Cracked Up To Be

Cracked Up To Be Page 28

And she hasn't really spoken to me since.

"It felt like we had him longer." Mom wipes her eyes. Dad nods and wraps an arm around her. "We should have had him longer."

That's a dig at me.

"I guess it was just his time," Dad says after a while.

"Lucky him," I say.

It just slips out.

"What did you say?" Dad's voice is sharp. He gives me this look. I shrug and march away from the whole scene, but he keeps talking. "Parker, get back here and tell me what you said--Parker!"

"What did she say?" Mom asks.

And of course they can't just leave it at that. On Monday, on my way to catch the school bus, my little slip-of-the-tongue turns into this:

"Make sure you come straight home after school."

I pause at the door.

"Why?"

"Because your mother and I need to talk with you."

Think quick, Parker.

"I can't."

Dad lowers the paper and looks at me, like, I don't know.

"Why?"

"I promised Becky I'd give her some tips about these new cheerleading routines she's planned. She's not feeling so confident about them. And then I was going to..." I fumble for the words. "I was going to stay the night. I forgot to ask. Sorry."

He frowns and thinks about it. Doesn't even notice I don't have an overnight bag or anything, but doesn't want to believe that after all this I would still lie. It's sad.

"Fine," he says, returning to the paper. "Tomorrow then."

"Death freaks me out," Jake says suddenly.

It's going to be one of those days.

"Thanks for sharing," I say. I'm filling my blank sheet of paper with circles and he's drawing a tree. Art is back to normal, as in no one really cares. "I don't know what I ever would have done had you not told me that about you."

He frowns.

"I don't like it. It always makes me take stock. And then I have to go through this process where I have to decide how important things are and if I'm doing enough about them. That freaks me out, too. Does that happen to you?... Did it happen to you?" "Nope."

"So I called my mom."

I stop drawing and give him my full attention because if we're talking about this we're not talking about Bailey or me.

"What happened?"

He squints at his paper.

"She thought I was calling to beg to come back home. It didn't go so well when she found out I wasn't."

"That sucks."

"Yeah."

"So what are you going to do about it?"

"What can I do about it?" He shrugs. "She's decided; I've decided. I called her and she shut me out."

"Does it make you feel worse or better?"

He thinks about it for a second.

"I thought I'd be happy for the closure. But it's worse, actually. I feel guilty."

"So what happens next?"

He shrugs again.

"I keep going from here?"

We reach for the white gummy eraser sitting between us at the same time. His hand brushes over mine and then lingers there and I freeze.

"Your hand is on my hand," I say in this completely stupid voice.

And then Chris struts over under Norton's disapproving gaze, but since the sun is shining and it's nice out he's feeling lenient enough not to shout Chris back to his seat.

"Hey, Jake. Rain check tonight."

"What?" Jake turns around. "What the fuck?"

"Sorry," Chris says, glancing at me and looking away. "It's just that Becky's got romantic-type plans."

I roll my eyes. Becky's idea of "romantic" is no underwear.

"So?" Jake asks.

"So," Chris says slowly, leaning forward, "I can either fuck Becky or dick around with you. What do you think I'm going to choose?"

"Oh, fuck off," Jake mutters. "Asshole."

Chris punches him in the arm.

"Thanks, man. I knew you'd understand."

"You've got until I count to three to get back to your seat, Ellory," Norton says lazily from the front of the room. "One... two..."

Chris scurries away.

"Plans tonight?" I ask.

"Not anymore," Jake grumbles. "I'm on a two-day vacation from my parents. It was going to be a guys' night in, blow off school tomorrow. We've been planning it forever." "Sounds pretty hot."

"I was hoping," he says, grinning. "I mean, look at him. He's so built."

"You're preaching to the choir, Jake." We draw in silence for a little bit and I'm thinking, thinking, thinking. I know how to take advantage of every situation and I've got nowhere to sleep tonight. "If you ask me over right now, there's a ninety percent chance I'll say yes."

Jake stops drawing, but he doesn't look at me.

"Are you serious?"

"Eighty. It's eighty percent now." Pause. "Seventy..."

"Come over?"

I stare at all the circles I've drawn.

"Yeah."

On the bus ride there's only quiet between us. Jake leads me off at his stop and we walk up Trudeau Road, to his house near the end of it. I recognize the place. It's a small bungalow with a neat front lawn and a cute little garden along the path to the front door. The shutters are faded pink. It's the kind of house that might as well have a sign that says GOOD PEOPLE LIVE HERE mounted in front of it.

"How did you finish our art project anyway?" I ask while Jake unlocks the front door. "What did you do in the end?"

"Oh," he says, pausing. "I painted half of it and let the other half stay unfinished. I don't think even Norton knew what he was talking about when he said all that bullshit about unity and disparity. He was just fucking with us. But he enjoyed the picture. Said the right side reminded him of you."

I'm not expecting that.

"Why?"

"It was the unfinished side. He was totally on to us."

I smile. "Seriously?"

"Yeah." He opens the door and steps aside. "But he still gave us an A, so it's all good."

The front door opens into the kitchen, which is a small, neat little room with a tiny breakfast nook that must serve as the lunch and dinner table as well.

"Nice place," I say automatically, because that's what you do.

"Thanks," Jake says. He sets his book bag on the floor, so I do the same. He makes a beeline for the fridge, totally relaxed. "Are you thirsty? Hungry?"

"Thirsty."

"Water, Coke, OJ?... Heineken?"

"Water, thanks."

He hands me a bottle, takes one for himself and leans against the kitchen counter, staring at me. He gets the upper hand because it's his house. I should've thought of that before I wrangled an invitation out of him. I twist the cap off my water and sip.

"Sure you're not hungry?" he asks after a minute.

This is weird.

"I'm sure."

"Well, I'm starving and I have to do something about it." He heads back to the fridge, rifles through it, and pretty soon he's got all the ingredients needed to make a sandwich massive enough to feed ten men or one teenage boy. "Hey, First Friday Mass is this Friday." I groan. "Don't remind me."

"Yeah, tell me about it. What a waste of time." He looks at me. "Is that blasphemous? I don't know how you crazy Catholics operate."

"It's probably blasphemous."

He goes back to the fridge, retrieves an apple and tosses it to me.

"I never see you eat lunch," he says. "Eating is good for you."

I sit at the table and roll the apple along the varnished wood surface.

"You go to church a lot?" he asks, throwing everything imaginable between two thin slices of bread. For the first time since we got here, he sounds awkward. I don't want things to be awkward when we have the whole evening stretched out in front of us.

"Not outside of school, no."

It goes quiet, which makes everything else get loud. Jake finishes making his sandwich and the sound of his chewing is amplified by our silence, weirdly punctuating the moment. I stop rolling the apple and take a bite. It's so sweet, I almost gag.

"I miss my mom, though," Jake says randomly. "Before my dad fucked around on her she wasn't as bitter and crazy as she is now."

"Gee, who would've thought," I say.

He laughs.

"She really thought I was going to stay with her. Like, she really--" He breaks off and shakes his head. "Anyway, that's the worst thing I've done. Chose my dad."

"That must be a relief for you," I say, setting the apple on the table. "Imagine if you'd done something really, really bad."

He stares at me, bemused.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"She's your mom. She'll forgive you. You'll forgive her."

"It could be years from now."

"So you lose a little time. You still get to fix it."

He sips his water.

"What's the worst thing you've ever done?"

"None of your business." I run my finger along the ragged edges of the apple where I bit it. "Nothing that can be fixed."

"It can't be that bad."

"You don't know that, though, do you?"

"Okay..." He chews his thumbnail. "It can't be fixed, so let it go."

"I'll just do that."

He's forgotten his sandwich. He tilts his head back and closes his eyes and stays that way for a minute. Then he opens his eyes and stares at me.

"How do you get to be an eighteen-year-old who's done something so unimaginably horrible it can't be fixed? I mean, seriously?"

"Where's your bathroom?"