Cross My Heart (33 page)

“
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 f
or 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. Dar
cy. 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 d
on’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 r
eplies, rolling his eyes as he passes
me a ticket. “Don’t go all femi
nist Nazi on me. It’s a gesture. A
ccept 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 differen
t paths leading to the same finish
. One not necessarily greater than the ot
her. Just . . . a simple choice. A
random act of preference.

I study the map. If we go left, we’ll
h
it the reptile room first. If we go
right, the African Savannah.

Parker clears
his throat.

“I kno
w. 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
.

“Yea
h,” he says.
H
is 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
. “T
he 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 playf
ully
on the arm, smiling
brighter
as we
begin
walk
ing
.

*
  
*
  
*

Our next stop is
downtown Hamil
ton. We pass
under the skyscraper
s: massive office buildings towering
above, like a world in themselves, dwarfing the rest of us. We
dri
ve 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 neve
r been down here?”

I shake
my head. “No.”

“Come on.” He waves me over. I walk
around the car and me
et him in the street. He grabs
my hand as we dash across,
eluding the
oncoming traffic
. “There’s
a sandwich place,” he continues,
“You ha
ven’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 t
ucked safely between his
fingers
. His hand i
sn’t
too cold, or too warm. It’s not
sweaty or clammy
. I
t’
s . . . perfect.
I work to appear unmoved by his t
ouch, even as my pulse ratchets, and m
y shoul
ders 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 occasiona
l 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 strain
s of a guitar,
something alternative.

“I’m recommending the
cheesesteak
,” Par
ker 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 p
ay for my lunch, too?” I reply
, crossing my arms.

“God, Jade. Don’t make t
his 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 wel
l as you think you do.” I smile and turn
on my heel, heading for
t
he 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
t
he sun
;
it
’
s
cooler in the shadows.
Goose
bumps ri
se to the surface of my skin.
I pull
my jacket tighter and
si
t d
own 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 si
t
s
down across from me.

“Hey. What happened?” I ask
, reaching for his wrist
. Parker
pulls back, tugging
at
the sleeve of
his leather jacket, cover
ing
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 gr
eat place to live,” he continues
, nodding toward the building across the street.

“Yeah, I saw that t
here were apartments,” I reply
, gazing up at the fourth
floor windows.

“And it’s walking distance to campus. See that b
uilding right there?” he points
to the far end of the street. “That’s the Language and Literatures building.”

“Are you tryin
g to tell me something?” I ask
, raising an eyebrow.

“Just convey
ing 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?”

“W
ith a scholarship.”

“Don’
t they have a med school?” He
presses
.

I sigh
. “Yes. Your point?”

“They actually have a pr
etty 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 k
now what the problem is?” He does
n’t give me a chance to answer before going on. “And don’t tak
e 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 do
n’t respond to this.
So yeah, maybe I’m no
t used to hearin
g “no,” but that’s because I do
n’t wait for things to happen; I
mak
e
them
happen. Getting into Harvard is the first big thing I have
n’t been ab
le to make happen, and it sucks
.