The Book of Matthew (The Alex Chronicles Book 1)

by Doyle, K. T.

  “Looks that way.”

  He got up from the bed and quickly gathered his things. “I gotta go.”

  I massaged my aching neck. “Okay.”

  “Did you like my paper?” he asked, slinging his book bag over his shoulder.

  “It was good.”

  “Just good?”

  I thought a moment, hatching a plan. Finally, I took a step forward and whispered seductively, “It was great.”

  He looked at me funny and took a step back. “So you’d give me a passing grade?”

  I had tried to decipher the meaning of his crooked smiles and came up empty. I searched for the truth concealed behind the beauty of his dark green eyes and found nothing. And I’d assigned meaning to the sex we’d had the night before, when it was unclear as to what it meant to him. Now it was time I gave him a comeuppance. I wanted him to not know what I was thinking, to dig for the truth and search for the meaning of my words.

  He must act out a part in his own waking dream.

  “Your intro is well conceived and your body is tight in form,” I said. “But your conclusion is a little sloppy and you have a dangling participle or two. Overall, however, your topic was abundantly informative and it left me extremely enlightened and wanting more.”

  “You were…enlightened?”

  “Naturally,” I said.

  “Okay…”

  “And left wanting more. Don’t forget that part.”

  Matt stared at me, his brows furrowed, silent.

  “I made some notes in the margin for you to refer to,” I said.

  We stood there for a moment, a confused look on his face, a smug look on mine.

  “Thanks,” he finally said. “See you next week.”

  He brushed past me with a muffled goodbye and bolted out the door.

  Touché, Matthew Levine. Touché.

  It would not be the last time I left him near speechless.

  II.

  I inhaled real deep. There was stretching and bending and finally a zip. The burgundy dress was on.

  I slipped on my new black shoes with a one inch heel, took a step back, and looked at myself in the full-length mirror that hung on my bedroom wall. Then I turned around and craned my neck to look at myself from the rear. Then I spun around to look at the front again. Before I knew it, I was twirling around my bedroom like an out-of-control ballerina.

  The knock on my bedroom door startled me, but I kept spinning and twirling.

  “Alex? Can I come in?”

  It was my mother.

  I didn’t respond, and there was no need; she would come in anyway.

  “Practicing to be a Whirling Dervish?” she asked.

  I stopped spinning. The room didn’t. “A what?”

  “Never mind.” She looked at her watch. “You’re dressed early.”

  “I know.”

  “Bobby’s not due for another half hour.”

  I flared my nostrils at her. “I. Know.”

  “Such a curious habit you have—being early for everything.”

  “Your point?”

  “Just an observation. Let me get a good look at you.” She scanned me head to toe. “You’re not wearing lipstick.”

  I wrinkled my face at her. “I hate lipstick. It turns my teeth pink.”

  “I know. But you have to wear something to accent your pretty face.”

  “I have makeup on.”

  “Yes, I see that. But you need a little more or you’ll look pale as a ghost in your pictures.” She walked over to my dresser to look through my skimpy collection of makeup.

  “I don’t want to look like a whore,” I mumbled under my breath.

  She picked up blush and a black eyeliner pen. “What’s that, my dear?”

  “I said, I hope this night’s not a bore.”

  “I’m sure you’ll have a wonderful time.”

  There was no doubt about that. But it wasn’t the dance that I was most looking forward to. It was the party we were going to afterwards that would be the highlight of my evening.

  Bobby and I never got much alone time. Neither of us drove so we depended on our parents to take us everywhere. When we were at each other’s houses, there was always a parent in the next room. We’d kiss and grope but not much else, always afraid someone would walk in on us. There’s only so much you can do underneath football bleachers, and we weren’t exactly the popular type that got invited to parties. We could never really be free, get in the moment, let ourselves go.

  And so, after five months of waiting, on this night, the night of the Spring Formal, I was hoping to really let go. I would get to know Bobby a little more intimately. I would give myself to the boy I loved, and he would accept my body as a token of my trust. In doing so, it would ensure that no other man would ever forsake me again.

  My mother walked back over to me and noticed the dress wasn’t zipped all the way to the top. She put the blush and eyeliner pen down on the bed. “Here, let me help you with that.”

  Once the dress was zipped entirely, it completely enclosed my midsection like a corset. I felt every rib when I breathed. No matter. If all went well, I wouldn’t have it on for very long.

  CHAPTER 7

  I.

  I hadn’t seen or talked to Matt in a week. I had doubts as to whether I should show up for our second private guitar lesson, considering how weird things were. Ultimately, I said screw it. I’ll go. Things couldn’t get much worse.

  Each step that got me closer to Kentmore Hall made the knot in my stomach grow tighter. What was it about this guy? We weren’t exactly friends, but we weren’t lovers, either. We weren’t anything.

  As I crossed Main Street, I glanced up briefly and saw the front door of Kentmore Hall swing closed. I hadn’t seen who entered. I jogged the rest of the way to the door, found it unlocked, and walked inside.

  I saw Matt first. Then I saw the other boy. He was tall and thin with long legs, and his hair was blonde and wavy. I had never seen him before, and he wasn’t one of the guys who took guitar lessons. A band mate, perhaps?

  They stood several feet apart in the middle of the lobby, arguing. Matt had his arms crossed; the other had his hands on his hips.

  “No, I don’t!” the young man said.

  “Yes, you do!” Matt replied.

  The young man rolled his eyes. “Whatever, dude.”

  Upon hearing the door close, they both jumped and looked at me, their eyes wide. The young man walked away without another word and disappeared into the darkness.

  Matt took a few steps in my direction. “Hey, Alex.”

  I stood just inside the door, unsure of what to say. “Uh, hi.”

  “Everything all right?” he asked.

  “Yeah, sure. Everything all right with you?”

  “It’s nothing. An issue with the band.”

  “Okay.” I paused, waiting for more of an explanation, but none came.

  “Ready for another lesson?” he asked.

  I nodded and we were off. When we reached the kitchen, Matt turned and headed up the steps. But I was unable to do the same. The kitchen door was like a roadblock. The same force that urged me to enter the kitchen the week before was now beckoning me back inside. I had to confront our “relationship” in the very room where it had started. I wanted to grab Matt by the scruff, march him into the kitchen, and finish this. I needed—

  “Are you coming?” Matt called, his echoing voice interrupting my thoughts.

  I clenched my fists, turned to face him and…decided to do nothing.

  I ascended the steps behind Matt to the practice room, threw my coat over a chair, and retrieved a guitar from the cabinet. Then I sat on the floor and nestled it in my lap.

  After Matt retrieved his guitar from the cabinet, he sat down in front of me. “All right.” He grinned. “Where should we start?”

  …

  Weeks passed. Things carried on much the same. Every Monday evening Matt would teach me a little more about the guitar. I would
sit, watch, and pretend to care about learning to play, hoping that maybe this was the week he’d break his silence.

  But that day was long in coming.

  Week after week I told myself to cut him some slack; he just wasn’t ready to talk. He’d come around when he was ready. I just needed to be patient. And so I continued to go to the lessons. Because the time I didn’t go, the night I decided to cancel because I couldn’t take any more silence, would be the night Matt was ready to talk.

  It was a week and a half before Christmas break. Lisa and I were supposed to be studying for finals. Instead, she was peeling holiday decorations made of construction paper from our dorm room window. I sat on the floor in the middle of the room with a book propped open in front of me, attempting to study. But I couldn’t concentrate. I was thinking about Matt.

  I wondered how the time and distance would affect us. Would Matt come back to school after five weeks apart ready to confront our relationship? Would I come back still caring more about him than I did about playing the guitar?

  Even when Matt and I sat inches apart, we were impossibly far from each other. Would the time and distance draw us closer?

  Lisa had her back to me. She was peeling tape off the window with her fingernails. “You have one more guitar lesson this semester, right?”

  I hadn’t told her much about Matt. There wasn’t anything to tell, other than he was a finance major. After three months, I still knew nothing about him; he was a stranger. His family. His childhood. His friends. His hopes and dreams. Who knew? I didn’t know the name of his band. I hadn’t seen his dorm room. It was all a mystery.

  Matthew Levine was a closed book, one that I was desperately trying to pry open. Every time I tried, attempted to ask questions, he’d change the subject or act like everything was no big deal. He was infuriating. I was absolutely crazy for being so crazy for him.

  All I told Lisa was that Matt was someone who was teaching me how to play the guitar.

  “Tomorrow’s my last lesson,” I said.

  “You know, I always pictured you as a flute kind of person.”

  “The flute? Flutes are for girls.”

  Lisa turned and looked at me. She had a paper candy cane in one hand and a wad of tape in the other. “Uh, have you looked in the mirror lately?” There was always a singsong quality to her voice. “I mean, seriously.”

  “That’s not how I meant it. Guitars are just…cooler.”

  “And this Matt guy…is he cool?”

  “He’s pretty cool.”

  Lisa turned back to her project at the window. She began to sing. “Matt and Alex, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S—”

  “Lisa!” I interrupted her. “Have you looked in a mirror lately? You’re not five anymore. I mean, seriously.”

  She spun around. “Hey!” She picked up a pencil off my desk and threw it at me, pouting her lip.

  I stuck my tongue out at her and we both started laughing. Whenever one of us crossed the line and said something hurtful or insensitive, we stuck our tongue out as a way to apologize. It was our silent way of asking for forgiveness. It was a silly gesture, and not as easy as simply saying sorry, but it was just something that we did. And whenever Lisa pouted her lip, I knew I had crossed the line. Sticking my tongue out at her became my immediate response.

  Lisa went back to peeling tape from the window. “So is Matt cute?” she asked.

  I picked up the pencil that had landed at my feet and started playing with it. “Yeah, he’s cute.”

  “Does he have a girlfriend?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  She turned again. “Then stop moping around and do something! I mean, God!”

  I sat up straight. “What do you mean? What are you talking about?”

  “Please! Don’t think I haven’t noticed.” She picked up her piles of paper ornaments and wads of tape and threw it all in the trash. “Ever since you’ve met him you’ve been all weird and stuff. And every time you get off the phone with him you have this dreamy look on your face.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Whatever.”

  “Oh, and then there was the time the two of you were sprawled out on your bed fast asleep.” She put her hands on her hip and grinned at me as if she had just caught me in a lie.

  “That was totally innocent, Lisa. Nothing happened. We’re just friends.”

  “Ha! Friends my butt! It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see that the two of you like each other!”

  The phone rang. Lisa reached for it. “Hello?”

  There was a pause. She smiled. “Yes, she’s here. Hold on.” She grinned and held the phone out to me. “It’s for you.”

  I closed my book. I took the phone from Lisa and sat down on my bed. “Hello?”

  “Hey, Alex. It’s Matt.”

  “Hi, Matt.” From the corner of my eye I could see Lisa beaming at me.

  “Am I calling too late?”

  I looked at the clock. It was close to midnight. “No, it’s okay. Lisa and I were just…” I trailed off.

  Lisa cupped her hands to her mouth. “We were gossiping about you, Matt! Are your ears ringing?”

  I quickly covered the mouthpiece and glared at Lisa.

  “Are you there?” Matt asked.

  “Sorry. Lisa and I were just talking.”

  I motioned with my hand for Lisa to get lost. She put a finger to her lips and silently tiptoed out of the room.

  “I’m going to be a bit late for our lesson tomorrow,” Matt said.

  “Oh, okay. Is everything all right?”

  “Um, yeah.” He paused. “There’s just this thing I gotta do.”

  “Do you want to cancel?”

  “No!” Matt blurted out. “I mean, it’s our last lesson of the semester.”

  “We can reschedule for another day.”

  “I’ll only be a few minutes late.”

  “Okay,” I said. ”I’ll wait for you at the usual spot.”

  “All right.”

  “Seriously, Matt. You can cancel. I won’t be upset. I’m sure you’ve got more important things to do.”

  “Can’t miss our last lesson of the semester,” he said.

  “Okay. If you’re sure.”

  “Yep,” he said. “See you tomorrow.”

  Lisa must have been listening on the other side of the door; it opened the minute I hung up the phone. She came trundling in, laughing. She paused in the doorway to say her good-byes to the imaginary person she was pretending to talk to. It was obvious, though, that the only conversation she had been involved in was mine.

  II.

  “Stop squirming,” Bobby said. “He’s waiting.”

  The photographer stood in front of us. I was pulling down on the folds of my dress. Dozens of couples were lined up behind us outside the gymnasium in the lobby of our high school. They were practicing their smiles and waiting for their turns to be positioned into uncomfortable poses.

  “I can’t help it,” I said. “My dress is too tight. It’s hard to breathe.”

  Bobby’s hands were lightly grasping my hips as the photographer had instructed. Once I was done fixing myself, I clasped my hands together at waist level, making sure the small bouquet of flowers around my wrist was perfectly centered.

  “All ready, then?” The photographer inquired.

  Our perfect postures and sculpted smiles indicated yes.

  The photographer put his eye up to the lens of the camera that sat about neck high on a tripod. “Look at the camera. On the count of three…”

  At that moment I remember thinking: The number of times he repeats that phrase in the course of a year must be staggering. Weddings, proms, bar mitzvahs, graduations, birthday parties…

  Until that point, I had thought photography was one of the best professions in the world. It must be great to be surrounded by happy people and have the honor of capturing on film some of the happiest moments of their lives. And then being paid for that art you created—it must be so rewarding.

&nb
sp; But standing there like a plastic mannequin under a bright spotlight, feeling like the intense heat would make me melt, made me change my mind. The stress of finding the perfect thing to wear, a dress I’d never wear again. Making sure I looked picture perfect. Posing ourselves so unnaturally. What a charade. But I had to do it. I had to go through all this bullshit first in order to lose my virginity to Bobby Fraser. I just hoped it was worth it.

  “Smile big for me!” the photographer called to us.

  I whispered under my breath through a toothy grin. “This is stupid.”

  Bobby heard me. “I know,” he whispered.

  It’s amazing how many events require people to submit to such fakery. And it’s even more amazing that people continue to subject themselves to it. Dress themselves up in uncomfortable clothing, put on their best simulated smiles and pretend to be happy. How bogus.

  Any seasoned photographer must see through it after awhile. He must notice the hint of sadness behind the smiles. The beads of nervous sweat clinging to a groom’s forehead. That twinkle of teenage lust in the eye of a tuxedoed prom boy. The embarrassed sideways glance a mother gives her child right before the snap of a family photo to make sure he’s standing still.

  But even worse, he probably empathizes with his subjects, shares in their pain and fear and frustration. How could he not? After all, he’s probably gone through some of the same things at some point in his own life. After awhile, he must become like a sponge that soaks up all the negative energy until it becomes his own. It must be uncomfortable to do his job. It must be hard to show no emotion.

  While putting on my own pretend smile the thought occurred to me: Other than working in a funeral home, being a photographer must be the most depressing god damned job in the world.

  The photographer counted aloud. “One, two, three!”

  There was a flash and a snap. Before I had time to blink away the white circles in front of my eyes, I was being ushered away from the flowered backdrop to make room for the next couple.

  Hip-hop music was playing. Some brave souls were already dancing and making fools of themselves, flailing around as if they were inventing a new twist on The Twist. These were the artsy-but-still-somewhat-popular kids. The truly popular kids had already staked their claim by the punch bowls, pounding down Kool Aid like it was tequila shots. They stood around in large groups, shifting a few paces anytime someone outside their social caste came near them.