Authors: Katie Klein
He shrugs
,
forearms propped against the table,
pushing those baked beans around
the
plate
with his
fork
. “A day or two.
”
“Or three,” Daniel adds.
Sarah laughs
. “Well if you don’t hear from her by this weekend you might
wanna
give her a call back.”
“Or
leave her alone,” I mutter
.
T
he grandfather clock in the cor
ner
of the
room stri
k
es
the hour
.
We eat
in silence for a few moments, listening
to the chimes
.
Finally, Daniel
clears his throat
, grabbing our attention
. Sarah glances
o
ver at him. “What?”
“A
re
you
gonna
tell them?” he asks
, nodding toward us.
Her eyebrow lifts.
“Tell them?”
We watch
this exchange
closely, waiting for someone to speak up.
The last time they had something to tell us, I became an aunt.
A
wintry
draft
passes through
the dining room window, stirring the curtains and raising goose bumps on my skin.
“Are you going to
tell them
?” he emphasizes
.
A wave of recognition crosses
her face.
“Oh. Oh! Yeah. Sure.” She turns
back to us. “
Daniel and I wa
nted to tell you that we
set a date.” Her cheeks flush
.
“It
’
s about time
,” Phillip mum
bles
.
“
Yay
!” I cry
, clapping. “When?”
“Well, we’re thinking about the second week in June. At the gazebo in the park.”
“Oh! The park will be
beautiful
that time of year!” Mom affirms
. “
The flowers
will be
blooming
. . .
.
Let me know if you need
any
help planning.”
She jumps
out of her seat. “I should get you the number for my fl
orist.”
“Is that day
okay for everyone?” Sarah asks
. “I mean
,
you guys don’t have anything important planned do you?”
“My graduation is that Friday, but it’s not a conflict or anything.”
A flash
of remembrance
lights her face, and she lifts
her hand to her mouth.
“Oh my
gosh. Graduation.
I didn’t even think about that. We can move the wedding back a week or two. It’s no big deal.”
She looks
to Daniel for approval.
“No, no, no,” I say
quickly. “I swear. There’s no conflict. I think the second weekend in June is perfect.”
“You have to think about
the
rehear
sal dinner, though,” my mom says
, returning
from the kitchen
with a card from her Rolodex. “That’s typically the night before the wedding.”
“Well,” Sarah begins
, “I don’t think we were planning
on anything too formal
for that
.
M
aybe
we can
do it earlier in the week. Like on Wednesday or Thursday. I don’t want anything to overshadow Jaden’s night.”
I smile
. “You guys are not going to overshadow
anything. It’s just graduation. Protocol, even. I
t’s no big deal.”
“Jaden,” Sarah chides
. “Stop being so
selfless. God.”
“Not a big deal?” says
Mom. “The fact that my baby girl is graduating and heading off to Harvard in the fall happens to be a
very
big deal.”
“Wait,” Daniel interrupts
, eyeing me curiously
. “You heard from Harvard?”
“No,” I mutter
,
my cheeks
searing
.
I poke
at my pork chop
, jabbing it with the fork prongs
, frowning
.
“Mom’s assuming.”
My dad burst
s
back into the room. “T
he painters are going to over-charge us. We’ve
used them for how many jobs
?” He
grabs his glass and
lifts
his plate of food
from the table
, still full but almost certainly lukewarm by now
. “Anyway, I have a few
phone calls to make, so I’m going to take this in
the office
.” He leans
down
and kisses
my mom on the cheek—quick, sweet, but not exactly a
compelling replacem
ent. “Dinner was great,” he says
,
vanish
ing
for the last time that night.
*
*
*
The next day I fi
nd myself in the
hallway just before school ends
.
One of the perks
of
my
last hour office aid job i
s that, if
I finish
my work,
the secretaries let
me leave
early. The thing is, I have
a reputation at school. A good one, a
ctually, and I’ve
discovered
a good reputation i
s generally advantageous . . . in an “ask and you shall receive” kind of way.
I linger
at my locker, arran
ging books and adjusting photograph
s.
In the
uncharacteristic
calm
ness
of the hall the fluorescen
t lights hum
, flickering,
cast
ing
a sallow
light on everything they
swathe
. Nearby, a class erupts in laughter. I breathe
in the stuffy school air and
brush
my fing
ers across the Harvard crest I
printed from my
laserjet
at the beginning of the school year. A good luck gesture. I sw
allow
hard, suppressing
the
tiny
butterflies in
the pit of
my stomac
h: the ones that flare up every time someone mentions the word
“
Harvard,
”
or
“
college,
”
or
“
future.
”
Any day now.
I’m
examining a photo
of Blake and me from
last year’s
prom
, our first formal together,
when
I notice
movement at the far end of the hallway.
My heart race
s, and I press
myself tightly against the lockers
, the metal cool against my legs
.
It’s Parker, bending
over the water fountain.
The vent kicks
on,
the buzz ricocheting off concrete walls
as he finishes
, and
I watch
him
wipe
his
mouth with the back of his hand before
disappear
ing
inside the guy’s bathroom.
He
avoided me in
English, never responding
to the note I
passed him
asking what
literary work we should pick for our project
. He didn’t show up to lunch. . . .
Without thinking, I slam
my locker
door
shut and dash
after him
,
my
Mary
Janes
thwacking
against
the
floor
tiles
,
bag
and purse
bouncing
behind me
. I pause
for a moment just outside the bathroom door, hesitating. This
may
be a huge mistake, b
ut I lack options at the moment. I need
him.
It’
s d
o
now or d
ie
trying
.
I
suck
in a quick breath, push
through, a
nd enter the men’s room
, stumbling
. Parker stands
in front of the s
ink, washing his h
ands. He recoils when he see
s
me
, startled
. A flash of surprise,
th
en confusion, crosses
his face,
quickly replaced by a hard scowl. His jaw tightens
. “What the
hell are you
doing
?”
Too late to back down now.
I scoff
, working to right myself, spine stiffening
.
“What am
I
doing? I
’m sorry, but I
have a major research project due in two months, and for some unfortunate reason my partner has decided
to go all AWOL on me.” I
fold
my arms across my chest. “What is your deal?”
Parker
shut
s
off the faucet
, then shakes
his hands, sprinkling the mirror with tiny drops of water.
“I don’t have
a deal, Miss
McEntyre
,” he says,
words
smothered in
sarcasm.
“Then w
hy are you avoiding me?” I ask
. “We’re supposed to be partners and you’re not even speaking to me. We haven’t picked a book . . . or decided our topics. You may not care about your academic future, but I
have
to get a good grade on this.”
He moves
closer
,
eyes flashing
, cutting through me
. “I’m a
slacker
? Is
that what you think?”
I drop my arms, shrinking back. Isn
’
t that what
everyone
thinks?
When I don’t answer, he shakes
his head. “You don’t know people as well as you think you do.”
“I’m not pretending to know anything
about you,” I fire
back. “I get that yo
u must not like me or something
. . .”
“Not l
ike you?” he interrupts
. “
Jaden
McEntyre
, there’s not a soul at
this school who doesn’t just
adore
you.” He
lifts
his bag
from the bathroom floor and sli
ng
s
it over his
right
shoulder.
He
ca
n’t
leave.
We
’
ll never get anything accomplished if I let him slip past.
Without a second thought,
I lea
p
in front of the door and
lean
against the frame
, blocking him
.
“Do you mind?”
“Yeah, I do min
d
,
actually,” I begi
n. “If you’re so
miserable
being my partner . . . which, I might add, is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard since you don’t even
know
me . . .”
His eyes narrow
. “I don’t know you? Really? Jaden
McEntyre
. Daughter of a general contractor. Cheerleader. Human rights activist. Best friend of Savannah
Wainright
. Girlfriend of Blake Hanson. Volunteers for Cancer Walks. Gives blood. Raises money for the poverty-stricken children of Bangla
desh. Straight A’s. Ivy League b
ound. The safest,
most
boring
person at this school.”