“So I’ve noticed,” Cindy says, sympathy in her voice, and I don’t want that now. I like going on without sympathy.
“Right. So, yeah. Thanks.”
“We don’t need to talk about anything. We can talk about, like, math, or whatever,” she continues, nodding her head encouragingly while Kat sits back and crosses her arms.
I open my mouth and am about to make a math reference, but instead find myself telling them everything because I haven’t spoken to anyone, really spoken, in a while. “I move a lot. Like, yearly. I don’t make attachments, you know, because of that, which is why I’m kind of good keeping to myself. But I’m not, like, a shelter dog,” I say pointedly at Kat, and she grins.
“Good. That would be boring. You better not be emo, either, because I can’t handle all the whining. I get enough from her,” she says, elbowing Cindy.
“Hey,” Cindy says, and I kind of smile because they’re cute together, but I can’t fully smile because seeing them again reminds me of Ella and the relationship I don’t have anymore. We were like that. Playful and silly, and I’d always find an excuse to tickle her because I knew it would make her squirm.
“He’s doing it again. He’s looking forlorn,” Kat loudly whispers and I shake my head.
“I think it’s become my go-to facial expression,” I joke. “I’m kidding,” I add before sympathy oozes out of Cindy.
“My brother’s okay, by the way. He . . . um . . . he was caught in a . . . drug thing at college, but it’s all sorted out. He’s out,” I say, glazing over the whole thing. But as soon as I say just the smallest bit, I realize I’ve told them more than I told Ella. Which feels so wrong. I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just—there’s nothing at stake with them. There was everything with her.
“That’s crazy,” Cindy says, and I nod.
“Yeah, it really is, but it’s okay or something. And the girl, um . . .” I pause, gauging how much I want to tell them. But I actually don’t feel like censoring myself for once. I want to tell them. I want them to know because maybe if someone nonrelated does, I can figure it out and move on. “We were together in Orlando. And she was great, and everything there was really great, but then I had to move, so, yeah, it kind of sucks.”
“And you’re not still dating?” Cindy asks, her lips drooping down.
“No. I, um, ended it. I didn’t want to involve her in my whole family situation . . . and I just didn’t think long distance would work with everything going on. I mean, I wanted her to be happy, and not, just, wait around for me, wondering if we’d ever be in the same state again.”
“You did the guy thing and freaked out, didn’t you?” Kat asks.
“No, it’s just . . .” I pause, then admit it. “Okay, yeah, a little. I just . . . I’ve never had a relationship like that, you know?”
“So what’s up now with the girl?” Kat asks.
“Nothing?” I say more as a question than a comment. “But, it’s over now. I don’t even know why I told you guys about her.”
“Because you still love her,” Cindy chirps, stretching out the word “love” so it’s spelled with around seventeen o’s. I roll my eyes.
“Stop being a guy and go to her,” Kat says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“I can’t just do that. It’s complicated.” Plus, I still don’t want to get her involved. I still don’t know if she’d bail, or be angry at me for not telling her everything. I just . . . I don’t know how to deal with this.
“It can’t be that complicated,” Kat says. “If you like her, let her know.”
“But it’s too late, it won’t work!” I respond, spazzing out in my excuses.
“But what about next year?” Cindy asks. “Where are you going to college next year?”
“I . . .” I pause. I haven’t thought about it yet. Now is when everyone starts deciding on college, but I haven’t wanted to. Maybe it’s time for me to start looking into that.
“Look, you seem like a nice guy, we just want to help,” Kat says. “I hate when people say they can’t do anything about a situation. You always can. You think it’s easy being with her?” she asks, gesturing to Cindy. Cindy’s mouth drops. “Not like that. I mean,” she whispers, “us being together. People don’t exactly like that here. But that doesn’t keep us apart.”
“So tell us about this Orlando girl,” Cindy says.
Instinctively I want to smile. “Her name is Ella,” I begin, “and she’s, you know, really pretty and smart and she laughs all the time. We were silly together, but in a good way, like whenever we were nervous about something, we’d dare each other to do it. Like go on roller coasters, or, I don’t know, try out for something.” I end with, “She got me, and she made me happy.”
I look up and see them staring at me with goofy grins.
“But she hates me now.”
“So undo it,” Cindy says.
“Or let go,” Kat continues, as if it were that easy.
We talk more about school (everyone is excited about leaving, and no one knows where they’re going), about their relationship (they’ve been together for six months, Cindy asked Kat out), and about life in general (Cindy wants to be an artist, Kat a surgeon). They listen when I speak, actually listen. I am here, in a bookstore, talking to people, and feeling like maybe the impossible might be possible after all.
When I get home, I check the mail sitting on the kitchen counter. There are a few flyers for colleges—I’ve been getting them nonstop since starting senior year—so I shuffle through them, now thinking about next year. I’ve only applied to one school—the University of Central Florida in Orlando—but I’m not sure about that anymore. I think about what Kat said, about going to Ella and actually doing something, but I don’t know if I can do that. I’m pretty sure that’s not an option anymore.
I hear the front door open and jerk my head up.
“Hey, Matt,” Mom says, walking in with a clack-clack-clack of her heels. “How was school?”
She puts her purse down on the counter and goes through the mail.
“Good,” I start. “I got some more college stuff in the mail,” I say, showing her the papers.
She looks over my shoulder and asks, “Any idea where you’ll apply next?”
“No,” I say. “I don’t know.”
“Well, you’ll get into UCF, I’m sure, but you should always have other options.”
“Yeah,” I say, thinking of UCF and what it would be like there.
“You can apply to schools here, you know,” she says. “Stay close to your mother.”
“Ha,” I say, not really following the conversation and instead picturing what it would be like to see Ella again. She’d hate me.
“But I have a feeling you’d rather just go back to Orlando and leave your poor mother alone.”
“It’s not that—” I start. “I don’t . . . I don’t even know if I want to go there,” I admit.
“I thought you loved it there?” Mom asks, looking at me, trying to read me.
“Did. Past tense,” I say, searching for the right words without having to tell my mom everything. “I just, I want to go somewhere else, I think.”
“Where else?”
“I don’t know, I just . . . ,” I say, not sure what I’m saying. Sure, I want to go back, but despite what Kat said, I don’t think I can. I can’t go back to Ella and pick up where we left off; that would kill her. She hates me, and I can’t imagine being there when she actually hates me. Even after talking to Cindy and Kat about it, even after rehashing memories and feeling so alive for even a few seconds, I know I can’t do it. I can’t repeat the past. I told myself I’d move on, and I’m going to do that. I’m going to try.
My heart is beating so fast, covering the sound of everything else.
“You just . . . ?” Mom continues, curiosity crossing her face.
“I just, I left there. I’m going to move forward, or something,” I say, putting all of the papers back on
the counter and shaking my head. “I’m going somewhere else,” I decidedly say, and she nods, staring at me, so I head to my room.
I shut my door, and lean up against it. It could never be that easy, could it?
I go to my desk and flip through the pile of college flyers also stacked there. I could go anywhere. New York. Virginia. Ohio. New Mexico. Washington.
Washington.
Washington is the farthest place away from Florida. I can go there. I can get away and start over. I can be rid of all of this for good.
I flip through the University of Washington pamphlet. It’s located in Seattle, which, from what I hear, is a cool city. I’ve never lived in that state before—shocking—so it’ll be a new experience. I can move far away from temptations. I can start over.
All schools seem the same to me. They all offer the same majors, the same classes. So why is this school any different from any of the others? I pull up its website and look through the pictures. I look at the happy faces and wonder—next year, could I be the one looking like that? I then click Apply.
CHAPTER 5
The next few weeks are weird. Weird at school, because I’m still adjusting to having people to talk to. And weird at home because Chris is always around. I’m not used to it yet.
“Hey, lil’ bro?” Chris calls from his room one random Saturday. “Can you give me a hand with this?”
I get off my bed, where I was trying to do math homework, and cross the hallway to his room. It’s not unfamiliar, living in yet another new house. I’ve gotten used to floor plans not being the same after a while. Five-year-old me used to hate it, and kept getting lost on the way to the bathroom in the middle of the night.
“What’s up?” I ask, standing in his doorway. The room was empty just last month, but now it’s full of his college apartment stuff—cheap second-hand furniture, books, bag of soccer balls and cleats, and crumpled-up posters that haven’t quite made it onto the walls yet. Everything is scattered around, not exactly moved in, as if this house is just a temporary location.
Chris is standing in front of a thin black table that serves as his desk. “Hey,” he says, turning around, “I want to move this to the other side of the room. Help?”
“Sure,” I say, stretching my arms and joining him by the desk. We each take one side and move it across the room to a spot under the window. The desk is relatively light, and he’s relatively strong, so I’m assuming he’s called me in here for another reason.
“Look better?”
“Yeah,” I say, standing back, and an awkward silence follows.
“So . . . how’re things? Did you decide on a college yet? I saw all the flyers in the kitchen,” he asks.
“Yeah.” I nod. “I applied to University of Washington.”
“Washington, as in the state? That’s kinda far. Why there?” he asks.
I shrug and shake my head. “I don’t know. New place?”
He nods his head. “That’s how I felt about applying to the University of Houston. I wanted to go somewhere we never lived before—which was kind of hard, you know? I just wanted to start out fresh. . . .” He pauses and gazes out the window, at his room, at the life he didn’t intend to have. “After deciding to come here alone, it’s kind of strange being here in Houston with you, you know. I mean, not just you, the whole family. Not bad, just . . . weird.”
“Yeah.” I nod. “I said something similar back in Orlando. It was odd being in a new place without you.”
“You really liked Orlando, didn’t you?”
My heart thumps, but I nod. “Yeah, it was cool. The people were cool.”
“Your band was awesome. Would have been cool to see you live, but glad you sent me the videos.”
“Ha, yeah, we were all right.”
“Where’s your bass now?” he asks, looking at me.
“Uh, in my room. Haven’t found a band or anything here yet,” I say, looking at anything but him. If he sees my eyes, he’ll know there’s more to that statement. It’s not that there isn’t a band—I just don’t want to play.
He nods. “You should. Be cool to hear you play live again.”
“Maybe.” But probably not. Truth is, I don’t do much other than hang out with Kat and Cindy, and come home. And I only started hanging out with them a few weeks ago.
As if reading my mind, he asks, “What about the girls you’ve been hanging out with? Anything going on with them?”
“Well, they’re dating each other,” I say matter-of-factly.
“Really? Hot.”
“Dude, seriously?” I say, standing up for them.
“What?”
“Shut up,” I say. I can see he wants to joke like bros over this. But I don’t see Cindy and Kat like that. He can’t think we’re going to bond just like that. And definitely not over a stupid joke about my friends.
“Fine, fine. So no go with them. Any other girls? Or guys? I mean, not my thing, but you do you,” he says, and I know he’s joking, but it’s so transparent. He’s trying to be like before, and sure, I’d love that, but there’s this huge white elephant in the room that’s kind of in the way.
“What’s with the third degree?” I ask, turning to him.
“Nothing,” he says, leaning back on the desk. “Just haven’t really caught up with you since I’ve been home. You’re very . . . reclusive.”
“Did Mom ask you to check in on me?”
“No! Dude, no, I just wanted to talk. Believe it or not, I’ve missed you,” he says simply, and again I think of us as kids, of how much I needed him during every move. But not this time.
“Yeah, well, there are better ways to show it,” I mumble.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest. I look down, because I hate confrontation, but I can’t back down now.
“Why did you do it? Was your life too good here?” I finally ask.
“What?”
“No, seriously. You always have it easy when we move. For once I had it easy, too, and you went and ruined it.” I haven’t confronted him about this, haven’t even tried, because he’s my brother and I love him and I want to be there for him, but it’s time to talk.
“Matt, I didn’t mean to—”
“Didn’t mean to what? Make me move again? Scare the shit out of Mom and me when everything went down? Well you did.”
“I didn’t make you guys move here. I told them not to come.”
“And you think Mom would just sit back and wait for her son to get out of jail? She went crazy over it, over you. You’d think you’d be sorry for doing that to her.”
“I am,” he stresses.
“I’m sure you are, but you aren’t acting that way. Just lazily walking around the house all day, doing nothing? Yeah, great way to show us you’re doing better.”
“You moving isn’t my fault. You can’t blame me.”
“Sure, nope, I won’t. I’ll blame Mom then, if that’s what you want.”
“Can we just talk about this?”
“No,” I state. “I don’t want to talk. I’m over all of this . . . this walking around and pretending it all didn’t happen. Because it all did happen, and you know what, it all sucked.”
“Matt.”
“And like always there’s nothing I can do about it.”
I turn to walk out and he grabs my shoulder.
“What?” I ask.
He stares at me for a while and though I can see him cracking, I don’t give in. Instead, I just walk out.
CHAPTER 6
“Okay, so I need your opinion, and I’m super scared to ask,” Cindy says, clutching a gigantic pink binder. For the past two months we’ve been meeting pretty much weekly—me, Cindy, and Kat. Same location, same time, same table. Kat’s become less abrasive, and I’m more talkative. Kind of. And Cindy asks for opinions often.
“What’s up?” I ask, taking a sip of some chai thing Cindy picked out. She says it’s exotic. It tastes like cinnamon and incense t
o me.
“I have to submit my portfolio for Rhode Island School of Design, and I’m super nervous, and I don’t know if I’m choosing the right pieces. Can you look at them and tell me what you guys think?”
“You already know what I think,” Kat says, sipping her matching drink. She cringes a little, but takes another sip anyway. “I love your work. I mean, it’s all over my room.”
“Yeah, but those are pieces for you, not for RISD.”
“Are you saying you half-assed my paintings?” Kat asks, mock outraged.
“NO! I did those for you! You know they’re different from—”
“Honey, I’m kidding,” Kat says, patting Cindy’s hand.
“I’ve never seen your art. I actually have no idea what kind of art you do. I’m a crap friend,” I say, leaning forward. She puts her binder down and stares at it, as if it’s gold, as if it contains all the answers in the universe. I guess, in a way, it does—it’s her ticket out of here, maybe.
“You haven’t? Yeah, I guess not,” she says, then opens the first page. I kind of expected paintings of puppies and kittens, but instead I see a mural of color—stripes, dots, splatters, designs. It’s so vast, so complicated, and so beautiful. It’s bright and colorful and full of life, just like her. Lines over polka dots zig and zag along the page, ending with splatters and markings. There’s no pattern, but it’s the lack of pattern that makes it fascinating.
“That’s beautiful,” I say, tracing my finger around the edge of the page. It’s a photo of the painting, protected under a plastic folder, but it still pops.
“You think?” she asks, biting her fingernail. “It’s not too amateur?”
“Not at all. These are fantastic. Seriously.”
“Thanks.” She grins, and turns the page. It’s more of the same, but different. Where the other was more linear, this one is more dotted, more rushed, it seems, but in a natural way. More reds and blacks, whereas the other was blues and greens.
“I’d love to see these in person,” I say, turning the page again to see another, brighter one that’s painted in yellows and oranges.
Matt's Story Page 3
