Cross My Heart (15 page)

M
om man
euvers
Joshua to her other leg. “You too
. Jaden tells me you’re workin
g on a paper together?
”

“A series
of papers, actually,” he explain
s
.

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

“Sounds nice.
Are you interested in sticki
ng 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
magaz
ine. “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 ro
om 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
th
e stairs,
suppressing
my laughter.
I
s she
that
worried about Parker and me being alone together? I mean,
suggesting the front room? It’
s practically boarded up from
Novem
ber to April
every year. We’d die of hypothermia
.

Parker ta
k
es
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
mu
tters
,
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
bed
room.”

“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 roo
m 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 w
arm 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 do
n’t
need
to stoop
to get through
the door frame
, but Parker, several inches taller than
me
, d
oes. “Come on,” I urge
, climbing
the hidden
set of stairs.

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

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

“Again, that’s not what I meant
.”

I flip
on the light switch and le
a
d him
into the unfinished third floor,
inhaling a
mix
of
insulation and damp wood.
Daylight slips
between exposed crac
ks in the walls. Nails protrude
from t
he open ceilings. We pass
the
splintered,
wooden beams
supporting the roof, and step
around
the c
ardboard boxe
s
scattered about, some h
olding Christmas decorations,
others full of old baby clothes or toys, or things
we’ve
outgrown that my mom ca
n’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 ol
d 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 o
ld
,
pink bean
bag 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 d
idn’t get done
. You can actually get i
n 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 s
tory. T
here’s a dormer over there, and you can climb right up. I used to do it al
l the time.
”

Parker moves closer, leaning against the glass.
“Ar
en’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 follo
ws
me back to
the stairs. I turn
off the light and w
e 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 br
eak my wrist every time I need
cold water. The toilet is . . . ancient . . . the tub needs refinishing. . . .” I
return
to
my
bed
room and bo
unce
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
grate
ful there’s electricity
and indoor plumbing
.”

“But your dad i
s
like,
this hug
e 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 m
y 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.
“Sh
e wanted to re-stain the floors. U
pdate 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 h
i
s liquid eyes fix on mine, soft. S
incere.
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
say
s
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.
“W
e 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 abo
ut the suicide attempt?” I ask
, turning my full attention to Ethan
Frome
and his tragedy.