Cross My Heart (27 page)

And then I realize
:
Parker mi
ght not
make
it
.
Something
might’ve
come up. M
aybe he changed his mind; he does
n’t wan
t
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 ca
n’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 do
n’t hear a thing until:
rap, r
ap
, r
ap
—the softest tapping ever, so q
uiet 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 cra
wls
inside, bringing a fresh burst of cold air with him.

“I di
dn’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 co
me
s to that
.
H
im 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
. S
neaking over. In the dark.”

Parker
sinks
to the floor, leaning against t
he
wooden slats
beneath the window. I si
t down o
n the bean
bag chair, wrapping the comforter
secure
ly around my shoulders.
The air is thick and icy.
With so little insulation i
n the room, we may as well be
sitting outside.
It might be
safer
outside. I don’t know.

I watch
h
im for a moment. O
ur eyes lock
. “I
just
ca
n’t figure you out,” I confess
.

“What’s there t
o figure out?” he asks,
study
ing 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 si
t
s
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 edu
cational experience?” I repeat
, not understanding
.

“Yeah. T
he art of living.”

I laugh
softly
, hugging myself to keep warm
. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“You ca
n’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 r
iskiest thing I’ve done,” I tell
him. “Ever.”

“
T
aking 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
sn
eaked
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
destroy
ing
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 pa
rents 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, becaus
e if they really knew who you a
re 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 som
e peace and quiet.” He smiles. Like this i
s funny.

“Is that why you
wanna
leave?”
I ask
.

He pauses
for a moment, thinking. “Partly. The truth is we just don’t get alon
g. 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 bean
bag 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. F
lirting
.

The room creaks, settling; a gust of wind pushes against the house. It gro
ans around us,
closing in.
We watch each other, listening. Holding our
collective
breath. It takes a few
moments before the breeze dies,
be
fore my shoulders fall, relaxed
.

“I guess that means y
ou haven’t heard from them yet,
” he finally asks, his voice quiet
er.

“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 spread
s
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 throug
h 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 s
omething,” I whisper, letting my hair fall
.

“What?”

Tell me what you’re thinking.
“I don’t know. Anything. Tell me something
real. S
omething
I don’t know.”

“About what?”

Us. Me. Whatever it is
we’re doing.
I sha
k
e
my head.
“It doesn’t matter. You.”