by R. K. Ryals
Out of nowhere, he leans forward, covering my ears with his hands.
I jump, my hands flying to clutch his, heat filling my face. His palms are calloused, rough from basketball and life, and I like the way they feel against my skin, abrasive and real.
He’s talking, his lips moving, but his words are barely audible, like he’s speaking to me from another room, a wall between us.
“This is what you hear?” My words are too loud, competing with the sudden thundering beat of my heart.
Chuckling, he drops his hands. “That’s the hardest part. Learning to talk without yelling. As a kid, I spent a good deal of time embarrassing my mother in public. Not because I couldn’t hear, but because I’d shout things most people wouldn’t say out loud.”
His distant gaze fills with memories. “My mother was getting groceries once. I was around seven, I think, and we hadn’t had a good meal in a while. It was before my dad’s restaurant really took off, and we had to get government assistance for a few years. Mom had a lot of mouths to feed. Halfway through shopping, I got really excited by all of the food and yelled, loud as I could, ‘Ma, having food stamps is like being rich!’”
The story shocks a choking snort out of me, and I gasp, “You didn’t!”
He laughs with me. “Ma loves telling that story. But hey,” he shrugs, “we’d been low on food for a while. I was only being honest. Deafeningly honest.”
Pure, unadulterated laughter rolls off of me because I can see him—lanky, innocent, and excited—yelling at the top of his lungs, his mother’s cheeks turned pink at the cry. I double over, happy tears blurring my eyes. It feels good to laugh this big, unfiltered and no-holds-barred.
“What about you?” Matthew asks, dimples on full display. “Come on, give it to me, your funniest childhood story.”
“Oh no,” I gasp, still chuckling. “No way! You’re not getting one of those out of me.”
He ducks his head, eyes twinkling. “I told you one of mine.”
“You offered it,” I point out.
“Fair enough.” His megawatt smile robs me of words, ties up my tongue, and leaves me mute.
My aunt appears on the stairs, her intrusion throwing us into silence. “Would you like something to eat?” she asks Matthew, her curious gaze studying the two of us. “I could warm something up.”
He pushes away from the wall; the intimate spell we’d been caught in shattered. “No, thank you. I’ve got to get going anyway. Ma will have something waiting.”
Aunt Trish is a younger version of my mother, her shoulder-length brown hair bobbed and layered to frame her face. A red pullover sweater rests over a pair of worn jeans, her feet bare.
“If you’re sure,” she replies, shooting me a sidelong glance.
“Trish,” Uncle Bobby calls, his warning tone helpful but too late to save the moment.
She leaves, and it’s like someone has pressed stop in the middle of a movie—before the best part—and rewound it back to the beginning. We’re strangers who live on the same street and go to the same school. Two people who’ve swapped a few stories and shared a moment.
The night is over.
Matthew is headed out the front door, the chilly night air blasting into the house, when he stops, pierces me with his gaze, and says, “I want you to try something with me.”
I’ve swallowed a ball, or it feels like it anyway.
Shrugging inside his jacket, he drops his gaze. “Spend some time with me outside the house. Maybe around town. Just friends.”
His breath crystallizes in the air between us, and I catch myself reaching for the tiny cloud puffs.
My fingers curl, nails biting into my palms. “Let’s not.” Reality crashes down on me, and I glance down at myself, at the dark blue skinny jeans and black and gold Saints sweatshirt I have on. “Thank you for what you did up there, for coming over and being okay around my mother, but,” I inhale, “I can’t.”
It felt good to laugh, to have someone experience the world my mother belongs to with me, but in the end, it also feels manipulated.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “It just—”
“Do this with me,” he insists. “No ulterior motives, I promise.” The porch light ages him. He’s a giant looming over me, long lashes shading eyes like warm hot chocolate in winter.
“Because you feel sorry for me,” I whisper, chin rising so he can see my lips.
Behind him, the earth is dark. A canvas of stars hangs over us, and I wonder what it would look like if they fell all at once, glitter or fireworks. The wind smells like frost and pine needles.
“Did you know your mother’s window faces our house?” Rubbing his hands together, Matthew blows into them. “I’ve seen the way you stand in it sometimes, hugging yourself, and it just seemed right.”
My heart trips over itself, trying to get away from me, stunned and confused. “What seemed right?”
“Me saving you.”
I laugh, the sound short, my breath exploding white and wild in the dark. “So you have white knight syndrome, is that it? Whatever. I’m good, thanks.”
“No, I don’t,” he argues, eyes blazing. “My nonna may have pushed me a little, and before tonight—seeing you with your mom—I may have second guessed this whole thing, but …” He stares at me, eyes narrowing. “You have no idea, do you? I mean, no idea at all.”
I go blank. “No idea about what?”
He laughs, short and incredulous. “How beautiful you are.”
Oh … what?
A lifetime of silence settles between us. I am dreaming. This is a dream. I’ve fallen asleep in my room, and I’m going to wake up any moment and realize this was never real. Me? Reagan Lawson—pale-faced, petite, and exceptionally less curvy than most girls—beautiful?
And they call me crazy.
I have an out of body experience that makes me want to do things completely un-Reagan like … like maybe kiss the school’s star basketball player because he just called me beautiful. Or pinch him … you know, to make sure he’s real.
Having him so near is suddenly too much and not enough. I want to grab him, hold onto him, and never let go. Not because I like him—whatever, Reagan—but because this is the first night since the decision about Mom was made that I don’t feel empty, like I’m falling down a dark hole I can’t climb out of only to wake up tangled in white sheets, the fabric too cold against my skin.
Does stress make a completely sane person think about wrapping herself like a pretzel around a guy she just started talking to? Do I want to be sane?
“There’s gotta be something else, right? About me?” I ask.
I’m not fishing for compliments. It’s just all so surreal.
His rough fingers brush my face, frigid against my warm cheeks. “You’re mysterious.”
And just like that the moment is gone. I’m not dreaming, and I’m no longer tempted to pinch him. Because, if I was having a delusion, he wouldn’t have called me that.
I don’t want to be mysterious. Most girls would, but not me. “And when the mystery is gone? When you figure everything out, and you realize it’s not as intriguing as you think it is?”
He doesn’t stop to think. “I don’t know.”
His honesty does it for me. It just does.
Grinning, he quirks a brow. “You’re caving, aren’t you?”
“What about today? Everything with Kagen?” I gather my hair in a ponytail, bunching it up at the back of my head, and then free it. “You don’t want to be friends with me, Moretti.”
He touches me again, gentle and sweet, a friendly touch, as if he’s coaxing a skittish horse into letting him ride it. It sends a flurry of sensations racing through me. “You didn’t hear the entire argument, the part where he …” He glances away, then finds my face again. “Kagen is jealous. It’s easier to call you crazy than it is to approach you. He’s jealous because my family gave me an excuse to do just that. They gave me an excuse to talk to you. Say yes, Reagan. Let me
be your friend. Really be your friend. It’ll be painless, I promise.”
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.”
