Cross Country Hearts by Suzanne August

Seven

“How about a deal?”

“Convince me you’re not ugly.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

I glance at Jasper sitting in my passenger seat, who, in turn, looks back at me. He’s fiddling with his box of Camel cigarettes—he wouldn’t dare put another one in his mouth—and I decide not to give him shit for holding the box. One of his feet presses against the dashboard, and he leans his shoulder against the car door.

For the past hour, since we’ve finally managed to get out of New York City, he’s been quiet, looking out the window with a faraway expression, like he’s thinking hard. I don’t mind. I like the silence instead of our usual bickering. In fact, we haven’t said much to each other since he gave me a tour of the Met, except for when I snapped at him to shut up when he criticized me for forgetting where I parked the car.

All in all, we’ve done less bickering today than we did yesterday. That has to count for something, right? At least, it could’ve counted for something if he hadn’t decided to, once again, throw out the window our oath of “if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.”

“I’m just saying,” Jasper goes on. “I’m not trying to make you mad.”

“Kind of sounds like you are.”

“This is my point. I’m trying to be civil here, and it feels like you’re trying to pick a fight with me.”

I scoff. “I’m trying? You just asked me to tell you how I’m not ugly. Am I not supposed to be offended?”

“I’m trying to understand you,” Jasper says. “I thought it was a good question.”

I put my right blinker on to signal that I’m getting off the highway. About a half-mile back, there was a sign saying the next exit had a motel. When I glance at Jasper again, he’s no longer looking at me. His attention has returned to the window. Maybe he thinks the conversation is over.

Well, it’s not.

“I shouldn’t have to convince you I’m not ugly. You don’t know me.”

Jasper raises a fist to rest under his chin, his gaze still out the window. “I know what you were like in school.”

“Hardly.”

“You were a bitch, Pierce.”

“You’re the one who went around painting horrible pictures of people.”

“Only of the people who could use the humiliation.” When he turns his head, still resting on his fist, to look at me, his eyes tell me I’m one of those people. “You always made fun of me. You were always saying how weird and maniac I was, how I thought I was better than everyone—”

“Don’t you think that?”

“You always made sure I heard you too. You only got nastier after I revealed your portrait.”

I slow down at a red light, remembering how I’d first seen the picture posted to Instagram. How I’d been scrolling lazily through the feed, and then, suddenly, there I was—a monster, the claws for hands and ugly, snake eyes squinting angrily at me as I saw how many people had hearted the photo.

As I remember the sight, I almost miss seeing in the distance, on the left side of the road, the motel. My hands grip the steering wheel. “It’s understandable that I was angry.”

“You wanted me to hear you make fun of me.”

While all that he’s said is true, it feels like he’s blaming me for being socially awkward and a recluse in high school. Jasper decided himself to paint those pictures, and it went relatively unnoticed before he painted Melanie. I didn’t even care who Jasper King was until then, even though Melanie’s always hated him since the start of high school, for whatever reason.

He targeted my friend. I was supporting Melanie, even if it meant spreading rumors that are probably true anyway. And after my painting came out, I was only protecting myself.

“It’s your fault,” I tell him. “If you wanted to be left alone, you shouldn’t have painted those pictures. It made it worse. You got what you deserved.”

He scowls. “This is my point. This is why I think you’re ugly.”

I turn left into the motel’s parking lot. Thankfully, we’re almost out of the car. “You decided I was ugly before we started this trip. Before we even actually met. You can’t judge me.”

“Then you can’t judge me for painting you that way when you spread rumors about me.”

I press my lips into a thin line, finally parking the car in a spot, and try to suppress the feeling of a snake coiling in my stomach. Taking the key out of the ignition, I turn to face him. “Shouldn’t we be even? Why do I have to convince you? Why don’t you have to convince me that you’re not a judgmental asshole?”

Jasper raises his head and leans forward, bringing his eyes level with mine. “Listen, we’ve been together for barely more than twenty-four hours and have wanted to strangle each other half a dozen times. If we’re going to survive this, we need to get along.”

The “this” being the road trip I agreed to in a moment of weakness. I regretted it almost as soon as I said it, but at the same time, the spontaneity of a road trip is something wild, something crazy I’ve never done before. If only Jasper didn’t have to be on it with me.

But I know that he’s right. “How about a deal? I convince you I’m not ugly, and you convince me you’re not an asshole. Sounds good?”

Jasper’s hand twitches around the Camel cigarettes box he’s still holding—the only sign that he’s not sure or comfortable with himself. “It’s better than nothing.”

If we’re going on this road trip. That’s what he doesn’t say aloud but what I read in his eyes.

“Great,” I say, turning to open my car door.

It’s not, however, as simple as that, and we both know it. When you don’t particularly like each other, how do you survive five days of road trip adventure? Jasper’s idea is right, though, even if his execution wasn’t as spot-on; if we’re doing this, we need to start getting along.

It’s going to take a whole other kind of road trip to accomplish that.

~.*.~

“Hold on. Let me get this straight. You and Jasper, while still having childish arguments, have agreed to go on some kind of road trip when you have a wedding to get to by Saturday? And you two are the second most important people in the said wedding? When you’re also-kinda-sorta broke ‘cause you’re using your mother’s money?”

“When you put it that way…” I begin, “Yeah, that’s exactly it.”

“Girl, are you crazy?”

“Oh, definitely.”

Over the line, I hear Georgia make an amused noise that sounds muffled. “Where are you now?”

“New Jersey.”

“You’re serious.”

I laugh. “I wasn’t lying. How could I come up with this as a joke?”

“June,” Georgia says. “Your mother is going to kill you. Has she grounded you yet?”

I clear my throat. “Ah… no.”

“Uh oh. I know that voice. You haven’t told her, have you?”

“No,” I admit. “But I’m going to. Tomorrow.”

“When she’ll be expecting you any moment, only to find out you’re not even halfway down the East Coast.”

“Please don’t put it that way,” I plead. “Please don’t. Look, you know I’ve always wanted to go to Hersheypark. And I mean, why not go now?”

“I don’t have a problem with it. Much. First, you have your sister’s wedding on Saturday. Second, you’re going with Jasper King.”

I think about going to the Met today, and I remember the paintings buried by Mount Vesuvius. Seeing something painted by a hand almost two thousand years ago—a wall I could reach my hand out to and touch where fingers had touched it millennia before me—was a kind of experience I had never felt before, and to think Jasper was the one to show it to me. He showed me a whole new concept of a world at once history and present.

I glimpsed something about Jasper today. I can’t say what it was, but it’s something I want to understand. Maybe I want to strangle him half the time, and perhaps I shouldn’t let seeing for only an hour a different side of him change my mind. After all, in the back of my mind, I’m aware he may be manipulating me. He wanted to go on this road trip, possibly from the beginning, and Jasper King does what he wants. It may be likely he showed me a facade to convince me—the driver—to agree.

Despite that paranoia, I find that I want to go on an adventure too. I want an escape from my mother breathing down my neck, and I want a breath of fresh air before I’m buried under the watchful gazes of my family.

And I know, deep down, that even if my mother does worse than ground me when I finally get down to Florida, April will understand me. She always has.

“June?” Georgia says.

“He’s not…” I pause. I don’t know how I feel, so how can I express myself to my closest friend? “Whatever Jasper King is, we both want a road trip. Besides, I think maybe we’ve had him judged wrong.”

I surprise even myself by saying that. Jasper may be a judgmental asshole, but today I saw a glimpse of someone different. It was enough to second guess myself.

As I think this, Jasper himself walks into the lobby where I sit, talking to Georgia. A plastic convenience store bag hangs from his left hand. From the looks of it, he’s returning from a food run. His eyes dart to me, but he keeps walking forward. A moment later, he’s past my shoulder and out of my sight.

On the phone, Georgia is laughing. “I won’t tell Melanie you said that.”

I grimace, forgetting about Jasper. “How is she?”

“About the whole you being gone for half the summer?” Georgia asks, “or…”

“Yeah,” I say, an uneasiness building. “Has she forgiven me yet?”

There’s a long pause across the line. “I don’t know. She doesn’t like talking about it.”

“Melanie knows I didn’t do anything. I tried contacting her again today, and she didn’t answer.”

“I know. But you know her. You have to give it some time.”

“Yeah.” I sigh. “I know.”

“It’ll be okay. Get through the next five days in one piece, all right?”

I smile. “Yeah, I’ll try.”

“And don’t forget to call me when you’re in my name state, girl.”

“I won’t.” I pause. “Any places you want me to go while I’m there?”

“I don’t even have to think about it! You have to visit the World of Coca-Cola.”

What? “World of Coca-Cola?”

“It’s the museum of Coca-Cola,” Georgia confirms. “Always wanted to go there, but for now, I’ll settle with you taking a load of photos for me.”

“You’re not kidding?”

“Hell no.” She laughs. “This is going to be the highlight of your road trip, June!”

I laugh with her. “I’m going to regret this.”

“Well, we learn from our mistakes as much as our experiences,” she says. “Promise you’ll call?”

“I promise.”

“Okay, I’ll talk to you later, girl. Miss you.”

“See you.”

I hang up with Georgia and lean forward, arms resting on my knees. I think I’m alone, except for the receptionist, but when I look over my shoulder, I catch movement. When I twist around fully on the couch, I find Jasper leaning against the frame that leads to the motel’s hallway.

Seriously? My eyes narrow. “Are you eavesdropping again?”

He rolls his eyes. “I wasn’t before, and I wasn’t trying to now. I was waiting for you to finish.”

“You couldn’t have given me some privacy?”

“If you don’t want me to hear, then don’t talk in the lobby. How am I supposed to know it’s private?”

I glare at him. “It’s like a furnace in my room.”

“Not my problem.”

I mouth his words back to him, rolling my eyes. Whatever. I’ll let it go. I start to stand, but then Jasper asks, “Why is Melanie mad with you?”

Standing now, my shoulders tense. “You shouldn’t eavesdrop, King.”

“Relax, Pierce. You were asking that as I was walking past you when I got here. It wasn’t intentional to overhear you.”

“Even if it wasn’t intentional,” I say, stubbornly, “you were still listening in on my conversation.”

“Well. Then I’m sorry.” But he doesn’t sound sorry.

I cross my arms. “You’re not exactly convincing me you’re a good person, King.”

“You’re also not convincing me you’re not ugly.”

We both suck at this. I run a hand through my hair and bite back an annoyed sigh. If we intend to go on a road trip, we need to get through these next few days getting along, which means things will need to start changing. I straighten my back and place my hands on my hips, trying to look more in charge of the situation than I feel.

“Okay,” I begin. “Let’s start this now. We’re going to tell each other something about why we don’t like each other. That way, we might start to understand one another.”

Jasper arches one of his eyebrows. “That’s original.”

My eye twitches. “Well, I’m using my last resort, and it’s the best I can think of. Just do it, okay?”

He bobs his head, and when he focuses his eyes, they study me for a long moment. I finally recognize this expression—the one that’s carefully blank but has enough minuscule cracks for the observant onlooker to discern that he’s thinking and thinking hard. He likes to do that a lot, I’ve noticed.

Jasper pushes off from the wall he’s leaning against, straightening to his full height. He slides his hands into his pockets again, leaning slightly back into the stance I’ve come to recognize as his usual, laid-back persona. He nods at me. “I’ll go first since you suggested it.”

“Fine.”

His gaze continues to rest on mine, and they stay there for long seconds. His stare carries an intensity that makes me want to squirm. I don’t—because I don’t want him to see how uncomfortable I am when he looks at me like that. His gaze, if possible, has deepened. It’s like an artist assessing his easel, a finger tapping against the blank canvas before him and the other hand holding the brush. Except here, in reality, I’m the canvas, and the brush will paint the words he wants me to know.

I never realized someone could think so much about what they were going to say.

At last, he takes a step forward, closing the distance. This close, we can talk with ease to each other. When he opens his mouth to speak, the words that come out are quiet and for my ears only. “Want to know why I painted you ugly?”

He’s not after an answer, so I don’t say anything.

He leans even closer, speaking in a soft tone. “I never paid attention to you or Georgia. Melanie is the instigator among you three. She’s the glue. If she’s upset, then you all are. She enjoys manipulation. She likes to build someone up, but just as she likes to do that, she likes destroying others. It’s a game to her.”

“What does that have to do with me?” I ask sharply.

“Let me finish.”

My hands grip my hips. “Not if you’re going to say terrible things about my friend.”

There’s a hard glint to Jasper’s stare. “I’m telling you why I don’t like you. Let me get there. It’s your turn next, remember?”

Jaw locked and lips pressed into a firm line, I nod.

He leans away from me, shoulders rolling back. It’s like he’s getting ready for the big picture, the large sweeps of the brush’s first strokes against the blank canvas. “I was one of her favorite games. At first, I never fought back. I’ll admit that I was an easy target. But you know, I felt a kind of liberty painting how people really looked like—on the inside. I liked how, with a painting, you can see a side to someone that’s not visible. When I painted Melanie, everything came out so easily. It’s one of my favorite portraits.”

Jasper smiles then. I’ve never seen one on him this close before, and I have to question if I’ve ever seen him smile. I don’t think I have, and I don’t think I like him smiling now, even with how humorless it is, while he’s telling me how much he hates my friend.

He continues. “She was so angry, and you know it’s because people agreed with my painting. When someone abuses power like Melanie does, there’s always going to be people who resent her.

“The reason I never painted Georgia is because she’s her own person. She rebels against Melanie’s ideas in her own ways, and she doesn’t spread rumors as eagerly as you do, June. You’re completely different from Georgia. She doesn’t try to please Melanie. She wants to, sure, but she doesn’t like becoming someone she’s not, so she doesn’t.”

I start to get an uneasy feeling. I don’t know if I like where this is going. “King—”

“Let me finish, June,” he interjects. “You asked me to tell you, and I am.”

I bite back a sharp reply and try not to regret making this deal with Jasper. On the outside, I hope I look strong, but on the inside, my stomach is churning. “Okay. Go on.”

I take comfort in the fact that I’m next.

He nods at me. “You, June? You try hard. You’re Melanie’s soldier, and she’s the commander. She wants you to do something, and you’ll do it. You’ll help her make someone’s life a misery. If she wants to start a rumor, you’ll be the first one to spread it. You’re a coward, June. You’re willing to change who you are to become what? Someone people want to hang around? You’re so willing to wear an ugly persona, someone who enjoys harassing me because Melanie enjoys it. Because she wants revenge on me, you do too. For her.”

Jasper’s gaze is hard and intense, pulling me unwillingly into his canvas of words with a force I didn’t think he could have over me. “I painted you because that’s a cowardly personality. It’s not your real one. It’s an ugly, deceitful one. It’s made you into a person people dislike almost as much as they don’t like Melanie.”

It’s the finality in Jasper’s last words that tell me his brush has swiped the last stroke on the canvas. He’s done with his painting of words. His eyes lock on mine, but I have to be the one to look away, my hands fisting on my hips.

I feel like he’s ripped me apart and examined thoroughly the person I’ve been for years since the day I met Melanie in the sixth grade. And he’s someone I don’t even know.

It’s shocking because not even Georgia has ever said anything like that to me, even though she’s been the one to see how I’ve changed to become someone Melanie approves of. How could Jasper see me like that—know me like that? Does being an artist who paints portraits of who he perceives people are on the inside mean he can see right through their charade?

Is that even possible?

But my shock and anxiety melt into anger, and it’s this anger that gives me the strength to bring my eyes leveled to his again. He’s done, and now it’s my turn. I cross my arms over my chest, staring with what I hope is a gaze as intense and angry as his own.

“What I don’t like about you, Jasper,” I begin, “is that all the paintings you’ve made have been of people you don’t know. And that’s it. That’s why I don’t like you. You don’t know me, and didn’t when you painted me. But you judged me.”

My words are the steel that can puncture any flimsy canvas of words he’s painted, and I take strength in that as I finish. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I do change myself to fit in better, but you don’t know me. You don’t know why I am the way I am. You don’t have any right to pass judgment on me when I have no chance to defend myself.”

My explanation is shorter than his, but I see that my words of steel, stronger than any brushstroke of paint can ever be, have gotten across to him. His chin raises a little and not in a defiant way. He understands something, and what that exactly is, I’m not sure. But it’s something I’ve gotten across to him about why, exactly, I criticize his portraits.

Quietly, he asks, “So why are you the way you are?”

I think about answering. I know why. I’m reminded of my sister and our father. I remember my mother wearing a yellow, flowery dress in a black mass that was our family on a rainy day. I think about how I wore black too, and I was barely old enough to understand what was going on.

No, my sister is the only one who can understand fully, so I shake my head. There are things even I don’t talk about with Georgia or Melanie. “We told each other why we don’t like each other. That’s enough for now.”

Last night it was Jasper who escaped to his room, but tonight it’s me. His eyes linger on mine as I walk past him, almost close enough to bump my shoulder against his as I pass. I leave him standing in the lobby, and I don’t wonder what he’s thinking. He can think whatever he wants.

I understand now why he painted me. I understand it was a way to fight against the bullying and I was—or am—one of the bullies. I know that.

But now he understands too.