Authors: Katie Klein
“You remember my mom,” I say
,
relieved for the distraction
,
that we can move on
. “And this i
s my soon-to-be-official sister-in-law, Sarah, and Joshua.”
“Nice to meet you,” he says
, nodding.
Sarah smiles
. “
Likewise
.”
“Soda?” I ask
, passing him a can.
“Thanks.”
I grab
my
drink and our chips, and head
out of the room. “We’ll be u
pstairs if you need us.” I can
almost hear my mom sighing
.
I sha
k
e
the sound away.
Again, I notice
Pa
rker lagging behind as we mak
e our way up the stairs, taking
in the family photos
.
“This one i
s my favorite, I think,” he says
,
gently tapping the frame of an old, school photo
. I remember
the day it
was
taken. It rained, and my bangs had frizzed. By picture time they
were
like a puff of auburn cotton
.
My bony, angular arms
are
positioned at uncomfortable right angles
,
hands in my lap
.
And then there were my braces
, tightened the day before and aching so
that
every time I
smiled it felt like I’d been struck in the mouth
.
I chose
blue and green bands because they were the colors of my crush’s favorite baseball team. I thought he might notice.
He didn’t. And
,
looking back, I
understand
why.
I groan
.
“That was eighth grade,” I say
, as if
this explains
everything. “It
was a tough year for me.”
Parker
grins, suppressing a laugh
. “I can see that. I’m actually kind of sorry I missed it.”
He fixes his eyes on me
, and they sparkle against the blue of his shirt.
“
Shut up,
”
I
say, turning back to the stairs,
emotions tangling.
We
reach
my bedroom, and I ru
n my fingers across the Harvard sticker
by the door
.
“You did that
last time I was here,” he says
, nodding toward it.
I look
at the sticker, my face flushing.
Does anything get past him?
“Oh. I know. It’s just this weird thing. I put this up after we moved in.
For motivation.
After I sent out my application, though, I started touching it every time I came in or left the room. Good vibes. You know.”
He nods
.
I open my mouth, then
shut it.
“There’s
one in my locker, too,
” I
finally say, triggering a nervous laugh.
“I guess you could say I’m obsessed?”
“Apparently.
So what happens if you don’t get in?
”
My eyes flick to him
, the blood in my veins running cold
.
“
Why would you ask that?
”
His confidence slips, expression guarded.
“
I
’
m not saying you
’
re not, obviously
,
”
he clarifies.
“
It
was a
hypothetical question.
”
I
pull my hair away from my face, tucking it behind my ears
.
“
Oh. Well. In that case, it
’
s not an option. I
’
m getting in.
”
I clear my throat.
“
Y
ou know, it’s strange,” I go on
,
changing the subject.
“We take a lot of the same classes, but we’re not in any together.”
“What’s so
strange about that?” He stops
. “Wait. How do you know what classes I
’m taking
?”
h
e asks
, eyeing me suspiciously.
I wrack my brain. How
would
I know what classes he
’
s taking? Who do I talk to that would even know? I struggle to
conjure up
a
decent
answer, something other
than the truth. But in the end
this proves unsuccessful.
“I, u
m, work in the office last hour
and happened to see your schedule the other day,”
I mumble
, keeping it as vague as possible
. I turn away and busy
my
self,
opening our Sun Chips.
“You just
happened
to see my schedule? How did you manage that?”
My cheeks gro
w
warmer
.
Of course he’d ask for details
.
“
I just saw it, that’s all.” I ho
ld the bag of chips
open in front of him. He reaches out and takes
a handful.
“I got that part. I’m
just
trying to figure out how, exactly, y
ou managed to see it.” He shoves
one of the chips into his mouth.
I
replace
the bag
on my desk and sigh
. “Your file, okay? There’s a copy of your schedule in your student file. That’s how I know what you’re taking. Are you happy now?”
A narrow smile appears as Parker chews
, crunching loudly
. “I thought student
files were off limits,” he says
,
mouth full.
Of course they are.
I
cough
into my fist
. “Not for me
,” I mutter
,
plunking down on
my bed
across from him
. I re-tuck
my hair, wis
hing there was some way to get out of this conversation.
“Apparently,” he replies
.
“It was just
this stupid thing,” I confess
. “I was curiou
s. I mean, I saw you in English
and at lunch, but that was it. I didn’t know anything about you, so yes: I looked in your student file.”
“You know that’s illeg
al, right?” A full smile crosses
his face, light
ing up his eyes
. And again I’m startled at how they glimmer—how different they look
reflected in blue
.
I force the thought away.
He does
not
have sparkly
eyes.
“
You
’
re no
t going to report me, are you?
”
“I’ll have to
think about it. So
,
we’re in the same classes?”
“AP
Chemistry, Biology, Spanish III
,” I say
,
naming the courses I remember
. “You know, you could be Harvard Med.”
“What, you saw my grades, too?”
“What makes you think I saw
your grades?” I ask
.
“I
t
’
s just that you must think I
’m doing pretty well if I could hack i
t at Harvard,
”
he replies, matter of fact.
I
exhale
loudly, flustered
.
“Yes. I saw your grades. And yes, believe it or not, I’m not the only one in this room who could be headed to an Ivy League school.”
It’s the truth, at any rate.
“Nah,” he replies
, shaking his head, reaching for his notebook.
“Why not? Your grades are stellar. You’re in AP classes. You could probably
get into any college you want
.”
He smirks,
hearing this. “College is
not
on my agenda.”
“Really?” I ask
, surprised. “Why not?”
“That’s kind of a personal question
,
isn’t it?”
“Maybe, but why wouldn’t you want to? Going to college is the fastest way to get out of this tow
n.”
“
Maybe I like it here,” he argues
, leafing through pages
.
I furrow
my brow,
tipping m
y head sideways,
staring at him,
skeptical
. “No offense, but you don’t really seem like the type of guy who’d want to stick around after graduation.”
“None taken. And you’re right: I’m gone the moment my diploma is in my hand.”
He looks up and our eyes meet, closing the distance between us.
“The very moment? Like, you’re headed out
in your cap and gown?” I tease
, smiling.
“The
very moment,” he confirms
,
expressio
n serious. He’s not
kidding.
A shivery jolt races up my spine.
I
can see him in my mind,
shedding his scarlet-colored cap and gow
n as he passes through the hall. S
tuffing them into a trash can on
his way out. Picking up his
bag, which contains not books, but
a couple of changes of clothes
,
whatever worldly possessions he cherishes. Sliding the straps over his shoulders. Walking out. Climbing onto the back of his motorcycle. Leaving things behind. . . . Forever.
“Where are you going?”
“Don’t know,” he replies
, shrug
ging casually. “Somewhere. A
nywhere but here.”
We
si
t quietly for a moment,
and I wonder
if I
should go on
: i
f I should
t
ake the information he’
s offering
,
coupled with what I already know about him,
and try to make
sense
of it. I clear
my throat. “Does this have anything to do
with your dad?” I finally ask
.
He snic
kers
. “
I guess my
student file
me
ntioned there’s trouble at home,
”
he says
, emphasizing the words.
“Vaguely
.
”
He hesitates for a moment before continuing. He won’t look at me.
“Well, believe me,
I’m not the problem.” He reaches inside his jacket and pulls
a
pen
out of
his pocket
.
He un
fastens the cap
. F
licks it to the bed.
I
watch
him,
curious,
wi
shing he would elaborate; that he would
tell me about his family, and his dad. His life.
I want
to know
what “trouble at home” means. I want
to know
why he
was arrested and kicked
out of his old school. I want
him to talk to me . .
. to tell me things.
Instead,
Parker
begins writing
, as quiet and reserved as al
ways,
s
omeh
ow different from the Parker I’ve
grown accustomed to lately. Shut down. Closed off. Barricaded. His gaze flat and
his lips pressed in a thin
line.
Focused.
From where I sit, I can
see his carefully written outlines and definitions—th
e pages full of information he
meticulously copied from Ms.
Tugwell’s
lec
tures
. The work and the effort
he’s
put in, for nothing.