Capture the World

by R. K. Ryals

  “Then why?” He hit a guy for God’s sake!

  Matthew palms his face, lines marring his features. “I feel sorry for you.”

  I fall off the end of the world. “What?”

  “I know what it’s like, okay?” He glances up. “I know what it’s like trying to feel normal in a world that isn’t normal.”

  Oh, no! He didn’t!

  Standing, I glare, heart cracking. “You don’t know anything!”

  Mrs. Morrison, our school’s attendance clerk, frowns at us. “Hey.”

  Lowering my voice, I repeat, “You don’t know anything.”

  Matthew scowls. “Stab a man when he’s down, why don’t you?”

  “You did it to yourself. You want to help me, fine, but hitting Kagen because he called me things he’s called me before isn’t helping. I don’t want you to feel sorry for me.”

  Feeling sorry is the last thing I want him to feel for me.

  “I figured being friends would help you,” he confesses.

  “What? Like my social status? You’re kidding me, right?”

  “It could have helped,” he defends.

  “Maybe,” I admit. “Except, aren’t you the one that said people don’t like me because I’m crabby?” I see the sudden dirty joke lurking on his face and quickly counter with, “You know what I mean!”

  So, I’ve owned up to it. He’s right. I’m not all that nice to people. If I was friendlier, then him being nice to me might not have turned out so sour. Instead, it went to hell. Fast. Two days including me in his existence, and he’s punched a guy.

  Says a lot about all of us, not just me. We stare at the hideous carpet.

  “We’ve lived on the same street for a long time,” he reminds me. “People are allowed to feel sorry for other people. You don’t have to like it.”

  I make damn sure he can see my lips. “Yeah, well, it’s pretty much impossible to build a friendship on pity. My life isn’t terrible, and I’m not going crazy.”

  “I know that.”

  “Then why do you feel sorry for me?”

  “Because you feel sorry for yourself.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Yeah, you do. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t have looked so scared when I mentioned stopping by your house in the gym yesterday. You’re embarrassed.”

  I know what he’s implying, and it makes me die a little inside. “I’m not ashamed of my mother!”

  Face hard, he stares me down. “Prove it.”

  “Damn you!”

  An unexpected laugh slips from his lips, the sound so out of place, it silences me.

  “I get that a lot at home,” he reveals, chuckling.

  I’m not surprised.

  Amused and loathed to admit it, I sit. “If you’re this forthright at home, I can see why.”

  “They still love me.”

  “They’re family. They kind of have to. It’s like some unwritten rule.”

  He grabs his chest, all mock hurt. “That blade of yours is sharp.”

  We fall silent, me sneaking glances at him. For the life of me, I can’t figure him out.

  Time eats the world.

  The door to the back office opens, an apologetic Kagen—a cold compress clasped to his nose—lumbering out ahead of Mr. Winks.

  The principal crooks a finger at Matthew, and he stands.

  I stand with him, touching his arm. “Okay … my house. Tonight.”

  My words catch him off guard. “What?”

  “You wanted me to prove it, right? I’ll do it. Tonight.”

  Before he has a chance to speak, Mr. Winks calls out to him, and I’m left sitting alone, confused and scared.

  SEVEN

  My mother’s world

  Egypt

  MOM DUCKS, PEEKS under her bed, and hisses, “It’s here! The entrance is under here!”

  We’re on an excursion in Egypt, searching for tombs full of ancient artifacts. Usually, her excitement grabs me, drawing me into her fantasy. Not tonight. Tonight, I’m too nervous.

  “Keep looking, Mom,” I tell her. “I’ll get flashlights.”

  She starts to protest, but I don’t give her time to object.

  For the umpteenth time, I leave the room to stand at the top of the stairs, my gaze on the front door below.

  Aunt Trish appears, drying a dish from dinner. “You keep doing that, and I’m going to assume you’re planning something terrible. I’m hiding all of the knives.”

  I cringe. “I’ve had Gracie over too much.”

  “She’s an odd bird,” Trish concedes, her gaze flicking to the door. “What’s up, Reagan?”

  It’s half past seven, and Matthew still hasn’t shown. Disappointment crushes me, which is wrong. All of this is wrong.

  “Just checking. I heard it was supposed to rain tonight, and you know how Mom—”

  “There’s no rain in the forecast.”

  Frustrated, I scowl. “It’s nothing.” Jogging down to the main floor, I pull two flashlights from the hutch in the foyer. “We’re searching pyramids. In Egypt.”

  “Watch out for that. Mummies’ curses and all that.”

  On my way back up the stairs, there’s a knock on the door.

  Time stops.

  Aunt Trish peers up at me. “Expecting—”

  “I’ve got it!”

  She beats me to the door, cradling the dish while yanking it open. Matthew stands on the other side, hair damp despite the cold, his hands shoved into his jacket pockets.

  “Matthew! Fancy seeing you here!” my aunt exclaims, throwing me not so conspicuous glances, her grin the size of Louisiana.

  I plant myself behind her, and he straightens, eyes fixed on me. “Sorry, I had practice and it ran late. You didn’t give me a chance to tell you that earlier.”

  “It’s fine,” I reply.

  Awkward silence stretches, and Aunt Trish exhales. “Come on in,” she insists, opening the door wider. “You here for school?” The curiosity is killing her.

  Our discomforted silence has Aunt Trish glancing at me, and all at once, her grin turns super cheesy. “Or is this a date?”

  “What?” I cry, horrified. “No!”

  At my vehemence, Matthew’s face lights up, his eyes wicked. “She’s in denial.”

  I gape at him. “He’s here to see Mom,” I state firmly.

  Trish pauses, her shocked gaze bouncing between us. I’ve never invited anyone over to see Mom. Except once, and that was a disaster of epic proportions. For me and for her. Actually, other than Gracie—who comes to see me, not my mother—I’ve never invited anyone over period. Not since then. But Matthew’s challenge burns. I need to prove to myself that I’m not ashamed of my mother.

  Aunt Trish backs toward the kitchen. “So, you’ve warned him—”

  “It’s fine.”

  She stares at me long and hard before retreating.

  Matthew hesitates. “If this is a bad time—”

  “It’s your challenge.” Motioning at the stairs, I hand him a flashlight. “We’re visiting Egypt today. It’s kind of what Mom does. She likes to travel, so we see the world her way.”

  Matthew grips the light, his intent gaze on my face. “I won’t be intruding?”

  “Beginning to doubt yourself already? You can back out if you want.” I don’t actually know how Mom will receive Matthew, if she will accept him or flip out, but I don’t tell him that.

  His jaw visibly relaxes. “No, I’m here.”

  Reaching Mom’s room, I walk in, head high. “Got the flashlights!”

  She’s kneeling on the floor, a black crayon in her hand, doodling hieroglyphics from a book onto the wall. “Just in time!” Glancing up, she freezes when she catches sight of Matthew.

  I avoid looking behind me because I’m too afraid of what I’ll find. He’s seeing Mom’s room for the first time, and it’s a daunting sight. Crayon doodles litter the wall, maps are taped up everywhere, globes rest on the carpet, brochures and books flood th
e space, the Travel Channel plays on mute, and the cardboard passports stare up at us from the desk. The television’s flashing glow casts the room in an eerie light, making it seem even more surreal and strange.

  Mom grins. “You brought help!” Standing, she opens her arms. “Welcome! You came all the way from Italy?”

  She remembers him.

  Matthew steps up beside me, so tall he makes me dizzy. “It was a long flight, so it took me a while.”

  His reply is perfect.

  Delighted by his response, Mom claps. “I like him!” Rushing to us, she drags us forward by the arms. “We have to be careful! It’s night and getting cold, so stay close. The stars are watching us like diamonds waiting to fall from heaven. The world has stopped breathing, anticipating. We’re not supposed to be near the tombs, but we are.” She tugs us down toward the floor, and we kneel, Matthew’s large frame making the room feel far too small. “See that? It’s the entrance to a tomb, part of an archaeological dig site that has shut down for the night. We’re trespassing.” She throws us a smile full of mischief.

  Matthew gestures at the wall, at the hieroglyphics. “What does that say?”

  “It’s a warning to all those who enter. Death to those who wake the dead.”

  “That’s reassuring,” he mumbles.

  “Scared?” I tease.

  Squinting, Mom sweeps her hands over the carpet. “See this? The notches? We follow these!” Glancing up, she sniffs. “The air has changed. It’s musty, and the light is gone. We need a torch.”

  My mother has a narrator’s voice—beautiful, sweeping, and full of intrigue.

  I hand her my flashlight, and she holds it up, as if the glare is a flame lighting the way. “Watch for traps,” she warns.

  She inches forward, and we move with her, slowly.

  “I can almost see it,” Matthew whispers, impressed.

  His voice washes over me, squeezing my heart. “She has a way of painting images with her words.”

  The room is dim, and I’m not sure he hears me, but what he said stirs something inside of me I’m not used to feeling: pride.

  Reaching her bed, Mom peers beneath it and cries, “This is it! The tomb!” She gestures at Matthew. “Come look!”

  I know what’s hiding there, but he doesn’t.

  Aiming his flashlight, he bends, shines it under the bed, and then rears back. “Holy shi—”

  Pouncing, I throw my hand over his mouth and fight hard not to laugh, my heart pounding. “Mom doesn’t like cursing.”

  The feel of his lips against my palm sends electric shocks through my system, the sensation pleasant and unpleasant. It’s unsettling.

  We tumble, his arm circling my waist, his face too close to mine.

  Shaking my hand loose, he mutters, “There’s a miniature coffin under there! And spiders.”

  “It’s paper,” I whisper, smiling. “An origami sarcophagus and spiders. I made them last year for Halloween.”

  “He saved you!” Mom declares, ecstatic. “He rolled you away from the trap, from the collapsing ceiling! What a hero!”

  She lowers the flashlight, the beam lighting up her face.

  Matthew’s grip on me tightens, his amused gaze traveling over my face. He’s so close I can smell the soap he washed off with after practice. “Collapsing ceiling?” he breathes, so low only I can hear. “Wow, I’m going to have to step up my game.”

  The fingers he has pressed against my waistline shift, the movement jolting me. My skin is suddenly too sensitive, painful and sweet all at once, and I gasp, breath hitching.

  Matthew’s expression alters at the sound, becoming dark and rapt, his head lowering, his eyes fixed on my mouth. My lips throb.

  “A hero!” Mom cries again, happy.

  Matthew freezes, visibly collecting himself. “The pleasure was mine, Mrs. Lawson,” he says aloud, offering me a stunned half-smile.

  It’s the right thing to say, and suddenly I’m there inside the fantasy. All of it. Surrounded by a dark, dangerous pyramid wrapped in the arms of a handsome stranger who’s saved me from death. My mother’s world has never been so tempting, and it’s scary how much I want it to be real.

  Squirming, I break free of his embrace, pulse racing. “Thank you,” I murmur, because I’m supposed to be playing a game. My words hang there—fantasy because it’s what my mother expects me to say, reality because I mean it.

  “Is your heart light?” Mom asks unexpectedly, her hawk-eyed gaze pinning Matthew.

  I nudge him, and he startles, his eyes finally leaving me to find her face.

  “Ma’am?”

  Her head tilts. “Is your heart light?”

  “Light?”

  Lowering a hand between us, she passes it from my chest to his, not quite touching. “In order to pass into the afterlife, your heart has to be light. The better you are and the better deeds you do, the lighter your heart. After death, your heart is weighed. You want it to be light, so that when your soul splits in two, the part the Egyptians call the Ba will fly off to watch over your family and the other half, the Ka, will fly off to enjoy the Land of Two Fields.” She nods at him. “Is your heart light?”

  He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing, his gaze flicking between us, troubled. “I don’t know,” he answers finally.

  “I think it is,” Mom insists, too sure.

  Releasing a content sigh, she slinks away and climbs onto her bed.

  I know by the way she settles against the wall she’s coming off the high she gets during her ‘travels’.

  “Tired, Mom?” I ask.

  She turns the volume up on the television. “Jet lag, my jewel,” she replies.

  Ignoring Matthew, I climb onto the bed with her, placing a gentle kiss on her forehead. “Goodnight, Mama.”

  We sneak out of the bedroom.

  In the hallway, Matthew leans against the wall opposite me and exhales. “Okay, well, that was—”

  “Strange,” I supply.

  “Incredible,” he finishes.

  My gaze flies to his face, to the rough angles accentuated by the dim light. His jaw is covered in light stubble, his eyes tired but bright. I wonder how much trouble he got in for hitting Kagen.

  Astounded, he shakes his head. “How does your mom know all of that?”

  Bracing my back against the wall, I shrug. “Books, documentaries, and brochures. Anything that has something in it about the world.”

  “A walking atlas.”

  I’d never thought of it that way.

  “My jewel? Is that a nickname?” he asks.

  My stomach plummets. If only he knew. “Yeah.”

  “I like it.” He flashes me a grin. “I haven’t done anything like that since I was a kid. You know, pretending that way? Unless you count sipping fake tea with my niece, and trust me, you never want to do that.”

  “Why?”

  “Last time we had tea, the cup wasn’t empty,” he grimaces, “and I honestly never want to find out what was in it.”

  “That bad?”

  “The next twenty-four hours was hell.”

  “Ew!” My laughter fills the heated hall.

  Silence. Time stretches.

  Matthew waits. Stares. Studies me.

  The hallway is too intimate a space. The narrow walls keep us close, my white sock-covered feet resting against his tennis shoes on the carpet. The relics of dinner—pot roast and chocolate cake—hover in the air. Aunt Trish helps Uncle Bobby with his paperwork—she with her tea and he with his coffee—and their chatter filters up the stairs, soft and comfortable. Occasionally, especially during the winter, the house pops, settling. Our roof rattles when the wind blows too hard, the air lifting a loose piece of tin over the living room. One day we’ll fix it.

  The noises all mean something to me.

  “What’s it like,” I gesture at my ears, “without the hearing aids?”

  Matthew eyes me, surprised, a soft sound slipping from his lips. “I think you’re the first per
son outside of my family who’s ever asked me that.” Glancing up, he studies the ceiling. It’s low and covered in spackle, the white yellowed with age. “I have moderate hearing loss. If the world was a television, it would be like listening to it on the lowest volume. Everything is muffled.”