8.
“A Serious Step Lightly Taken”
—1942
It’s early and the hall is mostly empty. Julianna’s journal is safe in my backpack, my place now marked with my folded-up scholarship letter. The irony of having the journal of the girl the scholarship is named for hasn’t escaped me, and I’m starting to think maybe it’s fated somehow, that I have both. I shove my shaky hands in my pockets. Take a deep breath to ready myself for what I’m about to do. Then I walk into Mr. Kinney’s classroom, as casually as I can.
He looks up from a stack of essays and nods at me. “Morning, Parker. I didn’t get a chance to ask the other day—how’d you do with the journals?”
“Huh? Oh. Fine,” I manage. “But, um . . .” I hesitate, scared. But now is my chance if I’m going to do it. “I think . . . I think I may need to go to the database at the town library to find some of the addresses. There were a lot I couldn’t find, and the school blocks so many sites . . .” I stop. It sounds less believable out loud than it did in my mind. Mr. Kinney is frowning down at an essay, red pen poised to scribble something in the margin. Apparently only half listening.
It gives me courage. I clear my throat. “Mr. Kinney?”
“I’m sorry, Parker,” he says, looking up. “These freshman essays are a sad, sad lot for this point in the year. It’s like they’ve forgotten everything I taught them.” He puts his pen down and takes his glasses off. Looks at me with his full attention. “Anyway. What was your question?”
My words come out fast, smashed together in one nervous rush. “Oh—just that I need an off-campus pass for this period, and maybe next, so I can go through the city database for the journal addresses.”
It’s quiet for a few seconds, and I’m not sure he understood what I just said. He scrunches his brows together. I panic. Oh my God. He knows. He knows I just lied and now I’m going to be in huge trouble and disappoint the teacher I respect most out of everyone, not to mention be reamed by my mom for trying to get away with something like this.
“Sure,” he says after too long a moment. “Why don’t I write it for the rest of the week, just in case? That way you can take care of the postage and sending them off, too.”
“Really?” Shut up now. Don’t sound so surprised. “I mean, thank you. That’s . . . that’s perfect.”
I watch as he pulls the slip out and signs and dates it for the rest of the week, every first period. “Thank you, Parker,” he says, tearing it off the pad and handing it to me. “It’s a big favor you’re helping me out with. I appreciate it. And so will all those kids when they get their journals back.”
“It’s really no problem.” I smile, hoping to hide the twinge of guilt that tugs at my conscience, and wonder if he even remembers that this batch of journals belonged to Julianna and Shane’s class. Or maybe he just decided not to mention it. Mr. Kinney goes back to his essays and I turn to go, marveling at the fact that it really had been no problem to get the pass. Simple. Like nothing. And now I’m free every morning for the rest of the week—
“Parker, wait,” Mr. Kinney says. I freeze. Hold my breath. “Don’t you need the journals?”
“I guess I probably do, huh?” I laugh—at my instant panic and at the fact that I’d completely forgotten about all of the other journals.
He hands me the heavy box from behind his desk. “Here you go. Good luck.”
“Thanks,” I say, backing toward the door this time, box in hand. As soon as he sits back down in his chair, I turn and practically make a run for it. I’m ditching—well, not technically, since it’s excused, but it’s the closest I’ve ever come, and the thought both exhilarates and slightly terrifies me at the same time.
When I make it down the hallway without any alarms going off, I let a tentative but proud smile creep onto my face. I feel good. Bold. Like Kat. I have to find her and tell her. Then convince her to ditch with me, which will be the easy part. The hard part will be getting her to drive down to the Grove and then go tromping around through the trees without telling her what I’m looking for. The only excuse I’ve come up with so far is to say I’ve had an epiphany of the carpe diem variety and want to go on an adventure. Just get out of school and town for a little bit. It’s shaky, but it could work.
I haven’t completely made up my mind not to tell her about the journal yet, but I’m not sure she’ll understand at this point. I couldn’t fall asleep last night until I’d decided to go find Shane and Julianna’s tree. It doesn’t totally make sense to me, why I need to see it so much, but I can’t ignore it. Especially now that I know the story behind the carving. It’s more evidence that love like theirs actually happens beyond books and movies, in real life. Life that’s close to home.
As silly as it seems, it makes me feel like I somehow have a connection to it. To them. I want to see their tree the same way people want to see things that once were connected to famous people—especially once they’re gone. Little slivers of their personal pasts, like photos no one has ever seen, or letters that surface years after their deaths. Or journals. Maybe because these are the things that somehow make them more real to us. Or maybe because all of them add to the myth of the person. It’s hard to say which, but I need to find that tree, even if it takes me all week.
When I round the corner to Senior Hall, it’s empty except for one person. Trevor Collins. Of course. My newfound boldness wavers the tiniest bit when I pass him and catch the mix of laundry detergent and the cologne he always wears that I always want to ask about so I can buy it for my future boyfriend. It’s clean and sexy with a little bit of spice to it, which is how I imagine him to be. The future boyfriend, not Trevor. I know him well enough to know better than to imagine him that way. I don’t say anything when I pass, but go straight to my locker, set the box of journals down, and spin the dial like I don’t notice him there. That’s when I feel him turn and look me over.
“Morning, Frost.” He says it like he knows I’m pretending not to see him, which I’m sure he does.
“Oh, hey.” I glance over, still trying to keep up the appearance that I’m surprised to see him there, then roll my eyes at myself as I push the lock up and open my locker. Where is Kat when I need her? It’s so much easier talking to him with her around to hide behind. I pull out a binder I don’t need, since I’m not going to class, and a stack of papers comes out with it and flutters to the ground. Perfect. Now I look as idiotic as I feel. I bend to pick them up and hide the blush I can feel creeping up my neck.
“Heard you’re up for the big money,” he says. I wait a second for an indecent offer to celebrate together in the art supply closet, but it doesn’t come. Instead, he comes over and crouches down to help me with my mess. Close. Close enough for me to also smell the cinnamon gum he’s chewing, and long enough for me to think it’s sweet and that maybe he does have a bit of chivalry to him after all.
“Congratulations on that. That’s pretty damn impressive.” He smiles, and somewhere in me something melts a little, because that smile is pretty damn impressive too. Before I can remind myself that it’s my turn to speak, he hands me the stray papers, then stands up. Waits for me to say something back.
“Oh, um . . . thanks. Congratulations on your snowboarding trophy.”
Trevor looks confused.
Oh my God, I need to shut up right now.
“I mean, I saw some pictures . . .” That were probably taken months ago, during the actual season, but that you put up yesterday . . . and now I’m a stalker. Trevor cocks his head, eyebrow raised. God help me.
“Never mind,” I manage.
He starts to say something, but God, in the form of Kat’s voice, interrupts. “Hey!”
I turn around way too eagerly at the sound of her voice, and she greets me with a signature butt slap. “Today’s the day you’re going to ditch first with me, I feel it. Just like I feel like a mocha with a view of my favorite baristo.”
A bemused smile breaks over Trevor’s face as he looks from me to Kat, and back again. I want to turn and run. “Sounds like you’ve got places to go,” he says. “Don’t let me keep you.”
Kat doesn’t bother to keep a straight face. “You can come if you want. I don’t want to interrupt whatever you guys have going on right here.”
I fight the urge to kick her. And then flee.
Trevor laughs a little, shakes his head. “Thank you, but I think I’ll leave the mochas and baristos to you ladies today.” He looks at me with clear blue eyes I could honestly dive right into if things were different. “You know, Frost, if you ever wanna see more than just Facebook pictures, I’m all yours.”
“I . . .” I sputter, grasping at the last shreds of my dignity. “That’s great of you, thanks,” I say flatly. Someone kill me now.
Trevor hits me with a smile that’s all confidence, then turns and walks—no, swaggers—down the hall, and I die right there. A slow, mortifying death.
“God, that boy smells good,” Kat says, watching him. When he rounds the corner, she turns back to me. “So, what was that about? You’re all red and flustered.” She smiles. “Or is that hot and bothered?”
“Shut up,” I say, trying to block the whole exchange from my consciousness.
She grins. “He just asked you out.”
I bend down and grab one last paper from the floor without answering.
“What?” she asks innocently. “He did.”
“That wasn’t asking me out. That was him being completely full of himself.” I close my locker and take a deep breath. “Besides. If he really were going to—which I would say no to—he should at least figure out how to do it without sounding like an ass. Or like he’s doing me a favor.”
“Sorry to break it to you, P, but actual guys don’t talk like the ones in Nicholas Sparks books. And—I’m sure he’d happily do you a few favors if you wanted him to.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m sure he would. And then the chase would be over and he wouldn’t be interested anymore. Which is why it can never happen. It’s better this way.”
“God, you’re impossible.”
“That’s kind of the point. Now let’s go get coffee.”
She cocks her head. “Really? You realize the bell’s about to ring, right?”
“Yeah.” I shrug, like ditching class with her is something I’ve agreed to plenty of times. “But there’s somewhere we have to go after. And you can’t ask me any questions about it, okay?”
“Anywhere you want, P.” She smiles. “I like this new you, whoever she is.”