Matt's Story (4 page)

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.

“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 to 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.

“OH! I have them at school right now. I used the photography room to take the photos. We can see them tomorrow.”

“Awesome,” I say, actually looking forward to it.

“I think it’s perfect,” Kat says, finishing the book. “Don’t change a thing.”

Cindy grins at Kat, then squeezes her arm.

“I’m going to go put this in the car so we don’t spill anything on it,” Cindy says, clutching her portfolio in a massive hug. “Be right back.”

She walks off, and I’m left with Kat. I like her, I do, but I’m more comfortable with Cindy. She’s just . . . nicer.

“So where are you applying for school?” I ask, thinking of something to say.

“I want to go to med school eventually, so I’m applying to schools with good science programs,” she explains.

“You’d be good as a doctor. Very to the point,” I say, grinning.

“Ha. Cindy would be terrible. A kid would have a splinter and she’d sob.”

I chuckle, then say, “You should clearly be a pediatrician.”

“I should clearly
not
be a pediatrician. Whereas Cindy would sob, I’d scare the kid,” she says, laughing at herself. She sits back and pushes her barely touched drink away.

“So are you applying to schools close to RISD?” I ask.

“Yeah,” she says wearily. “I mean, I am, definitely, but there aren’t many extremely close,” she sighs. “I don’t know. Let me ask you—why did you think long distance wouldn’t work when you broke up with Ella?”

“Huh?” I ask, taken off-guard, but of course she asked that. She’s worried. I just expected it to be Cindy, not her, who was. “Um, I don’t know. It never worked for my brother, so . . .”

“So you assumed it wouldn’t work for you?”

“I guess so,” I say, rubbing the cup between my hands.

“Did you ever think of trying?”

“No.” I pause. “There was so much going on with Chris, I just didn’t want to. Then, after I got here and saw how bad it was, I was going to try, until my parents said I shouldn’t—because of Chris’s ‘situation’ and all,” I say using air quotes, mostly meaning everything we went through when we were getting harassed by the guy Chris owed. It was scary, and my mom didn’t want Ella involved, so by the time I really wanted to talk to her, I couldn’t. And it sucked even more.

I used to have a hard time opening up and saying what I’m thinking, and to a point I still do, but the shell has cracked and I’m letting everything out. Because why not? I wish I could have been this honest with Ella.

“So if it wasn’t for Chris . . .”

“I never considered that,” I say confidently. “It was always Chris.”

“But if you could go back and change anything . . . would you?” she asks.

I’m about to answer “no, not at all,” but I stop myself. Would I? “I don’t know, maybe,” I answer honestly, then find myself continuing. “I never had anyone so close to me, you know? And it was kind of . . . scary. I’m used to it just being me, Chris, and my parents. So including her was . . . a lot for me. Even though I wanted to. I just didn’t know how to. And I was afraid our relationship would just end horribly, so I kind of pulverized it before giving it the opportunity.” I think of Ella, now, looking at me deeply and telling me things will be okay. She would have done that, had I confided in her. She would have taken me in her arms and rubbed my back until I believed her.

“You’re like a human autoclave. We just learned about them in bio. They’re these machines that sterilize equipment. Nothing alive can survive being inside one,” Kat says.

“So you’re saying I’m a heartless machine that kills things that get too close.”

“More or less,” she says with a shrug, and I can’t help but
roll my eyes at her. It’s the first time we’ve had any sort of heart-to-heart, and she’s already insulting me. In a way, it feels right.

She breathes in deep, then says, “I was kind of like you before Cindy, too. I mean, I dated one other girl before her, and she was . . . just experimenting, as it turned out. So I was wary at first, but after, like, a week with Cindy . . . I don’t know, things changed. She has a way of doing that. She’s just so damn optimistic and wonderful. When things got hard, after the last chick outed us to the whole school, she just held on to me tighter. She never gave up. She looked at people dead in the eyes and dared them to fight us. She has so much strength for someone so . . .”

“Tiny?” I venture.

“Yeah,” she laughs. “Tiny. And bubbly. She’s my rock, and I don’t want to lose her.”

“So do you think you’ll try?” I ask.

“Long distance? Yeah, she wants to. She’s convinced it’ll work. I guess we’ll see. . . .”

“I think you can do it,” I say, trying to cheer her up. I’m not sure if they can, but who knows. At least they’re trying. At least they’re trying when I didn’t have the guts to.

“You think?” she asks, tilting her head to the side like Cindy often does. The similar motion makes me smile.

“Yeah. If anyone can, it’s you guys.”

She smiles, and stares down at her cup. She takes another sip and cringes again. “For what it’s worth? I think
you and Ella could have, too.”

The next day, I meet Cindy in the art room. It’s empty, save for her running around and setting up her canvases on the tables.

“Whoa,” I say, taking them in. They’re like the photos she showed me yesterday, but so much more vivid. So much more real. You can get lost in her paintings. “Too bad you can’t send the real thing in.”

“I know, right?” She sighs. “At least I know everyone else can’t either. So we’re all in the same boat.”

“These are really, really cool. How’d you get the idea?” I ask, walking from table to table to see them all. There are some that are just lines, some that are swirls upon swirls of every color in the rainbow. And some that just have simple bursts of color.

“I don’t know,” she says, following me around. “I was working on a painting of a horse. Lame, I know, but that was an assignment for class. I was so frustrated because I can’t draw normal things, like horse’s faces, so I threw paint on the canvas out of anger.”

I nod, not really picturing her frustrated.

“I liked the way the paint fell, so I got a fresh canvas and did it again. Then added some lines in different colors, and, I don’t know, I just went from there.”

“This could be a stupid question, but what do they mean?”

“Not a stupid question,” she says. “They’re chaos, I guess. I mean, art is usually so precise and perfect, I wanted to show the other side of it. The frustration when things aren’t going your way. The dreams you have when you can’t draw. Or the daydreams that come when you’re planning your next piece. They’re just abstract images, really.”

“I really like them,” I say again, at the last painting.

“I’ll make you one!” she says eagerly, and I smile at her.

“That would be awesome. I’ll hang it in my dorm room.”

She grins proudly, then starts piling them up. I help her, grabbing a few. “Kat already has a bunch. I give her my screw-ups. She loves them for some reason.”

“I’m sure even the screw-ups are awesome,” I reassure her.

“They’re not, but Kat thinks so.” She pauses. “I kind of love that about her.” She pauses again. “Did we ever tell you how we met?”

“No,” I say, shaking my head.

“We had class together, but didn’t know the other was, you know, so we pretty much ignored each other. Okay, actually, she ignored me . . . I thought she hated me.”

“That sounds like her,” I say.

“Right? So the class ended—like, the school year ended—and I was over her. I passed her in the hallway and said some crazy thing like, ‘I’m not a mean person, you know’ or something, and she just started laughing. And then I started laughing. Because I liked her, you know? I
thought she was super cute, and it was so frustrating that she ignored me. So then we started talking and, well, yeah. Anyway, she could have made fun of me about that for
years
, and she never has. She’s just cool like that.”

I smile, feeling kind of awkward, then pile up the rest of the paintings in silence. There’s a piece of paper on the floor, so I lean down to grab it. It’s nothing much, just a sketch someone made of a flower blooming out of two tangled hands. I guess it was inspiration for one of their drawings.

“Picking up one of your found-object things?” Cindy asks from the other side of the room. I told them about it a few days earlier, when they saw me picking up a scrap of paper at the bookstore. It was a receipt for a coffee and the book
The Giver
.

“Uh, yeah,” I say, putting it in my pocket, feeling kind of self-conscious about my habit. It was okay with Ella—I wanted her to know, to see that part of me. But with them, I just kind of told them factually, like telling them about my shoe size. There was nothing much to it. Maybe because I don’t feel like it’s that much a part of me anymore, after making some amazing real memories of my own.

“You know, in a way, what you’re doing is art.”

“How so?” I ask, hopping up onto the table.

“You’re curating a collection,” she says, sitting on the one opposite me, legs flailing under the table.

“But it’s not my own work. I didn’t make any of these, like you made your paintings.”

“True, but think of poem anthologies. The editor didn’t write all of them, just picked his favorites.”

“So my scraps of papers are like poems now?” I joke.

“In a way, sure. They’re personal to you.”

“But what if I don’t want them anymore?” I ask, figuratively.

She stops moving her legs and looks at me. “Then just stop collecting them and start on something new. Something more you. They’re your horse painting. Make your portfolio pieces.”

If only it was that easy
, I think, but really, why isn’t it? Why can’t I just . . . move on?

Maybe I can. If I try.