Authors: Katie Klein
Ashl
ey, another member of our
lunchtime group
, pops
open the tab of her soda.
It hisses, and she has
to suck back the fizz.
“This was
an away ga
me, right?” she asks
.
“Yeah, we b
eat North Central ninety-five to sixty-eight
,” says
Blake.
“We crushed them,” Tony adds
.
“You, my friend, were on fire.”
“Fire!” Tony repeats
.
“Fire,” Blake finishes
.
“Oh my God, I
so
wish I could’ve been there,
” Savannah tells
Tony. “It’s just that it was so far to drive
, and my parents are like
. . .
u
gh.
”
Across the table, Ashley rolls
her eyes. “Yo
u hate basketball.”
Savannah tosses
a dirty look
in her direction. “No.
I don’t. I mean, it’
s not
that
bad.” She turns
her attention back to Tony
,
all smiles again
. “You could get on a college
team, and then go pro!” she says
excitedly, already planning
Tony’s
future
. V
isualizing herself part of it, no doubt.
I’ve
watched her do the same thing every day since the first week of our freshman year, with a new guy each month.
She’s
had an eye on
Tony
as of
November, which
i
s probably
some kind of record.
Usually by this time she’s
either already dated and dumped, or
grown bored and moved on.
“Speaking of college,” B
lake says
, nudging me with his knee beneath the table
, “h
ave you heard
anything
?”
He’
s asking about Harvard,
a
nd I
kind of
wish he wouldn’t. I’m
the only one
at our table who’s
applied to an Ivy League school
.
I think I might be the only senior who’s applied to Ivy League, period,
and I’m
still waiting on a decision
. Everyone else
picked
state schools or local private colleges.
(Except for Savannah,
who possesses
absolutely no desire to continue her
edu
cation beyond high school and i
s highly vocal about her decis
ion . . . or lack of a decision.
W
hatever
.)
“Um, no, I haven’t,” I confess
.
“It’s still early,” he replie
s
, hopeful
.
“And no news isn’t nec
essarily bad news,” Ashley adds
.
I
study
the turkey jammed between my
sandwich
bread
,
shrugging casually, then change
the subject
.
“Y
ou guys are getting partners in English today. You know, for that big project?”
I
split my sandwich in half, tearing it straight down the middle,
pinch
off a bite
of turkey and cheese
,
and
pop
it into my mouth.
“Oh my God. I totally f
orgot about that,” Savannah says
, rolling her eyes
. “I hope I get paired with a nerd.”
“So
.
. . .
” Blake knocks
me with his elbow
as he roots
around his potato chip bag, digging for fragments. “W
ho’s your partner?”
I c
ontinue
chewing for a m
oment, then, hesitating, cover
my mouth w
ith my hand. “Parker,” I mumble
.
“Whalen?” Savannah
asks
, eyes widening
.
“That’s
the only Parker I know,” I say
.
Tony burst
s out laughing,
falling back in his chair,
like it’s the funniest thing he’s
heard all day.
A few juniors a table
over stop to stare at us, scrutinizing.
“
Parker Whalen?
Are you
serious
?”
Blake slants
away from me. The shift i
s slight,
but I notice
it
nonetheless
. “I thought we picked partners.”
“We did. Sort of.
I had to stop by the
office so
I got to class late,” I mutter
.
“
Partners had already been picked.”
I shrug. It
’
s not like I had a choice or anything.
“So the
Tugboat put
you and Parker Whalen together.”
His jaw tightens,
words sharp and spitefu
l
.
“Yeah.
She did,” I reply
, glowering at him.
“
And don’t call her Tugboat. It’s juvenile. And rude.”
“Jaden
had
to do it. I mean, there’s not a person at this school who’d actually
want
him for a partner,” Ashley says
, matter of fact,
spooning a
bite of yogurt
.
“He’s
freaky
. Jaden’s just nice enough to not let something like that bother her.”
I’m not sure how I would
d
efine
Parker Whalen, but freaky
i
s a little
extreme. Strange? P
ossibly
. Eccentric? Maybe. A definite loner
. . . but he does
n’t seem
freaky
to me . . . just
. . .
quiet
. “It’s weird, actually. I don’t know anything about him. And he’s been coming to this school for wha
t? Five
?
Six months?”
“W
e know enough
,” Tony says
.
“
I
heard his dad
mak
e
s
money off some illegal dog fi
ghting ring—totally underground.
”
“I heard his old schoo
l kicked him out for marijuana
,” says
Savannah
.
“Which
he was
also
arrested
for
,” adds
Ashley.
I roll
my eyes.
“W
e don’t know if any of those things
are true,” I say
, still chewing
.
“
And just because he wears black and d
r
ives a bike? I mean,
w
e don’t even
know
him.
”
“
I saw him at Vince
’
s
a few weeks ago. He was wandering
around like he was scouting
the place. The dude is a freak.
”
My ears
perk up at this.
Not what he said about Parker, but Vince. Because I think he means Vince De Luca, and if that
’
s the case. . . .
“
Wait
. You went
to
Vince
De Luca
’
s?
”
Blake
’
s cheeks flush.
Busted.
Vince
De Luca
graduated from Bedford High a few years ago. He lives a county over
now,
in an old rental, and his parties are fairly
notorious
. Vince
’
s reputation
is
anything but
stellar.
Never mind that he still runs with the high school crowd.
He and my brothers used to hang out
, and I
’
ve since been warned
.
“
I thought we talked about that.
”
“
We
did,
”
Blake says
.
“
I was
with the guys. I swear we were only there for like, fifteen minutes. If that.
Ask Tony.
”
I look to Tony for
confirmation.
“
Fifteen minutes,
”
he agrees.
“
You know I do
not
like that guy,
”
I remind him.
I s
et my sandwich on top of my bag;
my appetite has mysteriously vanished.
“
Yeah, well, I d
on
’
t really like Parker Whalen,
”
Blake replies
coolly
.
*
*
*
At the end of the day
,
as I
’
m taking a quick trip to my car before I head to Mr. Connelly
’
s room,
I see
Parker again. He
’s
walk
ing
to the f
ar
end of the lot, where he parks
his motorcycle.
Blue and silver. A sport bike.
Which seems perfect for him, actually
.
I
pick
up
my pace,
hurrying
to
catch up with
him before he
disappears
.
Ru
mors, reputation, or not, we have
a project to do—a project to do
together
.
The sooner we talk
the
faster
we can
get to work.
“Parker!” I call
out, crossing in front of a red Volvo. He
straps his helmet
beneath
his chin, then
mounts
the bike
,
using
his legs to back out of the space.
“Parker Whalen!”
E
veryone’s eyes
a
re
fixated
on me
, it seems,
as I weave
in and out of cars and around groups of friends
who’ve
stopped
laughing and chatting
to wonder what, exactly, I’m
doing.
In the next moment
he cranks the engine, and revs
it a few times
. The thunderous blasts
shake
my ear
drums,
vibrating
the ground beneath me
, pulsing
. He peels
out of the parking lot,
tires squealing,
not once turning my way.
I
remain
cemented to the asphalt in the middle of the lane, watchin
g in disbelief as he
fades
away
, taill
ights glowing. A car horn beeps behind me
, punctuatin
g my
stupor
. I jump, and turn
toward
the line of traffic snaking
around the lot. I quickly move
out of the way, waving an
apology to the driver. I wrap
my arms tightly across my chest
, hugging myself
in an effort to ke
ep warm
, then jog
to my car,
feeling the
icy wind
as it
bit
e
s
my face and numb
s
the tip of my nose.