Authors: Katie Klein
"I, um, was wondering if you want to get together and talk about our themes after school. You know, for
Ethan Frome
?"
"Sure."
"Okay," she replies. The relief in her voice is apparent. "And um, I was thinking if, instead of meeting in the library, you could come to my house...or...something."
I glance up at her.
What's wrong with the library?
It doesn't immediately register that she might not want to be seen with me—that I'm ruining her stellar reputation—until she bites into her lower lip. She seems almost...nervous.
This can't be her idea.
"Yeah," I say, focusing on my notes, ignoring those lips. "I'll need directions."
Another arctic draft passes through as she unzips her bag. I watch her write the address, her letters swirly and calculated and formal. Practiced. She's going to have to work on that if she's going to be a doctor. She hands me the note, and I immediately recognize the street name. She lives not too far from Main. In the historic district. Where the rest of the money lives.
This can't be her idea.
"So. Your friends giving you trouble? We have to hide out now?"
"No. Why do you ask?" she replies quickly—too quickly. And not only do her cheeks flush, she can't look me in the eye.
She wouldn't last five minutes in an interrogation room with me. "You are a
horrible
liar."
She smiles, glances toward the cafeteria, but doesn't deny the accusation. "I have to get to lunch. But um, maybe I'll see you around three-thirty?"
"Yeah."
"Great." And just when she's about to leave: "Oh, these are for you."
She opens her brown paper lunch sack, removes a bag of Sun Chips, and tosses it on the table in front of me. I work to cover my surprise. "Aw, Jade. You were thinking about me," I tease.
"Don't be so sure," she replies, but I can hear the smile in her voice, even if it never reaches her eyes. "I'll see you later."
She strolls back to the cafeteria. I watch her saunter away, graceful and confident. It's Erik's voice, this time, reminding me not to stare. I suck in a cold breath of fresh air and examine the bag of chips, turning it over in my hands.
My eyes lift again, one more time, catching her before she disappears.
*
*
*
The plan was to head back to Trenton this afternoon, to check out two separate noise violations not far from the houses I've already hit up. At least one renter was cited for providing alcohol to minors.
Instead I'm circling Bedford city limits, checking the time on my cell at every intersection, watching the minutes tick closer to three-thirty. The gloves, leather jacket, and helmet work to stave off the icy air, but I can't keep from shivering, my heart from pounding, thundering with the roar of the bike.
I should've told her no.
I should've gone to Trenton, anyway.
I should've gone to the gym to burn off some of this energy.
I slide my bike along the curb in front of a restored Victorian right on time. I triple check the house number against Jaden's directions, then unstrap my helmet and slip it off my head.
This is it.
I exhale an anxious breath and cross the front yard—dead, brown grass crunching beneath my shoes. The house is massive, towering above me against a flat, gray sky. I drop the helmet on one of the weathered rocking chairs on the front porch, take another deep breath, and ring the bell.
In a moment there are footsteps, the sound of muffled voices, and, when the door opens, Jaden smiles brightly, almost...happy to see me. A cold wind swirls around us, pushing leaves across the porch slats. She pulls her sweater tighter.
"Hey."
"Hi. Glad you found it." She opens the door further, and steps aside to let me in.
"Wasn't too hard to find," I reply.
"Small town."
Exceedingly.
I follow her through the dining room.
"Mom?" she calls.
I stifle a groan.
Of course her mom is home.
This is the problem with going to people's houses. Now I have to meet the parents? My shoulders square as we step into the kitchen, spine stiffening.
Jaden and her mom share the same hair color, but as far as similarities go, that's about it. They have matching noses, small and sloped. But Jaden's eyes are green. Must be her dad's. And her smile.... Jade's is way more genuine.
"This is Parker," she says, introducing me. "Parker, this is my mom and my nephew, Joshua."
So I was wrong about Jaden being an only child. She has a nephew.
Her mom eyes me carefully, curiosity radiating in waves. This woman hates me already. I can feel it. Part of me wants to give her a reason to. I can play into the stereotype. I can be anything these people want me to be. But the rational, more level-headed side prevails.
I can be Mr. Perfect, too.
"It's nice to meet you, Mrs. McEntyre," I say, extending my hand.
It works. I've caught her off guard. She shakes it, expression relaxing as she shifts Jaden's nephew to her other leg.
"You too. Jaden tells me you're working on a paper together?"
"A series of papers, actually."
"It's a pretty big project. On
Ethan Frome
. That's why we get partners," Jaden explains.
"Sounds nice. Are you interested in sticking around for dinner?" she asks. But I know this game. This polite banter, this back and forth. No way does she actually want me to stay. I should say yes, floor them all—leave them scrambling for words, another chair, an extra place setting—but I take the bait and toss it back. "Thanks, but my dad will probably be expecting me when he gets off work," I lie.
At the mention of my father she offers another wary once over, then turns her attention back to the magazine she was reading when we interrupted. "All right, then," she says, licking the tip of her finger. "Don't let me keep you."
Jaden grabs a couple of drinks from the counter. "Come on." Then, to her mom: "We'll be in my room if you need anything."
I follow her past the long dinner table, back to the foyer. We've almost reached the stairs when: "Jaden?"
"Yeah?"
"Why don't you work in the front room? We won't bother you."
Jaden snorts, the idea amusing her. "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 swallow back a smile. Someone doesn't want us upstairs together. Alone. In a bedroom.
Alone.
Fifteen minutes before Mrs. McEntyre is calling us, asking how we're doing, if we need anything—I guarantee it.
I follow Jaden up the stairs. The wall running beside us gives me more insight into her than anything I've seen so far. It's full of family photographs. Grandparents. Her mom and dad on their wedding day. She has two brothers—both older than she is, which makes her the baby of the family. And she's the only girl.
That explains the sense of entitlement.
I was right about the eyes, too. They're her father's. Her oldest brother's eyes are almost the exact same color. He's pictured again with his wife and Joshua. Next to them is a pig-tailed Jaden—she can't be more than six or seven. Her two front teeth are missing, but she holds nothing back. It's the biggest, cheesiest grin I've ever seen on a little girl, and it's hard not to smile back at it.
At the top of the stairs I spot a trio of baby portraits—Jaden and her brothers, their birth dates printed underneath.
She had a birthday not too long ago.
I study the year and do some quick math.
She just turned eighteen.
Eighteen.
I'm not sure what to do with this information now that I have it. It's almost too much, knowing this—that she's only three years younger than me. That she's a legal adult—free and clear to make her own decisions.
That she's not off-limits.
Technically.
I force the thought out of my head.
Jaden's bedroom is bright and airy—as bright as it could possibly be on such a cloudy day. It's nothing like Callie's place, with her matching pillows and Pottery Barn vases. Jaden has hardwood floors that might be original to the house. Callie's are fake. Jaden leans toward minimalist. Every built-in shelf at Callie's, every counter, is occupied by some kind of candle or picture frame. Flowers. Bowls of marbles. Books placed "just so" on coffee tables and end tables. Callie is going through an orange phase. Everything in Jaden's room is a calm blue—the rug, the walls, the curtains, the bedspread.
Strange. I had her pegged as a "pink" kind of girl.
"Well this is typical," I tell her, easing my bookbag to the floor.
"What's typical?" she asks, skimming her fingers across a crimson Harvard sticker taped above the light switch. "Water or soda?"
"Soda. And your room is typical."
She tosses a can of cola. I catch it one-handed.
"Why do you say that?" she asks.
"It's just...exactly how I pictured it, that's all."
She laughs. It's light and musical and.... "Okay, Parker. I'm gonna pretend you did not just admit to me that you fantasize about my bedroom."
Wait. What? She thinks I fantasize about....
My cheeks grow warm.
That's not what I meant.
"I wasn't fantasizing. It's just that this is exactly how I imagined it would be. Clean...organized...boring."
"There is nothing boring about my room. In fact...it's the coolest room I know. Parts of it, anyway."
"Really?" I ask, disbelieving.
"Really. For instance...." She motions for me to follow, then opens her closet door and slips 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?" I tease.
"You wish." I think she rolls her eyes. In fact, I'm almost sure she does. But I know that tone. It's a little on the defensive side—like maybe there's an "I wish" trapped inside it. Wishful thinking on my part, because that's when I remember her lips—the little pout she does when she's annoyed. And while I could make seven minutes trapped in a closet with me worth
anyone's
while, something tells me...so could she.
And
she's eighteen.
God. Go there, and in two seconds...
Cold. Shower.
Think ice.
Think grandmas.
Think wrinkly grandmas standing in line at the DMV.
We head to the back of the small room, moving toward a set of stairs.
I duck, passing beneath the frame.