Collateral Damage, Page 2

  "What am I doing? I'm sorry, but I have a major research project due in two months, and for some unfortunate reason my partner has decided to go all AWOL on me." She folds her arms across her chest, defiant. "What is your deal?"

  I shut off the faucet and shake my hands dry. "I don't have a deal, Miss McEntyre," I reply, matter of fact.

  "Then why are you avoiding me? We're supposed to be partners and you're not even speaking to me. We haven't picked a book...or decided our topics. You may not care about your academic future, but I have to get a good grade on this."

  Avoiding her?

  Then I realize: she's pissed about the note—the one she passed in English this morning. The one I didn't actually read until second period. The one that read: Want to meet after school to work on our project? in loopy, cursive writing—a little heart above the "n" in her name. The note I crumpled and tossed into a trashcan in the hallway on my way to third.

  Yes, by all appearances I'm avoiding her. But I can't work on this project today.

  Conference call.

  I mistakenly assumed she'd get the hint by my lack of response.

  Wait. Did she just say that I don't care about my academic future?

  "I'm a slacker? Is that what you think?" When she doesn't answer, I swallow back a laugh. "You don't know people as well as you think you do."

  "I'm not pretending to know anything about you," she argues. "I get that you must not like me or something..."

  "Not like you? Jaden McEntyre, there's not a soul at this school who doesn't just adore you." I move for the door, reaching for the handle, but she's faster, planting herself directly in my path. Her green eyes are darker than before. Angrier. "Do you mind?"

  "Yeah, I do mind, actually. If you're so miserable being my partner...which, I might add, is the stupidest thing I've ever heard since you don't even know me..."

  "I don't know you? Really?" I interrupt. "Jaden McEntyre. Daughter of a general contractor. Cheerleader. Human rights activist. Best friend of Savannah Wainright. Girlfriend of Blake Hanson. Volunteers for Cancer Walks. Gives blood. Raises money for the poverty-stricken children of Bangladesh. Straight A's. Ivy League bound. The safest...most boring person at this school."

  What I fail to mention is that I know she wore a blue dress to prom last year, that she keeps her locker organized by class, and that she always has an extra ChapStick on hand.

  And I can't help but feel there's some sort of cosmic karmic balance at play. She's five minutes late to first period—saving the world, no less—and here I am: the last possible person she would ever want to be paired to work with.

  We didn't pick partners. Partners picked us.

  For a second she appears stunned—mouth gaping—shocked that I have nailed her existence so perfectly. But the scowl returns, and that resentful spark in her eye. "Are you serious?"

  "I don't lie," I answer easily.

  "Fine. That's fine," she sputters. "Either way, we're partners. And we have a project to do whether you like it or not, so...get over yourself."

  Get over myself?

  I can't help it. The corners of my mouth lift in a smile. This girl is a hundred pounds of pure attitude. Kind of scrappy.

  I like it.

  "That's pretty harsh," I say. "Especially coming from you."

  She pushes the hair away from her eyes, tucking it behind her ears, and studies me, confused, as if she doesn't know what to make of the Parker Whalen who smiles. "It's not funny. You might not want to get a good grade on this project, but I do."

  I force my eyes not to roll.

  Again with the slacker thing.

  "You're so presumptuous. Assuming that I don't want good grades."

  "Okay...whatever. Here's the thing. I'm going to the library tomorrow afternoon. I'll be there at 3:00. I'm taking my list, and I'm choosing a book for our project. You're welcome to join me...Partner."

  She spins on her heel and yanks the door open. Storms out.

  When it closes I'm alone again, everything burning. I tug at the collar of my jacket. My neck is on fire. Sweat prickles along my skin.

  I struggle to wrap my mind around what just happened. Jaden McEntyre, busting up men's bathrooms? That's the kind of shit that only happens in dreams. Random, inexplicable dreams.

  On second thought, my dreams aren't even this weird.

  I grab the hall pass off the sink.

  Part of me wants to go after her—to ask her what the hell she was thinking. But when I reach the hallway, she's already at the other end, disappearing around a corner. She doesn't stop. She doesn't turn around. She doesn't even glance back at me.

  But that's the point, right? To get through this year unnoticed?

  I have a problem with authority. I am unfocused and undisciplined.

  A slacker.

  Parker: One.

  Jaden: One.

  CHAPTER THREE

  "Please?" my mom begs, her voice echoing throughout my usually quiet kitchen—on speakerphone. "You know how important these dinners are to the family."

  Every six months it's the same spiel: Come to the family dinners, Chris. My aunts and uncles won't be around much longer, and everyone loves to see you.

  Like I need the guilt trip—the threat of people dying—to visit my own family.

  "I know they are, but it's a really bad time," I remind her.

  "It's only for a few hours. You can bring Callie and announce your engagement. Everyone will be thrilled!"

  "I would, Mom, but I wasn't even planning to come home this weekend. I have some things to take care of here. We'll do the dinner in August. I promise."

  I turn down the heat on the stove, lift the lid on my pot of spaghetti, and check the time on the microwave. Callie will be calling any minute.

  "You can't even come up Sunday for a couple of hours?" she presses.

  I run fingers through my hair and squeeze my neck, feeling the tension. Even now, all grown up, it's hard to tell my mom no. "As much as I'd love to drive an hour and a half one way for lunch, I have to pass this time. I'm sorry."

  "Okay," she replies. But it's not okay, and we both know it.

  "We'll make it up to you when things settle down," I promise. I check the time again. "What's Dad up to?" I ask, changing the subject.

  "He's watching the game."

  "Oh."

  I don't ask which game. God. I don't even know who he's pulling for these days. So I ask about my sister, instead, and when Mom finally says goodbye, she doesn't sound quite so disappointed in me.

  When I disconnect the call, there are two new voicemail messages. I dial Callie's number without even listening to them.

  "Sorry, Cal. It was Mom."

  "No biggie," she replies. "How was your conference call?"

  I stir the pot of boiling spaghetti one final time. "Anderson is on my jock. He wants another locker search."

  "I thought the last one didn't turn up anything."

  "It didn't. But he doesn't care." I tilt the pot over the sink, draining the water. "There's a problem in that town, Whalen," I mock, doing my best Chief Anderson impression. "We sent you in to get the job done, so get it done."

  Callie laughs.

  "I'd give anything to do an actual car search. I know there's a point of entry, but I don't know where. It's weird. Teenagers are never this careful."

  "Maybe they aren't as stupid as we were," she points out.

  "If someone was dealing on this campus I'd know it. They would've screwed up by now." I wish someone would screw up, then I could move out of this hell-hole, get back to Hamilton, and move on with my life.

  My weekday apartment is about twenty minutes from Bedford. Anderson wanted me close, but not too close. The apartment is sparse, on a good day. I have enough pots and pans and plates to get by. A couch in the living room that doubles as a bed, though I'm usually too lazy to set it up. The bedroom is empty. Mom loaned me one of Grandma's coffee tables, and I brought the TV from my room back home. It sits on the fl
oor.

  There is no artwork on the walls. There are no pictures.

  The apartment mimics my story.

  The story is that I'm trouble—that I hate my dad and barely speak to my mom. It's all fleshed out on a dozen or more four by six cards I memorized before moving in.

  I keep a wireless printer in one of the cabinets, and I have a laptop that pulls double duty: schoolwork and real work. The bedroom closet is half-filled with clothes, and the top shelf is home to the helmet I bought for Callie right after I got my motorcycle.

  It's never been used.

  "So we have this project to do in English," I continue, "and the teacher assigned partners. So I get stuck with the class...." I trail off, unsure how, exactly, to classify Jaden. Nerd? Loser? "I don't know what to call her. This girl is just, super motivated. Permanently set at one hundred and fifty percent, you know?"

  "You should like that. She'll practically do the project for you."

  I remove a jar of spaghetti sauce from the cupboard. "You say that like I can't handle a few literature essays."

  "I've been your partner before," she reminds me, voice teasing.

  It's not like that anymore, I want to tell her. But she'd never get it. She has no idea that I could ace these classes if I wanted—that I could've aced them the first time around if I would've given a shit.

  I dump the spaghetti and the sauce into a bowl and stir, mixing it all together. "Anyway, we're meeting tomorrow after school. This is going to be a long freaking semester."

  "Well, I have something that will cheer you up," she says, voice lifting. "I got us a dinner reservation for Saturday night at Winnfield. You know, the plantation outside of Hamilton?"

  I know it.

  "The pictures are just...stunning," she goes on. "Remember Bonnie Tyndall? She got married there last year. It's one of the top ten event facilities in the state."

  I hear nothing after the word "married." Because the word "married" raises every red flag, sounds every alarm. There are strings attached to this word. Always. "So, this reservation thing. Is this about dinner or a wedding?" I ask.

  "Both," she confesses. "But mostly dinner. I just want you to see it—to tell me what you think." She heaves a sigh. "The thing is...it books really fast. If we're pushing for next spring..."

  "But we haven't set a date," I interrupt.

  "We agreed next year would be perfect. You'll be finished with this assignment and back at the station."

  I can almost see her shoulders lift, a happy shrug, like this is no big deal. And it's not a big deal, I guess, aside from the fact that I have no intention of going to Hamilton this weekend, and that I'm not ready to talk menus or number of guests or set a date. "Callie, things are really crazy right now..." I begin.

  "I know, but if we both like this place, then we should go ahead and reserve it. And Daddy was fine with it," she assures me. "If this is what we want, he said he'd go ahead and make the deposit."

  I grab a soda from the refrigerator and let the door fall shut.

  Daddy.

  Mr. Donovan. And his checkbook.

  Shit.

  "You're quiet. What are you thinking?" she asks.

  I can't tell her what I'm thinking. She's just pulled the one card I can't compete with. The one hand I'm powerless against.

  "Nothing," I lie. "This weekend sounds...perfect."

  When Callie finally hangs up, I dial the house.

  Dad answers. "Hey. Where's Mom?" I ask.

  "Already gone to bed."

  "Oh. Well, tell her that something came up, and I'll be home this weekend after all. Callie and I will meet you guys at the family dinner."

  "Will do," he replies.

  "Okay." I wait for a moment, thinking he'll ask about work. What I'm up to. How I'm doing. But I get nothing. Less than ten words in ten seconds, and the conversation is already written off. Over. "Whatever. Thanks."

  I press END, disconnecting us.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  She's sitting at the far end of the library when I arrive, at a table near the window, framed by panes of glass and a sky deep with winter clouds. I turn the handle and push my way inside, ignoring the frown on the librarian's face as I pass the counter, the rows and rows of bookshelves. Jaden would pick a table in the middle of the room—where everyone can see us.

  I wonder who that says more about. Me or her.

  I let my bookbag fall to the ground and pull out the chair across from her. She doesn't lift her head. She doesn't say hello. All I hear is a pointed "It's about time" as she flips to another page in that blue project packet.

  And it's at that moment I decide Callie was onto something. Maybe I should let her do this whole project. Maybe I should prove her every assumption right—be the slacker she knows I am.

  "You said three," I remind her.

  She reaches for her cell phone, checks the screen. "I have five after."

  Of course she does. I force my eyes not to roll. "I'm sorry. I assumed this was an informal meeting. I didn't realize you were passing out tardies. Oh, wait. You wouldn't know a thing about that, what with your infinite supply of 'get out of class free' cards and all."

  She opens her mouth to respond, and it's like the bathroom all over again. What did I ever do to this girl? Anyway, I thought she was friendlier than this—one of those people who tries to get along with everyone. She is clearly not as righteous as she wants us to believe. Two minutes in and she's already on my jock. I'll bet she'd like me better if I didn't have any shoes. If I was a stray cat. If I needed access to malaria meds.

  But whatever she planned to say disappears between mind and mouth. She sighs, scowls, and sits taller, her whole body rigid—on the defensive.

  It's good, in a way. At least we know where we stand. I don't want to be her partner. She doesn't want to be mine. I'm about to suggest we forget the whole thing and turn in our own projects when...

  "Let's just get this over with, okay? The sooner we pick a book the sooner we can get to work." She slides the list of recommended books across the table like she's doing me a favor. Like I wouldn't bring my own list to a meeting thats sole purpose is to pick a book for our project. I shove my hand in my pocket and produce the exact same sheet. Like magic. I unfold it and lay it on the table, then watch the realization dawn.

  "All right. I get it," she says. "You're prepared. I'm wrong."

  She grabs her list, runs fingers through her straight brown hair, and tucks it behind her ears, focusing. "Okay. So the question is do we want to stick with what we know...and pick a book we're familiar with? Or go for something entirely new."

  I can't hide my laughter. Is Jaden McEntyre really trying to cut corners? And she thinks I'm the slacker? "What's the point in doing a project on a book you've already read?"

  She eyes me curiously, disbelief written into every feature—the curve of her mouth, her green eyes. I can almost read her thoughts. I'm dangerous. A loner. I wear dark clothes and drive a motorcycle and associate with no one. So why is the new guy with the bad rap prepared? And why wouldn't he want to pick a book he's already read? Why wouldn't he take the easy way out?

  I'm screwing with every pre-conceived notion in that pretty little head of hers.

  This project might not be so bad after all. If I play my cards right, it might even be fun.

  "Well?"

  She snaps to attention, cheeks burning a deeper shade of pink. "Um, yeah, okay. So we'll pick something we haven't read."

  "Are you implying that you typically do projects on books you already know about?" I ask.

  "I'm just saying that if we pick a book we're already familiar with then this project might not be so complicated. We'd at least have some vague idea of what we're doing."

  "Are you saying you're clueless? Because I don't want an idiot for a partner."

  Her jaw tightens, but she ignores the dig. I struggle not to laugh. It's so easy to incite this girl. I'm already under her skin and we haven't even started this thing yet.
>
  Parker: Two.

  Jaden: One.

  "How about Pride and Prejudice?" she suggests, studying the list of titles.

  God. That's not predictable.

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  I lean closer, confident. "Because you've already read it."

  "You don't know that," she mumbles, but the guilt is woven into those deep green eyes of hers.

  "Please. A senior girl in high school. Somewhat...'bookish,' I guess you'd say..."

  "You can call me a nerd if you want," she interrupts, arms folding across her chest. "I don't take offense."

  Nah. She's too cute to be a nerd. Too feisty. "No...not a nerd, but 'nerdy'.... Not that it's a bad thing, so don't go all hostile on me, all right?"

  "I wouldn't give you the satisfaction."

  "I'm just saying that you can't expect me to believe you haven't read one of the supposed greatest romances in all of literature. Even if your tenth grade Honors teacher didn't assign it...you read it on your own."

  Unfortunately, I was forced to read it junior year, and there is no way I'm reading it again. She can whine and cry all she wants.

  "Okay, whatever. What about Jane Eyre?"

  "You've read that one, too."

  She tosses the list to the table, leans back in her chair. "Then why don't you start naming books you think I haven't read and we'll go from there."

  This should be easy. I examine the list of titles. "Books you haven't read.... Let's see. Catcher in the Rye. The Color Purple. Lord of the Flies." I glance up at her. "Am I getting warmer?"

  Her lips remain pressed in a firm line.

  "The Jungle. 1984.... Basically anything on this list that isn't a romance you haven't read. So we can throw out Austen, most of the Shakespearean Comedies, the Bronte sisters..."

  "Wuthering Heights is not a romance," she interrupts.

  "That depends on how you look at it."

  "Heathcliff is totally depraved. There are no redeeming qualities. None."

  "His love for Cathy is a redeeming quality," I remind her.

  "He made everyone's lives miserable. He's insane."