Cross My Heart (12 page)

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
m
anila folder
and
flip
it
open
.

All right, Parker. What are you hiding?

Parker stares
back at me
, barely a smile
, in
h
is senior portrait—
a
very nice photo of him, actually
. B
lack and white
. But that’s not what I need. I lift
the photo and skim
the infor
mation 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.
O
pen 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 a
re true.

I flip
the
page over and fi
nd Par
ker’s progress reports. There a
re plenty of A’s, with a few B’s sprinkled here and there: mostly in math and science. He
’s acing
his Eng
lish 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 al
ready dark, and everyone else i
s home from wor
k and school. The dining room i
s
illuminated
,
beams of li
ght reflecting
on the front lawn
, raindrops glittering
. I
watch
the shadows of
figures mov
ing
inside
—s
etting
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.
T
wo 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 th
e same thing before me, I open
the mailbox at
the end of the driveway. I ca
n’t see anything, so
I stick my hand inside and pat
the froze
n 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 int
o
Harvard has been my life
’
s purpose since before I knew what colleg
e 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 street
light from the
earlier rain shower
, the icy puddles left
sparkling
. I sigh.
I hate
winter.
I hate
the cold and the monotony.
W
aiting mak
e
s
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 i
s already sitting at the dining room table,
feeding Joshua
strained
carrots and soggy peas. In fact, the only edible thing
s
on his tra
y a
re those
littl
e 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.”

“Th
ose are sweet potatoes?” I ask
, picking up the jar of
orange
baby foo
d 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 fuzz
y, 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 t
hat matter
.

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

I head
into the kitchen
, welcomed by a surge of heat,
a
nd 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. A
ny mail for me
?”
I
push
aside a stack of coupons and fi
nd a
spread of bills and pape
rs
scatt
ered across her desk. I finger
through them.

“No
, baby. N
ot today.”

Another
sigh
.

Mom stan
d
s
, 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 accom
plished.
”

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

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

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

Mom finishes
stirring a pot of gr
e
en peas, clinks
t
he 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 thro
w
s
in.

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

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

This sounds awfully rational. Too perfect to be coincidental.
“D
id 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 con
trol
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. A
nd 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 sl
amming
it shut.

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