Authors: Katie Klein
“No, it’s fine,” he replies
. “You can have winter. I’ll take something els
e we talked about, like
love, or jealousy or something.”
Across from me, Blake snorts. My face flushes
,
ears burning
.
“Those would be good,” I assure
Parker, working
to distract hi
m
from my boyfriend, who apparently finds all this tremendously amusing
. The effort i
s futile.
“Is there
a
problem
,
Hanson?” Parker demands to know
.
“Not at all,” Blake replies
,
casually
leaning his chair back on two legs, crossing his arms in front of his chest.
Oh,
God. Not here
.
“Okay, because for a minute there I thought you were in on some little joke I missed or something.”
“No.” Blake eases
his chair back to the floor. “I just wondered why you would want to write an essay on love.”
“It’s an important part of
the story, Blake,” I interrupt
.
“It’s just not a
guy
topic, t
hat’s all.”
“Are you
implying something?” Parker asks
, casting a menacing glare
. “Because if you are say it to my face, asshole.”
The library assistant shushes
us from her station. “Once more and I’m
asking you to leave,” she warns
.
“I’m sorry,” I tell
her. Then, turning back to Blake and Parker, my voice low: “Guys, stop it, all right? Blake, we’re
almost finished here.
Two minutes.”
Blake stands
,
chuckling,
pushing his chair back
. “Fine. I’ll be in Non-Fiction.”
We
watch as he saunters
to
the other end of the library.
“Nice guy,” Parker mutters
. “I hope
he doesn’t get lost.” He jerks his chin
toward the shelves.
“I am
so
sorry
,” I whisper
,
press
ing into the corners of my eyes,
temples aching
.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into him.”
“I have a theory or two,” he replies, watching me closely.
He
’
s right, and i
t
’
s stupid of us to sit here pretending that Blak
e isn
’
t pissed about the fact that Parker Whalen and I are spending time
outside of school
together.
And that
’
s only
half
of it.
“I know.”
He exhale
s, face softening,
eyes losing their harsh edge.
“
Anyway, i
t’s fine.
I don’t want to keep you. Are we good on our topics?”
I bit
e
into
my lower lip, nodding. “Yeah, I mean, if something chang
es I’ll let you know.” I cram
my
notebook into my bag and toss it over my shoulder as I stan
d.
In the next moment
Parker moves
closer, leaning into me. I can
feel the heat r
adiating in waves from his body,
his cheek next to mine
—almost touching
.
I inhale
a warm
,
sea breeze—
a mixture of
saltwater and spices and pine
that m
ight be called irresistible. I
bar
ely hear him as he speaks
.
“If I me
e
t you at your
third floor window tonight, will
you let me in?” H
e whisper
s
softly
against
my ear
,
hard
ly a murmur
.
A shiver of electricity
race
s
up my spine.
I’m not sure I understand
what he’
s s
aying. W
hat he means.
“
What?
”
“You said you can
get to your third floor by climbing the oak tree to the second floor roof, right?”
“Yeah, but
. . .”
“So if I knock on the attic window tonight
,
will you let me in?”
I pull away from him and stare
into the depths of his
dark
eyes,
trapped in
their never-ending nothingness—their
everythingness
—
knowing
what I’m about to say i
s so,
so
completely
irresponsible
, but unable to resist
at the same time. “Yes,” I answer
quietly.
“What time?”
“It wou
ld have to be late,” I whisper
, glancing toward the l
ibrarian working the front desk,
like she
’
ll hear us if we
’
re not careful
. “Midnight, even. And you can’t park you
r motorcycle at the house. You’ll
have to walk down the road.”
“That’s fine.
I
’
ll do it.
”
I study his face for a moment: the freckles and his lips and his cheekbones and his hair, which at that moment, I
want
to
slip
my fingers through
, feeling him
.
“
Why are you doing this?” I ask
, point blank.
“Because . . . I don't know.
I want to spend
more
time with you . . . outside of school, and this
project, and. . . .” He glances
toward
Non-
Fiction
then back at me, eyes boring holes into mine
. “Other people.”
A shi
ver trembles along my skin
.
“I could get in so much
trouble,” I practically mouth
.
He grin
s
easily
—that sign
ature
, lop-sided,
Parker smile, and I melt
. “I won’t
get you in trouble,” he promises. “Cross my heart.” He
draws an X across
his chest with his finger.
“No one has crossed their h
eart since fourth grade,” I say
, rolling my eyes, yet
somehow
unable to keep from
smiling.
“You want a blood oath? A vile of my
DNA
to
wear around your neck?” he asks
.
I
let out a tiny
giggle, cheeks
burning
.
“You better go,” Parker says
, stepping back
,
putting more distance between us
. “Don’t want to keep Mr. Perfect
waiting.”
I wince at the sound of the nickname. Because why would I even agree to do this—to sneak Parker over to my h
ouse after dark—if everything is perfect? It mak
e
s
no sense whatsoever.
I glance
toward the door. “I guess I’ll
,
um, see you later.”
I
turn on my heel and head to
Non-Fiction, where
Blake
is
perusing a volume of America’s b
est essays.
“All done?” he asks
, tossing the book on the tab
le beside him.
“Yeah,” I breathe
. “All done.”
My head is spinning and I’m o
n the verge of
throw
ing
up
what little I
mana
ged to eat at dinner.
A sliver of panic trembles in my stomach.
My room is freezing—I shiver
—
but
I’m
sweating, and my heart t
humps
so loudly
, beating
in my ears
,
I just kno
w it
’s going to
wake my parents.
“The
re is nothing I
cannot handle,”
I whisper
.
My pare
nts’ bedroom i
s downstairs, on the opposite side of the house. The odd
s of them hearing us a
re slim.
I have
enough dirt on Phillip to blackmail
him into keeping quiet.
Daniel, though, i
s an e
ntirely different story. I can only hope, if he happens to hear us, that Sarah can
talk some sense into him
before
he goes
homicidal
.
I glance
at my alarm clock
for the millionth time
, watching as the bright, red digit
s change
from eleven fifty-one, to eleven fifty-two. I
inhale
sharply
, crawling
out of bed. I tiptoe
across the floor, avoi
ding any soft areas—places I know will
creak—and quietly open
the door.
Everything i
s
as I hoped—the lights a
re off downstairs and in every room upst
airs, Sarah and Daniel’s door is shut, and I can
hear Phillip’s muffled snoring down the hall.
I breathe
a quick sigh of
relief, then shut and lock my door. This i
sn’t a habit of mine, but in th
e event of an emergency it’ll help if no one can
barge into my room u
nannounced—especially if I’m not
here to meet them.
I grab
my comforter
off the bed
, dragging it al
ong as I slip
inside
the closet
. I lift
my ar
m and wave
around, searching for the dangling string to the light bulb. In
the next instant
everything i
s lit—my clothes, my shoes,
boxes of summer things: tank tops and bathing suits and flip flops
,
and the set of stairs at the back of my closet leadin
g to the third floor. I squint
for a moment, blinking back the brightness.
I cross
my closet carefully and
climb
the steps, one by one
, walking as softly as possible
. The attic i
s black
and freezing, and the cold air bit
es
at my fingers and nose
.
I pause
,
allowing
my eyes
to
adjust
to the darkness. When I can
finally distinguish the various boxes and toys and
old pieces of furniture, I take
that final step
up and, inhaling deeply, creep
across the room.
I peer
through the dirt-smudged window
. The streetlights illuminate
certain sections of the roa
d, bu
t the back of the house remains cloaked in
shadows
. I search
for signs of Parker—his dark jeans and black leather jacket—sneaking through the night.
I
suck
in a breath and ho
ld it for a moment, listening to my heart poun
d
in my chest—slowly—one suspended beat after another
. I lower myself
o
nto my bean
bag chair, the
styrofoam
inside
cr
inkling beneath me, and
wait.