Cross My Heart (9 page)

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,
head
ing
straight for this huge tree. They hit it, but it does
n’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
d
eathbed, 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 si
t
s
motionless, studying my face,
mouth hinti
ng at a smile,
and
suddenly
I remember
what he said in the bathroom that day: a
bout
me being boring.
And
I wonder if he still believes that, or if, after our last few conversations, he’s starting to
see
me
differentl
y
.
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 do
n’t want him to
think I’m
boring.
I do
n’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
une
asy
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
anythi
ng
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 s
tillness
falls over us. I
bit
e
into
my sandwich, feeling the cold for the first time since w
e
started talking. I shiver
,
a chill rippling—
goose
bumps
crawl
ing
up my spine,
and
gaze
across
the empty courtyard.
 

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

The
icy
breeze tousles
my hair, blowing a few
,
str
ay 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 ta
k
e another bite. It’s not
until after I’ve
swallowed tha
t I notice Parker does
n’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 br
others as teenagers, when they
consume
d
entire
bags of potato chips and a two-
liter in one sitting. Even Blake
and Tony eat
their
lunches plus whatever they
can
coax fr
om the snack machines. Parker is tall, and thin, but he does
n’t look scrawny
beneath that
leather
jacket of his
.

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

“Bec
ause it’s quiet.”

“And that doesn’t get boring?”

“Nope,” he r
eplies
.

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

“Nah,” he says
, shrugging.

He shrugs
a l
ot, I notice
—wrapped in
nonc
halance,
but
not distant
or
un
caring.  He’
s quiet;
h
e does
n’
t waste words. Everything seems
calculated, and thought out—not planned . . . more like . . . insightful, maybe.

I reach
int
o my brown paper sack and
remove
a plastic bag of Sun Chips. I
t crinkles and squeaks
between my fingers as I
split it open
. I
grab one, then pass
t
he bag over to Parker. He stares
at
me for a moment,
deliberating
, before reaching
f
or them. His fin
gers graze
mine
as he ta
k
es
the
bag fro
m me. They’
re
ice
—but I can
feel a flicker
of
energ
y pass
between us
, and
I fi
ght
the urge
to touch
him again
,
t
o
prove it’
s
only
my imagination.

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

*
  
*
  
*

Savannah me
e
t
s
me in the lobby at our
raffle
table
at the end of last period
.
I ignore her grim expression as I exa
mi
ne
my poster
board, which, after a week, has
al
ready lost
some of its
rosy
sparkle
. We have
n’t spoken
since earlier t
hat morning, and since I
kind of
missed lunch. . . .

“Hey! W
hat’s u
p?” I ask
as she
s
lid
es
into one of the
plastic
chair
s
.

“Not much. How are we doing?”

“We’re up to about t
hree 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 th
ings 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 sitt
ing with him today
.
”

“Yeah, we did,” she replies
, speaking for the entire table. “We
kinda
wondered why you didn’t mention you planned on e
ating with him.” Savannah leans
back in her chair as the bell ri
ng
s
. Studen
ts swarm
out of
classrooms,
tripping over themselves;
laughter floods
the hallways.
The
end of the day sounds a
re always twice as amped compare
d to morning;
it’s
as if, af
ter eight hours,
everyone
has
finally
found the
will to live.

“Is t
his 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. S
peculating
. Especially my friends. I hate that I actually care
what
they
think
,
wishing
for a moment
I was one of those girls who could jus
t 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 does
n’t answer.
Conversations
buzz
around us;
shouts
and squeals;
the heavy footsteps of guys
in their Sketchers
running through the foyer
,
thudd
ing and squeaking
against the tile floor
;
the bang of
locker doors
as they
shut
at intervals
in
a
percussive chorus.