Cross My Heart Read Free Page A

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.
    I flash those still eyeing me a quick smile. Everyth ing is absolutely un der control. Parker Whalen is not avoiding me. Not on purpose , anyway .
     
     
     
Chapter Three
     
    I si t down at the di nner table, watching as my soon-to- be o fficial nephew, Joshua, shoves his hand deep inside a plastic dinosaur bowl , grasping and mashing . Oatmeal dribbles over the sides and plops onto the tray of his high chair.
    “I hope you’re eating some of that, young man, ” my mom warns .
    Joshua grins , revealing the impossibly tiny baby teeth at the front of his mouth. With a smile like that? He’s the only one of us who can , quite literally, get away with everything.
    “D inner!” Mom calls .
    My two older brothers materialize from the living room , still dressed for work , their white socks speckled with mud and their short, brown hair pressed flat against their scalps: what we generally refer to as “hard- hat head.”
    “Hey, little man,” Daniel, my oldest brother, says. “ Gimme five.” He extends his hand.
    Joshua giggles, and smacks it several times.
    Daniel stares at the sticky, brown oatmeal splattered across his palm. “Great.”
    “Pass me those,” my other brother, Phillip , demands , nodding toward the baked beans.
    “ No way. That ’ s the last thing you need,” I say , rolling my eyes.
    Phillip pushes his shirt sleeves up his arm s , past his elbows, frowning. “Just hand them to me.”
    “I’m thinking about the collective good of this family.”
    “Shut up,” he replies , his voice rising , “ a nd think about passing me that pot.”
    “Are you gonna say ‘please’?”
    He exhales loudly, stan d s , and leans across the table, snatching the stainless steel dish . A trail o f steam chases as it