The Book of Matthew (The Alex Chronicles Book 1)

by Doyle, K. T.

  “Understand what? What are you talking about?”

  “The dress…it’s a symbol…of everything you worked for and how it fell to pieces.”

  I blinked at her, my face turning pink. “Is that some stupid psychological bullshit theory you learned from your shrink?”

  “No, that’s the truth.”

  “Whatever. You’re delusional.”

  There was a brief moment of silence, so quiet that I thought I could hear the snow falling outside.

  “What ever happened to Bobby?” my mother asked.

  I sat down on the bed and picked up my book, hoping she’d take the hint and leave. “Who knows. Who cares. It was forever ago. It’s none of your business, anyway,” I said. “What ever happened to your shrink?”

  “I’m still seeing him for therapy. I want to talk to you about it.”

  I sneered at her. “I thought you were here to get my laundry. I don’t give a shit about your stupid shrink or your therapy.”

  Her eyes blinked quickly, as if she were fighting off my words with her eyelashes. “I thought perhaps you’d like to make another visit to Dr. Cramer.”

  “What the hell for?”

  “Well, in light of recent events, I thought you might need some help.”

  “In light of what recent events?”

  “All the emotional issues you’ve been having.”

  “Like?”

  “Like, well…graduating high school and preparing to go away to college. This is a stressful time in your life right now.”

  “I’m fine, thanks.”

  “Or any other problems you may be having…”

  “What are you getting at, Mother?”

  Mother. Such an infrequently used word in my vocabulary. I reserved it for the times when I was truly pissed and annoyed at her. Somehow, it added weight and importance to my statement. It was the most lethal title I could think of. To me, it was taboo, the ultimate insult, the equivalent of calling a woman a cunt.

  “You know what I’m talking about, dear,” my mother said.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “The fact that you and Bobby broke up…and that you had a horrible time at the dance…” She paused. “And that you are no longer a virgin.”

  I looked at her in horror. “How do you know all that?”

  “It’s in your diary.”

  I leapt from the bed and nearly reached out to grip her dainty throat. “You read my fucking diary?” I screamed at her. “How could you?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said calmly. “You left it unlocked in the top drawer of your bedside table.”

  I recoiled at the thought of my carelessness. “I-I did?”

  “Yes, you did,” she said. She spoke as if her betrayal was my fault, as if my careless mistake pardoned her from violating my personal belongings.

  “I was dusting your room one day last week and I saw a pair of scissors sticking out, caught in the drawer,” she said. “I opened the drawer to rearrange them so the drawer would close properly and I saw your diary.”

  “That didn’t give you the right to read it!”

  “Alex, I’m your mother. You never tell me anything. You never ask for advice or talk to your father or me about your feelings. We have no idea what’s going on in your life.”

  The more she talked, the angrier I became. “How’d you like it if I rummaged through your shit?” I said. “Is that how you found out about dad? You went snooping through his stuff, too?”

  “No, I didn’t. Your father—”

  “How much did you read?” I interrupted. “All of it?”

  “Enough to know that Dr. Cramer can help you sort out your feelings.”

  “Great! Just fucking great! I’m assuming he already knows all about this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wonderful. He probably wants to send me to a Magdalene Asylum.”

  “A Magdalene Asylum? What on earth? What do you mean?”

  “Never mind,” I said. “I’m leaving.”

  I stormed out of the room. It didn’t matter where I went, as long as it was away from the house—anywhere I didn’t have to see my mother’s beautiful face and her tiny lips that revealed her ugly betrayal.

  “Alex!” she called after me. “Let’s work this out!”

  I was at the second-floor landing. “You had no right to read my diary!” I yelled to her. “That’s private, do you understand? Don’t ever talk to me again!”

  I pounded down the steps to the first floor. My father stood in the kitchen looking at me. I took a fleeting glance at him, then ran past him and out the front door into the snow.

  I walked in the cold darkness without a hat or coat or gloves. I had just about made it the four blocks to the library when my father pulled up along side me in his pickup truck. By then my hair was soaked with snow and my entire body was numb. He jumped out of his truck and wrapped my coat around me. He ushered me into the passenger side and safely and silently drove me home.

  Some magic tricks require an element of danger and fear in order to be successful. On that night, my father’s trick was to save me from the danger of the biting cold and the fear that I might freeze.

  Fortunately, he was successful. And in executing one of his greatest tricks, he saved his trusty and faithful assistant from certain death.

  CHAPTER 15

  I.

  I heard him before I saw him.

  Walking into the lobby of the Student Center, I immediately heard the loud thrum of a guitar.

  I knew it must be Matt.

  The multi-purpose room was straight ahead. I peered through the open double doors and saw a small crowd of about thirty people gathered near the front of the platform stage. About twenty more people mingled near the back.

  Bright lights above the stage helped me focus on the subjects on display. They looked like moving objects of art. A kid I knew in name only fidgeted with a microphone as he stood center stage. Matt stood slightly to his left, strumming his guitar. Ted was there, too, on the opposite side of the stage, conversing with Bob the drummer.

  I looked at my watch. 7:45. Only fifteen minutes until their show time, and about an hour after that until mine.

  “Remember when you said you wanted to see one of my shows?” Matt had said to me the week before, and then handed me a neon blue flyer. “Here’s your chance.”

  I looked at the flyer.

  NEED A BREAK FROM FINAL EXAMS? ROCK OUT WITH CONFESSIONS OF MARY, NEXT WEDNESDAY IN THE STUDENT CENTER AT 8:00 P.M.

  There was a black and white photo on the flyer of four familiar faces, posed like the rock stars they wished to become.

  “Confessions of Mary?” I said. “Who thought of that name for your band?”

  Matt beamed. “I did.”

  “You never told me that before.”

  “I just thought of it recently. Before then we didn’t have a name.”

  “It’s cool. What’s the significance?”

  “I started thinking about how you said Christine was like Mary Magdalene. You know, she confessed her sins, repented for them, and then swore to be devoted to me and all that stuff.”

  I smiled. “I see.”

  “The name seemed to fit and the guys liked it so it stuck.”

  “I’ll be there,” I promised.

  I kept my word.

  A week later I walked across the east side of campus to the Student Center on a beautiful spring night in mid-May with determination in every step. There was also a promise to myself I was hell-bent to keep.

  The multi-purpose room was relatively small and square. An exit door in the rear was propped open. A young man lingered in the doorway, smoking. He called to the four musicians on stage. Matt, Bob, Ted and the drummer jumped off the side of the stage to talk with him.

  I entered the room and found a spot in the back from which to view the night’s performance. There I would stand for the next hour, transfixed on Matt.

  It was the first time I saw Matt perform. Back the
n I thought it was the last time I’d see him perform. That saddened me a little, but I knew I was doing the right thing. There’s always a first and a last time for everything, I had reassured myself. But the thought did little to ease my nervousness.

  The four musicians left the young man in the doorway and retook the stage to tune their instruments. Ted tweaked the chrome control knobs on his bass guitar, while Bob tapped away at his drum kit. The singer took a drink of water and adjusted the height of the microphone stand. Matt packed up the guitar he had been playing and opened a second guitar case.

  As he pulled the second guitar out I realized what it was—a Gibson Signature Series red electric guitar. The one with the maple neck, rosewood fingerboard and two humbuckers. It was the only guitar in the cabinet in the practice room of Kentmore Hall that was off limits.

  Matt plugged in the guitar, checked the cables leading to the amplifier, and gave his guitar a last minute tuning.

  As I stood there nervous as hell, contemplating all the things I needed to say to Matt, I thought to myself, Do I need a similar warm up?

  I thought a moment.

  Yes, I needed to practice too.

  I pulled a piece of paper out of my pants pocket and reviewed my notes. “Matt, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking…” I whispered under my breath.

  Just then the bright white lights above the stage turned to red and blue and purple. The four musicians’ faces were illuminated by the psychedelic colors. The ceiling lights of the multi-purpose room began to dim slowly. More students rushed into the room and pushed their way to the front. By the time the doors closed, the room was packed with people.

  I squinted in the dim light to read my handwriting. “I have learned nothing from my father’s mistake...” I continued.

  I had never told Matt about my father’s affair because it wouldn’t have served as a lesson to either of us. We were too caught up in the thrill of our double lives. Matt and I were no less wicked and no less unfaithful than Christine or my father, and we would’ve continued our own affair regardless.

  But the double life I led as Matt’s other woman had finally caught up with me. I couldn’t keep pretending and I couldn’t keep lying. I planned to tell Matt everything, and break off the relationship completely, tonight, after the concert.

  I finished reading my notes. “The other person always finds out, eventually, somehow. So I’m choosing to end this before it goes any further, to spare a girl I don’t even know the same pain my mother knew so well…”

  I looked up at the stage. Matt and Ted were talking and laughing, their faces illuminated by the colored lights. They shared a high-five before taking their places. The kid who was smoking near the exit dropped his cigarette to the ground, stomped on it, then turned and jumped on stage.

  It was time.

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” he yelled into the microphone.

  There was whistling and clapping and whoops from the crowd.

  “ARE YOU READY TO ROCK?!”

  There was more cheering from the audience as a guitar blast sounded the start of the concert.

  Matt came alive on stage. When the set list called for a ballad, Matt’s sound was low and clean. When the band kicked up the pace and turned on a rock vibe, Matt easily and effortlessly manipulated his distortion petal to double the sound coming from his guitar. With each song the band played, Matt knew how to layer his rhythm so the guitar had a complete conversation with itself.

  There were times when the sound of the singer’s voice melded together seamlessly with the cry of Matt’s guitar. At those moments it was hard to distinguish the two instruments apart.

  That’s the beauty of music, and of life itself—those moments of pure synchronicity. Like the exact second zero gravity takes hold and renders a body weightless—science is suspended in space. Or when two naked bodies find their rhythm and ride it out to a cacophonous climax—passion is briefly suspended in time.

  At moments that these, there’s an unstoppable, almost supernatural, force that makes a body do what it is intended to do, and it brings us to the brink of perfection.

  And when Matt closed his eyes, I saw him reach the brink too. He let his fingers feel their way around the guitar so his mind could feel its way around the music. It was as if he wanted his body to feel that unstoppable force and allow it to do what it was intended to do—make music.

  After an hour the concert was over. The four members of the band were packing up their gear, loading instruments back into carrying cases, and rolling up what seemed to be miles of cable. One by one they took turns carrying boxes and bags and trunks out through the rear exit door.

  I waited as the last group of audience members filed out of the multi-purpose room. Matt looked out into the retreating crowd. Would he see me? Would he try to find me?

  His eyes scanned the room and stopped in my general direction. I raised my hand in greeting. He smiled and jumped off the stage.

  Ted noticed Matt walking away and strained his eyes to look out into the distance. He saw me and waved and I waved back.

  “Hey,” Matt said as he approached me, slightly out of breath. His hair was damp and a line of perspiration trickled down his temple. “You made it.”

  “I said I would.”

  “What did you think?”

  “You were holding out on me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I had no idea you could play like that. You’re really talented, Matt.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And the band sounded awesome.”

  Matt smirked. “Wanna be a groupie?”

  I laughed. “I’ll think about it.”

  I didn’t want to end it there, in that spot, surrounded by strangers in an unfamiliar space. “Are you busy right now?” I asked. “Can we go somewhere?”

  “Sure.”

  He glanced back at the stage. It was completely clear of equipment. Ted, Bob and the singer were standing to the right of the stage, joking amongst themselves. The emcee stood in the doorway of the exit, looking on as he smoked another cigarette.

  “Just give me a second,” Matt said.

  “If now’s a bad time…”

  “No, it’s not. I just need to take some stuff back to Kentmore. Wanna walk?”

  Perfect, I thought. I would end my relationship with Matthew Levine in the exact place it had begun.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “All right. I’ll meet you out front in a few minutes.”

  …

  Matt and I walked side by side across the expanse of the green lawn on the east side of campus, en route to Kenmore Hall.

  I motioned with my chin to the guitar case he held in his left hand. “Is that the Gibson Signature Series electric guitar?”

  “Yep.”

  “Is it yours?”

  “Yep.”

  “You never told me it was yours.”

  “It’s my secret weapon,” Matt said. “I don’t let anyone touch it.”

  “It serves you well.”

  “Thanks. I’m saving up to buy a second electric guitar this summer.”

  I thought a moment. “Is that why you charge for your guitar lessons and are so eager to collect money from people before the end of the semester?”

  “You’re finally catching on,” Matt said, smiling.

  “Well, you better hurry up. The semester’s over next week.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “You should ask your dad to buy you the guitar.”

  He shook his head. “No way.”

  “Why not? He’s already bought you a car and the way I see it—”

  “I said no!” Matt interjected. “That’ll never happen!”

  Surprised by his sudden outburst, I turned to look at him. He was looking at me, watching me with wild eyes, eyes full of sudden anger and fear. It was a look I had seen plenty of times before. Only this time, it had nothing to do with our relationship. It had nothing to do with us, and everything to do with his fath
er.

  “Um, okay,” I said. “But I think you should think about it. I mean, if it’s something you want badly enough…”

  Matt was shaking his head. “No way. Never.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because.”

  “Because why?”

  He sighed. “Here you go again. Trying to dissect me.”

  “Here you go again. Being all secretive.”

  We were silent for a few minutes until we reached the edge of the sidewalk that ran parallel to Main Street. Kentmore Hall was a half-block walk away.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I know you hate it when I ask too many questions. I’ll let it go.”

  Matt was quiet a moment, and then he said, “I owe my father enough as it is.”

  “You do? Like what?”

  “I don’t owe him money if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “I wasn’t thinking anything.”

  “All the money I made this semester—it’s for me.”

  “I know that,” I said. “You’re saving to buy a second guitar.”

  “My father wants me to get into finance, like him. Be an accountant or something boring like that.”

  I said as little as possible, to keep his momentum going and to make sure he kept talking.

  “My grandfather was an accountant,” he continued, “and my dad’s this hot-shot executive. My father thinks I owe it to the family to keep the tradition going.”

  “So you feel trapped by obligation.”

  “Sorta. I thought about not going to college at all—just having some dumb job that would give me lots of time to focus on the band.”

  “For what it’s worth, I think you made the right decision to go to college,” I said.

  “I guess. I’m just here to make him happy.”

  “All those papers you wrote on microeconomics and financial planning beg to differ. I thought you were all about money.”

  “I am. I mean, I wouldn’t mind having a job in the financial field for the money and power and security. It’s just that it’s not my first choice. And I don’t want to be forced into it.”

  We reached Kentmore Hall, the place where Matt and I had shared so many sweet and silent and awkward moments together. I expected to find the front door locked, but it was open. I held it open for Matt to enter first.