaning against the towel rack on my wall.

“Was it Phillip?”

“Nope.”

I roll my eyes. “Come on. You’re killing me, Daniel.”

He crosses his arms. “Let’s just say someone called in a favor.”

I stare at the faucet for a moment. When I look back at Daniel, he nods.

I swallow hard. “You talked to him?” The words break to pieces in my throat.

“A few times.” He shrugs, lifting his shoulders and letting them fall.

“How is he?”

“The truth?”

I nod.

“He misses you.”

I miss him, I want to say, eyes growing damp.

Daniel stands straighter, stuffing his hands deep inside his pockets. “Anyway, he wanted to do something nice for my little sister so I left him a key. He came while we were at the wedding.” He shuffles in the doorway, runs his fingers through his hair. “He was finished by the time we got back. I was kind of hoping he would stick around.”

“I don’t know what I would’ve said to him.” I pause for a moment, studying the porcelain sink, trying to process Parker being here, working on it without my even knowing. I glance around the room, wondering if he left a note—some kind of sign. Not a thing is out of place. It’s almost as if the faucet appeared out of nowhere—like magic. “Thank you,” I mutter, still dazed.

He backs into my bedroom. “You’re welcome. But I’m not the one you should thank.”

In the next moment, I’m alone.

My bedroom is nearly dark, the faint glow of dusk illuminating the window, casting blue and gray shadows. I flip my light switch on. The room, too, is as I remember. Parker didn’t as much as sit down on my bed, wrinkling the comforter. He didn’t move my desk chair. There isn’t even a footprint on my rug. Nothing. Like he came through as an apparition, making only the most obvious of changes—a new sink faucet—and nothing else.

I walk over to my dresser. The bouquet of tulips he placed on my windshield the night before—the ones he left during the graduation ceremony—stand tall in their glass vase. I tuck my hair behind my ears and lean in to breathe them.

My throat tightens.

He’s ready. He’s just waiting on me.

I lift the lid of my jewelry box; his photograph is still tucked safely inside. I examine it, taking in the dark eyes, black hair, his serious expression. He doesn’t even look like he’s in high school. I don’t know why I didn’t see it before. And his lips—the ones, in another lifetime entirely, I touched with my own.

I was doing so well: throwing myself into graduation and the house and the wedding, finally treading water instead of drowning. But now, as I stare at the photo, knowing he was so close, everything comes rushing back, like a wave, powerful enough to knock me over. I return the photo to its place, snapping the lid shut.

My heart pounds, blood hammering in my ears. I rush to the closet and pull out a pair of flip flops, slipping them on as I run out the door, flicking off the light as I go, unaffected by the tear in the drywall where my Harvard sticker once resided.

My shoes thwack against each step as I bound down the stairs, fistfuls of lavender satin clutched in my hands.

“Jaden?” Sarah calls.

“I have to go!”

“Jaden, it’s late,” Daniel says. I can feel them watching from the top of the stairs.

“No,” I reply, disappearing into the front living room, snatching up my purse and keys. “I have to do this. Now.” I return to the foyer. “Tell Mom I’m sorry, and I’ll be home soon.”

I’m twisting the doorknob, ready to leave, when: “Jaden?”

I spin around and look up at my brother, chest heaving.

He pulls his sweatshirt over his head and tosses it my way. It lands in a pile at my feet. “It’s getting cooler.”

*   *   *

I take the road from school leading to that old trailer. I drive slowly in the darkness, keeping my eyes peeled. I recognize some of the landmarks and houses I passed the day I followed Parker. And when I come to that familiar path, I turn into the driveway, bouncing in and out of potholes, dirt kicking up behind me. The yard is the same: overgrown, full of tires and trash and old car parts and rusted burn barrels. The house itself is the same: the metal paneling dented, rusted, stairs unsafe.

But Parker’s motorcycle is gone.

Still, I push open the car door and step into the shin-deep grass, pulling the sleeves of Daniel’s sweatshirt tighter, hugging myself. I climb the rickety steps. The diamond window on the aluminum door is too high for me to look through, so I take a deep breath . . . and I knock.

When, after a few, long seconds, no one answers, I knock again.

“Where are you?” I whisper.

I stand back, gazing at the old trailer. The clouds part, and the moonlight pours down, lighting the fields and the yard.

And it hits me.

He doesn’t live here. He didn't bring me here that day because this is where he lives. That was part of the game, too. He was playing a part.

A strong gust of wind blows in, driving the weeds in the field to their sides, tousling my hair and whipping it into my eyes, slapping it against my face. I gather it at the nape of my neck as the moon is swallowed by the clouds again, plunging the world into darkness.

I feel my way down the steps, moving toward my car.

Inside, I flip on the light and dig around my purse. When I find my cell phone, I call Information.

“I was wondering if you could give me an address for Parker Whalen,” I tell the operator.

“How do you spell that?” she asks.

I wait, listening to a keyboard clacking on the other end.

“I’m sorry. I’m not seeing a Parker Whalen.”

My heart plummets. “There’s not an address or a number?”

“No. There’s not a single Whalen in the county.”

“There’s nothing?” I ask, not wanting to believe her.

“I’m sorry.”

I don’t go home right away. I can’t. Instead I drive. Wandering, aimless. From one side of the county to the other, trying to clear my head. I finally park my car along the curb in front of my house just before midnight, defeated. Exhausted. Mom meets me in the foyer.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her, exhaling loudly, tears filling my eyes. “I just . . . I just wanted to talk to him.”

She offers a resigned smile. “Get some rest. We’ll figure it out in the morning.”

I trudge up the stairs, passing the row of family photos, Daniel and Sarah’s room, which is empty.

I shut my bedroom door, pull Daniel’s sweatshirt over my head, and flip on the bathroom light. My new faucet sparkles. I open the door to my white medicine cabinet and pull out the glass I keep inside. The water splashes against itself, bubbling as I fill it. I take an Advil and drink a few swallows, then turn out the light, plunging the room into darkness.

I’m waiting for my eyes to re-adjust when I hear it. My heart stops. I wait. And listen. Straining my ears. And I know it’s real. It’s not my imagination. I’m not lost in my sleep-deprived delirium. I know, without a doubt, as those feather-light taps sound against my window: this is no dream.

And so I make my way across the room steadily, carefully. Hands shaking, I pull the string, lifting my blinds. They rise slowly, drawing more moonlight into the room with every inch.

And there he is, crouched low on the roof. Same leather jacket. The hair is his, the cheekbones, the perfect nose . . . the eyes: dark and mysterious . . . full of secrets. . . . My heart flutters, body light. I reach out to touch him, thinking he might disappear, my fingers disrupted by the windowpane.

On the other side, Parker lifts his hand and mouths: “Hi.”

I mouth “Hi” back.

He holds up a single finger, signaling me to hold on. He picks up a spiral-bound notebook and flips open the cover, turning the first page to me. I recognize his neat, block print instantly: bold, black Sharpie.

I know this is unexpected . . . , I read.

He flips the page.

. . . and strange . . .

I lift an eyebrow.

. . . but please hear read me out.

He flips to the next page.

I know I told you I never lied . . .

. . . but that was (obviously) the biggest lie of all.

The truth is: I’m a liar.

I lied.

I lied to myself . . .

. . . and to you.

Parker watches as I read. Our eyes meet, and he flips the page.

But only because I had to.

I wasn’t supposed to fall in love with you, Jaden . . .

. . . but it happened anyway.

I clear my throat, and swallow hard, but it’s squeezed shut again, tight.

And it gets worse.

Not only am I a liar . . .

I’m selfish.

Selfish enough to want it all.

And I know if I don’t have you . . .

I hold my breath, waiting.

. . . I don’t have anything.

He turns another page, and I read:

I’m not Ethan . . .

. . . and I’m not going to give up . . .

. . . until I can prove to you . . .

. . . that you are the only thing that matters.

He flips to the next page.

So keep sending me away . . .

. . . but I’ll just keep coming back to you.

Again . . .

He flips to the next page.

. . . and again . . .

And the next:

. . . and again.

Goose bumps rise to the surface of my skin. I shiver, hugging myself tightly.

And if you can ever find it in your (heart) to forgive me . . .

There’s a big, black “heart” symbol where the word should be.

I will do everything it takes to make it up to you.

He closes the notebook and tosses it beside him. It lands on the roof with a dull thwack. Then, lifting his index finger, he draws an X across his chest.

Cross my heart.

I stifle the happy laugh welling inside, hiding the smile as I reach for the metal latch to unlock my window. I slowly, carefully, raise the sash. A burst of fresh honeysuckles saturates the balmy, midnight air, sickeningly sweet, filling the room. I close my eyes, breathing it in, as a thousand sleepless nights melt, slipping away. I gather the lavender satin of my dress in my hand, climb through the open window, and stand tall on the roof, feeling the height, the warmth of the shingles beneath my bare feet, facing Parker.

He touches the length of the scar on my forehead with his cool finger, tucks my hair behind my ear, traces the edge of my face with the back of his hand. My eyes close.

“You know you’re beautiful? Even when you cry?” He smiles, holding my face in his hands, smearing the tears away with his thumbs.

I breathe in, lungs shuddering.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, black eyes sincere.

I swallow. “I know why you had to.”

“Doesn’t make it right.”

“Doesn’t matter anymore,” I say, shaking my head.

The moon hangs suspended in the sky, stars twinkling overhead, as he leans down and kisses me softly, lips meeting mine, familiar—lips I imagined, dreamed about, memorized a million hours ago.

Then he wraps his arms around me, pulling me into him, quelling every doubt and fear and uncertainty in this one, perfect moment.

Epilogue

A Few Months Later

The leaves crunch beneath my soles as I make my way down the sidewalk, the strap to my laptop bag draped over my shoulder and cell phone pressed tightly against my ear.

“It’s crazy, Savannah. They have us dissecting a cow’s eyeball tomorrow.”

“Hello. You want to be a doctor,” she replies. “I’m pretty sure that, at some point, you’re gonna do much worse than dissect a cow eye. I hate to even say it, but you’re gonna have to get used to digging inside random body parts.”

I laugh. “And what makes you the authority all of a sudden? Two months into our college careers and you’re already some kind of expert.” I set my laptop bag down on the café table. The days are cooler, and I pull the sleeves of my gray sweater over my wrists. I sit down and start my laptop while Savannah tells me about her American history professor, who apparently will not shut up about The New Deal. Not only can he effectively transition from Puritan Salem to FDR, he also had the nerve to give Savannah a ninety on her last paper because she forgot to list the bibliographic entry to the novel it was about.

“That sucks,” I reply, waiting for my computer to find a signal from the wireless internet in the café.

“Yeah it was, but then, it was like, written in these massive bold letters at the top of our assignment sheet not to forget the bibliography, so it was kinda my fault.”

“Oh, well, when you put it that way . . .”

“But still,” she interrupts, “I was totally mad at myself knowing I would’ve aced the paper if I would’ve remembered.”

“Lesson learned.”

“Tell me about it.”

I smile, imagining her eyes rolling on the other end of her dorm phone. “I have to admit: I’m scared of you right now.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that I’m not used to this . . . this you. A few months ago you wouldn’t have even turned the paper in. You’re totally studious.”

“I know!” she cries. “I think I may be a nerd! And Jaden, you would not believe the guys here. I mean, I had no idea what we were missing, wasting our time on high school boys.”

I smile. Blake and Tony, along with several other members of the boy’s basketball team, were cited for various drug-related infractions during the school’s raid. Tony lost his scholarship. Savannah went to college without him.

I lean back in the wrought-iron chair. The leaves on the tree hovering above are in different stages of autumn. Some still green, some turning yellow, others a dark crimson, ready to fly away. They flutter in the breeze, rustling against one another. I inhale a cleansing breath, taking in the crisp, cool air.

I glance up just in time to watch him cross the street. He jogs toward me, bag slung over his shoulder. He’s wearing gray dress pants, and I just can see the burgundy sweater vest beneath his leather jacket. I smile when I see him.

“Have you heard from Ash lately?” I ask.

“I talked to her this past weekend. But if we’re all home for fall break next week we need to meet up. I feel like I haven’t seen you guys in forever. And I can’t believe I’m even saying this, but I’d kill for some pizza at Papa Guido’s.”

“Let-ah me show-ah you some magic-ah!” I mock.

Savannah bursts out laughing. “I’m serious.”

Parker steps onto the sidewalk and drops his bag to the ground. He brushes my arm as he passes, disappearing inside the café. My phone trills. I pull it away from my ear and glance at the screen.

“Savannah, my mom is beeping in. Can I call you back later?”

We say goodbye and I answer the other call.

“Hey, Mom.” I reach inside my backpack and pull out my anatomy book. “No, everything’s fine. I just have a lot of homework to do. Story of my life for the next decade.”

Parker re-emerges from the café carrying a soda, bottled water, and two chocolate chip cookies. He sets the water and one of the cookies in front of me.

Thank you, I mouth. “What? No, I was thanking Parker. He bought snacks.”

I listen to her for a moment, then move the phone away from my mouth. “She says hello.”

He smiles, and my insides go all buttery, melting, fusing together. “Tell her I said hello back.”

I roll my eyes, pretending to be irritated. “He says hi.” Mom goes on. I move the phone away again. “She wants to know if you’re coming home with me for fall break.”

“If I’m invited.”

I smile, and go back to my mom. “He says if he’s invited he would love to.” I listen, and roll my eyes again. “She says you’re always invited.”

He laughs, a sly smile crossing his face. “Then I’ll be there.”

My heart flutters, skipping a few beats.

“You realize, though,” he begins after I hang up, “that high school students don’t get a fall break, right?”

My smile flips to a frown, deepening. “You don’t have the end of next week off?”

“Nope. So I’ll have to wait until Friday night to see you.”

“That sucks.”

“I thought you knew that.”

“I’m sorry. Some of us aren’t fourth-year seniors,” I tease.

He shakes his head, grinning. “That’s a low blow.”

“So, what’s on the agenda for today?” I ask.

He opens his Norton Anthology of American Literature and skims through the table of contents. “Today it’s Nathaniel Hawthorne in all his parabolic splendor.”

“Sounds fascinating. I’m dissecting a cow eye tomorrow.”

“Remind me not to sign up for that class.”

“Don’t even try to play dumb with me, Mr. Montgomery Preparatory Academy.”

“Yeah. I’m so brilliant,” he replies, flicking me playfully on the crease of my elbow. “Brilliant enough to know better than pick a career that has me playing with knives and slicing through animal-flesh.”

I pass him a knowing glance. “No, you just picked one that lets you play with guns and leaves you a perpetual high school senior.”

“Which is why I’m fully willing to admit that you are on a much higher plane of intelligence than I am.”

“The idea of intelligence is relative.”

Parker smirks. “What else do you have for me, Miss Intro to Philosophy?”

“The idea of love is also relative. For instance: I love that you pretend I’m smarter than you are.”

“I love your false modesty,” he replies, eyes sparkling.

“I love that despite all of my warnings you are still consuming that fizzy, caffeinated beverage.” I tap the aluminum soda can on the table in front of him with my pen.

“I love that you’re concerned enough about my health and well-being to warn me of the dangers.”

“I love that you don’t listen to anything I say.” I roll my eyes.

He scoffs. “I listen to everything you say.”

“Okay, well, maybe you listen to the most important things,” I clarify.

He grabs his notebook, leans back in his chair. “I love that you tell me the important things.”

“I love that half the time you don’t want to hear them, but then, like, two weeks later you tell me I was right.”

He smirks. “I love how you’re purposefully keeping me from Hawthorne.”

“I love how you’re purposefully keeping me from macular degeneration.”

“Then stop arguing with me and get to work,” Parker says sternly, the faint trace of a smile behind his eyes.

A cool breeze rattles the tree above. Red, yellow, and orange leaves fall from its branches, sprinkling the sidewalk and table. I pick one up and twirl it between my fingers, watching it dance. When I lift my head, Parker is watching me, his dark eyes shimmering and alive.

“I love your eyes,” I tell him.

“Not as much as I love you.” He watches me closely, a hint of a smile playing at his lips, teasing.

My cheeks flush with heat and I lean forward, grabbing his notebook and pen. I write carefully beneath his steady, block print, smiling at life and its little ironies. The knowns and the unknowns. The goods and the not-so-goods. The ups and downs: the never-ending see-saw that is a relationship. Because the truth is: Parker Whalen changed me. He taught me to cry, to love, to forgive. He taught me that sometimes truths are complicated, woven deeper than we could ever imagine. He taught me to let go. To hold on.

And that what’s real . . . is all that will ever matter.

♥   ♥   ♥

An Interview with Katie Klein

So where, exactly, did you get the idea for CROSS MY HEART?

The idea for CROSS MY HEART came to me one night when I was out driving with my family. It was fall, and getting darker early (which is always a really depressing time for me, since I live for spring). We were listening to the radio when "November Rain" came on (Guns n Roses). I love the song, anyway; I remember the music video, and it's one of those classics that always seemed to speak to me.

I sat there, listening to the lyrics, singing the parts I knew, and I started thinking about what I was hearing: When I look into your eyes, I can see a love restrained / but darling when I hold you don't you know I feel the same / We both know hearts can change / It's hard to keep an open heart. . . .

And that's where I got the idea for Jaden, a girl who (like me) hates the winter. She's focused and driven, and she doesn't really have time for what we would consider "normal" teenage things. She has a boyfriend, but she's never really learned to love anyone.

Parker and Jaden are probably the last two people we would ever expect to manage a successful relationship. As the story unfolds, though, it seemed so natural for the two of them to fall in love. Each is exactly what the other needs; as much as they can't (or don't want to) admit it, they're perfect for each other. Love is about taking chances, and, to me, that's what the song (and the story) is about.

In one of the early drafts, Jaden and Parker actually talk about "November Rain." The scene was eventually deleted from the final manuscript, but it went like this:

“Are you being nosy?” I nod toward the leather CD case clutched in his hands.

“Just trying to figure out who you are,” he explains. He keeps turning pages.

I reach for my seat belt and pull it across my lap. “I thought you already knew who I was . . . smart, boring, pathetic.”

“Yeah, well, you like Guns n Roses, so you can’t be all bad,” he says, perusing the titles.

“Check that. I like ‘November Rain.’”

“Good song,” he says, nodding.

“Best rock song ever.”

“Best guitar solo ever.”

“Best music video ever,” I add.

“Vaguely poetic, even.”

I smile. “So, where to?”

I heard that CROSS MY HEART was originally going to be a screenplay.

Yeah. That was the goal, anyway. I had it in my head that I wanted to give screenwriting a try, and so I began what was the first draft of the story in the fall of 2008. I made it about halfway through, and I liked the story so much I decided to turn it into a novel. I think I may be too long-winded to be a screenwriter. That's not to say I'll never try my hand at it again, but I'm thinking I'll get the same result: a novel.

But that was over two years ago!

I know. CROSS MY HEART was one of the hardest stories I've ever written (or at least it feels that way). This is because I went through so many rounds of revisions. The original manuscript capped out at almost 110,000 words. By the end, I cut it down to about 76,000. There were more scenes related to wedding planning, and a character was completely cut. The ending changed at least three or four times, and I had a really hard time deciding what Parker's secret would be. At first, I was really focused on the troubled parts of Parker's life—his poverty, his sketchy past, the trouble with his dad, etc. My original intent was for Jaden to help him out of that; to change him.

Yeah, that was a pretty big plot twist you threw in.

I know. I couldn't help it. It was one of those "Ah-Ha" moments. I was having trouble with a current project, and emailed a writer friend for help. We were talking out some plot issues, and she made the comment about one story (that shall not be named) being really similar to another story, only with guns.

I knew I wasn't happy with the CROSS MY HEART ending, but I wasn't really thinking about that story at the time. That night I was in bed, trying to sleep, only my mind was racing. I was thinking about my characters in general, and I asked myself: "What would happen if I gave Parker a gun?" At first I went the cliché route: "Well, maybe he's in a gang after all, and it gets them both in trouble." But then I decided that Parker was going to be one of the "good" guys. The twist as to who Parker really is adds an entirely new element to the story. It's not that Parker doesn't want to be with Jaden, it's that he can't.

This "Ah-Ha" moment happened at 1:30 in the morning. I spent the next day revising.

How's that for not giving away too many spoilers?

Not bad. I noticed you're pretty big on symbolism.

Yeah, I guess. There's always some kind of hidden message or deeper meaning to find. For instance, the idea of "glitter" plays an important role. It's kind of fascinating, how glitter seems to improve or enhance something, even as it's embellishing reality. When the story opens, Jaden is admiring her poster, but the glitter serves as a metaphor for her life: she's hiding who she really is. A few chapters later, we see the glitter on the poster fading. This is one of the first signs that Jaden is changing. Any time something glitters or sparkles in the story (even the characters' eyes), there's a deeper connotation. This wasn't my original intention, but as I revised I could see a clear theme running through the story: that beneath the layers things aren't always what they seem.

I didn't intend for this to happen, either, but the first two times Parker sneaks over to Jaden's house, he's the one who climbs inside to meet her. At the end, she steps out on the roof to meet him. It's definitely a "meet me halfway" kind of thing, and I like that she took that huge step so she could be with him.

There are other things, too, including a few connections to Ethan Frome, but that's just the literary geek in me coming out.

You know, you can actually find a hidden meaning in anything if you look hard enough. I didn't write the symbolism in on purpose, and it's not something I look for as a reader; these are just a few things that jumped out at me during the final read-through(s).

Describe Jaden's relationship with her family.

Jaden is unique in that she's the only girl and the baby of the family. Of course Daniel, the oldest, is going to be over-protective of her. And even though he picks on her a lot, it's clear that Phillip cares about her, too. They both want what's best for her, but these are two entirely different things. Daniel wants her to stay away from guys (or anything that could hurt her), period; Phillip wants her to be happy—to not be such a control freak.

Jaden has a good relationship with her mom. She's mature for her age, and she knows what she wants. This also plays into her relationship with Sarah. Jaden knows just what to say to make someone feel better; she may be driven and focused, but she's a good friend and person.

Her relationship with her dad is pretty complicated, I think. He's always busy, and doesn't exactly make time for her. This is another reason why Daniel steps in and takes over. More than anyone else, he acts like the father figure, even though he's only a few years older. In the end, Daniel and Phillip are the big brothers (I think) every girl wants to have. As their creator, I love them both.

I wish her dad would've just fixed her faucet, already.

I know, and I was surprised this part of the novel took on so much meaning. Throughout the entire story, Jaden is begging someone (anyone!) to fix her faucet. The truth is: her dad lets her down. He's not doing it on purpose, but he struggles when it comes to things that are really important (like family). When Parker steps in and fixes the sink faucet for her, I think, more than anything else, this is his way of letting Jaden know that he'll always be there for her, and that she can depend on him.

The idea for the leaky faucet came from the house I was living in at the time I was writing the first draft of this story. There was no hot water handle for the bathtub, and so I had to use a wrench to turn on and shut off the valve. It was kind of a pain.

CROSS MY HEART seems like one of those stories you have to read twice to really "get."

Possibly. I think if a reader starts the story over knowing the outcome, they'll see the clues that lead to the resolution. I've scattered some hints throughout. I hope they're as surprised and happy with the conclusion as I am.

Yeah, you seem like the "happy ending" type.

I love a good love story. I enjoy characters who are really struggling with something, and I love when it works out for the best in the end, even if it doesn't seem like it will at the time. I'm a fan of angst, and drama, and love conquering all.

I just write the type of story that I would want to read, and hope there are others out there who are interested in them, too.

So do Jaden and Parker live happily ever after?

That's up to the reader to decide, but I have it on good authority that they're doing quite well these days. (smiles)

You already mentioned "November Rain." What other songs made it onto your playlist to represent this story?

My playlist for this novel consists mostly of emo, angsty boy songs. I think this has a lot to do with Jaden and Parker's feelings for each other, and how torn and confused they both are.

In no particular order:

"Fix You" (Coldplay)

"Never Say Never" (The Fray)

"Possibility" (Lykke Li)

"Half-Life" (Duncan Shiek)

"Sideways" (Citizen Cope)

"Long Time Coming" (Oliver James)

"Secrets" (One Republic)

"Mystified" (Rocco Deluca and The Burden)

"Untitled" (Simple Plan)

"Don't Let the Sun Go Down on Me" (George Michael feat. Elton John)

"They'll Never Know" (Ross Copperman)

"Almost Lover" (A Fine Frenzy)

"Gone Away" (Lucy Schwartz)

"Slow Motion" (David Gray)

"Fly Away" (Ross Copperman)

"All We Are" (One Republic)

"Someone to Save You" (One Republic)

"Bed of Roses" (Bon Jovi)

"Make You Feel My Love" (Adele)

"This Year's Love" (David Gray)

There's actually a lot of Parker in these songs. I think this is partly because I spent most of my time trying to figure out what his deal was. Or maybe it's because I developed a massive crush on him while I was writing. Yeah, it happens.

That's, um, weird. What are you working on now?

That is a secret, but as soon as I'm ready to share, you will be the first to know.

That's not vague at all. So how can I keep up with you?

Right now I have a blog at http://katiekleinwrites.blogspot.com/

I love to hear what readers think about my stories, so feel free to comment or drop me a line any time.

Also, if you enjoyed CROSS MY HEART, I hope you'll consider telling others about it. Post a blog, give it a rating on bn.com, or leave an Amazon.com or Goodreads review; post a link on Facebook, or tweet about it. . . . There are plenty of ways to spread the word.

(Just be careful about posting spoilers! We wouldn't want to ruin the surprise for anyone.)

I write for my readers, so when you guys stop reading, I'll stop writing. As long as there's a demand, though, I'll continue putting out books.

So you're really not going to tell me what you're working on now?

My lips are sealed.

About The Author

Katie Klein is a diehard romantic with a penchant for protagonists who kick butt. She currently resides on the East Coast and is hard at work on her next YA novel. She is also the author of the THE GUARDIAN, a YA paranormal romance, and maintains a web presence at: http://katiekleinwrites.blogspot.com.

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