Authors: R. K. Ryals
I don’t believe that for a second.
“Okay.” The word slips out, the same way it did in chemistry. Only this time it feels different.
He squints at me, as if he’s trying to read something in my face. “See? I knew you couldn’t resist me.”
I laugh. “You need serious medical help for that arrogance problem.”
The world has all of these rules about how friendship is supposed to work, all of these steps people are supposed to go through to feel safe and comfortable. Matthew is an obvious rule breaker. I don’t feel comfortable in the least, but I think I need that.
Matthew backs into the night, taking his grin—and the sun it creates—with him. “See you tomorrow.”
Stepping inside, I shut the door and lean against it, fighting a smile.
Oh, God!
Slapping my hands over my face, I groan. I am not that girl! I am not the kind of girl who crushes on someone just because he happened to call me beautiful. And Kagen? Jealous? He had to be joking. Had to be!
No, no, no, no, no!
“Damn you, Matthew Moretti!”
“Everything okay?” Aunt Trish asks from the kitchen.
Jerking, I jump away from the door, hightailing it to the stairs. “Fine!” I shout, too enthusiastically. “Everything is fine!”
At the top, I pause outside my mother’s bedroom, the need to go to her too strong to ignore.
Cracking the door, I peek in. “Mom?”
The TV lights up the room, highlighting her curled-up form on the bed. Her knees hug her chest, like she’s protecting herself. Maybe she is. Maybe she always would be.
Tiptoeing to her side, I stare down at her.
Mom,
I think.
I want to be like you, and yet I’m afraid of you. I’m afraid of seeing the world and getting lost in it. I want to be found, not lost.
“Italy is beautiful this time of year,” I whisper aloud, throat clogged.
Kneeling next to the bed, I steeple my fingers. “Are you there with me, Mama?”
Most people kneel next to their beds to pray to God. I kneel next to my mother’s bed every night, but I don’t pray to anyone other than her. I talk to her. Sometimes, I beg.
“Are you in Italy? It’s not cold here. It’s warm, I think. Actually, I’m not sure. I don’t know the facts like you do. I just know that he’s here, and it feels nice, weirdly enough. I’m scared and confused because I don’t need this distraction right now.” I play with her blanket, spelling out ‘Matthew’ on the fabric. It’s way too fangirl of me, and I stop myself. “Aunt Trish did this. She set it up. I mean, do I look that lonely? That helpless? Because I don’t want to be that person.”
Bunching her comforter up in my fist, I pretend Mom’s holding my hand or offering me a bowl of ice cream with gobs of chocolate syrup on top because that’s what normal moms do when their teenage daughters are a mess, right?
“I don’t even know why he likes me, Mom. Why he’s just up and talking to me, like I’m a someone. Like I’m this friend he’s had for forever. I haven’t really given him a reason to like me, and people should have reasons for liking someone, shouldn’t they? Because I’ve been really sarcastic and bitchy.” There is no better word for it.
No answer.
Mom whistle-breathes in her sleep. I shouldn’t mind.
She’s my mom, and she’s the only mom I have.
“I don’t even know how to talk to him.” I blow out a breath, watch it lift my hair. “I don’t know what I’m doing at all. He’s confident and irritatingly arrogant, by the way. Me? I’m sort of figuring out what I am as I go. And he wants to save me! Oh my God, how medieval times is that?”
Suddenly, just like that, I’m angry.
“I need you, Mama! Oh, God, I need you!” The tears come fast and furious. “Come back to me, please. To
me
! To Reagan! I need you for so many things! Do you even remember me at all? Anything about me? Maybe the way you used to read
Goodnight Moon
to me when I’d get scared at night. You told me the moon was nothing to be afraid of. It was magic that touches us when we sleep and changes who we are.” My voice rises with each word.
Mom stirs, eyes heavy. “My jewel?” She tweaks my hair. “Are you crying? Don’t cry.”
Oh, God! I’m sorry, Mom! I’m so sorry!
She reaches for me, and I climb into the bed next to her, letting her tug me into her embrace. “Don’t cry. Please, don’t cry,” she begs, anxiety lacing the words.
“I’m okay,” I promise, even though I’m not.
I soothe her, rubbing her arms and shushing in her ear until she’s back asleep, content and unaware.
In the silence, I cry, stifling the sobs in her pillow.
The human heart is like a makeup caboodle with a million different compartments. I’m feeling all of these conflicting emotions, and yet … somehow they’re not getting mixed up. They’re stored in their separate compartments, and I’m crying about each individual one.
Trust me, there’s enough tears for all of them.
EIGHT
The real world
In which he dares to be my friend
I WAKE UP thinking about Matthew, the way he swept into my life and planted himself there like a tree, as if not knowing someone one day and then becoming fast buddies with her the next is normal.
It isn’t normal. It has my head spinning.
At school, I am a collection of words I’ve saved up until they’ve all run together forming one big word:
oddbasketcasestrangecrazynutspsychoweirddistant
. They replay in my head like a breaking news story flashing across the bottom of a television screen. After last night, new words chase them:
beautifuljealouscrabbyfriendlyunfriendlypitiful.
I
am
crazy. Matthew Moretti is making me crazy.
Mom is sleeping when I go downstairs to breakfast, and I barely acknowledge my aunt as I choke down a bowl of corn flakes.
Aunt Trish sips her coffee and glances at her lit-up phone, the screen flashing her social media account like she’s actually paying attention to it. She’s not.
I don’t give her the satisfaction of saying anything.
Me. My life. I’ve got this. Really, I do.
Fighting a smile, I drop my empty bowl into the sink, listening to it clatter. Rinsing it, I place it in the dishwasher and run upstairs to throw on a pair of jeans and a faded Heart Bay Hoodie, another relic of Naomi’s.
The air outside is brisk, a thin layer of frost covering the ground. The early morning sun sneezes random light rays, turning the ice into shimmering silk, beautiful and fragile. November is an odd month in the South. Sometimes it’s hot, other times it’s cold. Some years we wear T-shirts and shorts, and others we’re in sweatshirts and jackets. This is a sweatshirt year.
Frost crunches under my feet and my breath puffs, my lungs hyper alert to the cold. My sneakers thud quietly against pavement. A mist crawls up out of the bayou and over the roads.
An engine roars to life, cutting through the silence and hushing the random bird call. Yells fill the air.
I keep my head down because I know it’s the Morettis’ rusted van, the one the younger three brothers share.
“Want a ride?” Matthew calls out.
One of the
brothers
whistles.
I pass the driveway, not looking. “The bus is fine.”
Matthew jogs to catch up. “That mumbling you did is you saying yes, right?”
Stopping, I turn to him. “No.”
He’s even better looking today than he was yesterday, his face smooth as a baby’s bottom, not a single whisker having escaped the razor. Oddly, I miss the stubble.
He hops from foot to foot, warming himself, his letterman’s jacket covering a black
Doctor Who
T-shirt. “A friend would accept a ride,” he goads.
“I’m starting to think you have selective hearing,” I tell him.
He laughs. “No one has ever been brave enough to accuse me of that.”
“Because you’re deaf?”
His amusement grows. “Says the girl who flew the red-eye from Egypt last night.”
Though I bite my lip to keep it in, he manages to get a smile from me.
He gloats. “See that! You do want that ride! Our van might be falling apart, but it’s heated.”
“Come on!” his youngest brother, Christopher, shouts. “You two going to flirt all morning? ’Cause I have a meeting with Coach Gipson I don’t want to miss.”
My brows quirk, my gaze flicking to Christopher. He’s lanky, shorter than Matthew, and not the least bit stocky. “The football coach?” I ask, doubtful.
Matthew rests his hand on the small of my back, nudging me toward the van. “No pre-judging. Boy’s got a mean arm and a wicked eye for strategy. If he plays his cards right, you’re looking at Heart Bay’s future quarterback.”
Is there anything normal about the Morettis?
“Does your mom drug your Wheaties or something?” I ask. “Because it’s weird, right? That all of you are these awesome athletes.”
“Not all of us,” a brother I don’t remember the name of—lean, tall, handsome, and sporting a great pair of spectacles—says. Leaning against the van, he offers me a wave and a smile. “Anthony,” he introduces, “and I want nothing to do with sports outside of watching it. It’s science for me.”
Thinking about my grades in that particular subject, I wince. “Let me guess, top of your class?”
“You bet.”
“See? Wheaties!”
Male laughter circles me. I’m in an alternate universe.
Walking to the driver’s side, Matthew waves me into the passenger seat. “Get in.”
Anthony, who’s closest to the door, opens it for me.
I glance at my aunt’s house, my gaze on the second floor where my mother rests. She’s usually up before me, but I’d disturbed her sleep the night before.
“Seriously,” Christopher grumbles, “I’m in a hurry!”
I hop into the van. It smells like dirt, rust, and men’s body wash. Cracked leather protests beneath me, the ragged edges pinching my bottom through my jeans.
Matthew pulls the vehicle away from the curb, and I spend the entire ride listening to the Moretti brothers.
“Just stay quiet, nod a lot, and let Gipson do all of the talking,” Matthew advises, glancing at Christopher in the rearview mirror. “And try not to look so nervous. You’re strangling your shirt back there.”
Christopher grimaces. “What do you know about Gipson anyway? You play under Crowley.”
Matthew clicks on the turn signal and heads right. “Got friends on the football team. Those guys bitch more than we do.”
Anthony snorts, pushes his glasses up, and pretends he didn’t just agree with Matthew.
Christopher scowls. “You got something to say, Tony?”
Matthew glances at me. “Christopher is the hot headed one in the family.”
“Whatever, man!”
Anthony throws me an apologetic grin, shrugs, and stares out the window.
I’m missing something, and it feels big. “I’ve heard Gipson is hard to play for. That his training is hardcore, and he’s incredibly selective,” I mumble. “Makes sense that they’d complain.”
“Ha! See there!” Christopher leans back in his seat, appeased.
I’ve garnered Matthew’s attention. “Where did you hear that?”
That’s the thing. People at school don’t know anything about me because I don’t let them. Only Gracie knows anything, and I even hold back with her.
I gesture at my ears. “You can hear better today.”
“Thanks to me,” Anthony cuts in, grinning. “I did my science thing.”
“Don’t gloat too much,” Matthew warns. “I’m not holding out hope for them. These things have a terrible track record.” Glancing back at me, he studies my profile. “And don’t think I didn’t notice that.”
“Notice what?” Christopher asks.
“The subject change,” Matthew replies, eyes flicking from me to the road.
I stare at my hands.
“So, Gipson?” he asks. “How do you know about him?”
The athletes at Heart Bay High are incredibly loyal to their coaches. They only complain amongst themselves.
“Reagan?”
Throwing him a pleading look, I keep my mouth shut. But it registers. Oh, it definitely registers.
The school looms into view, and Matthew parks the van. Christopher and Anthony, recognizing the tension in the vehicle, rush to get out, closing the doors behind them.
Matthew studies me. “You’ve dated someone on the team.” It’s not a question.
“Don’t,” I warn.
He glances out the front windshield. Sun glints off of the cars in the parking lot. Doors slam. People call out to each other, little frost babies born from their lips before vanishing. I envy the frost babies.
“Does he still go here?” Matthew asks.
“No.”
Reaching for me, he squeezes my shoulder. “What—”
“Would you let it go? I don’t know you. Not really. Not enough.”
“Okay.” He leans back. “So, let’s get to know each other, huh?”
“Matthew, I’m not trying to be difficult, I swear I’m not, but you just popped into my life at a very weird time for me. Things with my mom …” I can’t go there. “I don’t even know why you talk to me.” I throw him a look. “And don’t do the whole ‘you’re beautiful’ thing. Because that’s just weird. Not that you wouldn’t want to talk to a girl because you think she’s beautiful. I mean …” I shut my mouth, grimace, and add, “I don’t know what I’m saying.”
Babbling is a problem for me.
“You are beautiful,” he insists, “but there’s more to it than that. I’ve been there. Bullied until all you want to do is hide. Having people feel sorry for you. I like that you’ve never treated me like a disability.”
A short laugh escapes me. “Because I’ve been just as mean to you as to everyone else? Or because I generally ignore you? That makes me feel so much better.”
“Hey, you don’t play favorites.”
He’s trying to turn this into a joke.
I reach for the door handle.
He stops me, his hand capturing mine. “The guy on the football team really did a number on you, didn’t he?” He squeezes my hand. “You don’t have to tell me anything.”
“Good.” I push open the door.
He steps out with me. People stare.
“I was totally okay being anonymous,” I say when he joins me.
“I want to play professional basketball, so I have to disagree with you. Anonymity sucks.”
“Not funny.”