Capture the World (10 page)

Mrs. Powell ignores her. “Inspired by the television show of the same name because I’m a veritable couch potato—”

“Couldn’t we do something inspired by
The Walking Dead
?” Carl cuts in.

Collective agreement.

Mrs. Powell flashes him a smile. “If this were science or English, maybe, but since it’s not, you’re stuck with me and my light bulb moments, Mr. Pace.” She thumps the paper in her hands. “If you haven’t seen the show, it’s basically about tracing your family roots. Each episode follows a celebrity doing just that. We, however, are going to be doing something a little different.
You
will research
yourself
.”

Waving at the room, she asks, “Who do you think you are? Instead of going back generations, I want you to look at your parents, study them, and by the new year, I want to know three things about you: where you came from, what you learned from it, and where you think it will take you.”

My heart sinks.

“This is a senior project and worth a third of your grade.”

“But it doesn’t even have that much to do with history!” Benjamin Walker, Heart Bay High’s valedictorian shoe-in, protests.

“Maybe not,” Mrs. Powell agrees. “But here’s the thing … every year I get one project,
one
, where I get to be creative. Although it doesn’t seem like it now, one day this will mean something to you. One day, this project will be
your
history. The same history your children will want to know. For some of you, this project will be easy. For others, it’s going to be hard. You’re going to have to ask yourself and your family some pretty tough questions, face some things you may have learned to ignore. All I ask is that you turn in something,
anything
you think pertains to you and what you get out of this. Do that, and you get a grade. Easiest thing you’ll do all year.” She stares at us.

She’s wrong, and she’s no longer super cool. In my book.

My whole body goes numb, my heart a jackhammer in my chest. Even though I know no one’s looking, I feel like every eye is on me.

There’s more to the new year than a project for me.

I don’t hear anything for the rest of the class. Everything Mrs. Powell says flies over my head, her jokes pulling laughter from everyone except me.

I am stone.

When the bell rings, I wait for the room to empty before approaching Mrs. Powell, the paper she’d given us crumpled in my fist. “I can’t do the project.”

She’s facing the board, and she turns, her dark eyes narrowing. “Is there a problem with it, Ms. Lawson?”

Mrs. Powell always refers to us as misses and misters. I think it’s because of her age, the fact that she’s not much older than we are, the formality a reminder that she
is
older, an authority.

“I can’t do it,” I repeat. “I’d rather take a zero.”

I have her full attention. “That’s a big drop in grade for one project. You understand that?”

I nod.

“Why?”

“I’d rather not say.”

She sets a dry erase marker she’s holding down on her desk. “You have to turn something in, Ms. Lawson, or I will have to contact your family about this. The counselor, too. I need a valid reason you can’t do this. Is it against your religious beliefs? Your moral code?”

My eyes burn. “Please.”

“I know about your family, Reagan.” Her gaze softens, and she stoops, coming eye-to-eye with me. “I think this project is going to surprise you. The hardest steps to take are usually the best ones we ever took. I want your project along with everyone else’s in January after the break.”

Mrs. Powell turns away.

A tear slides down my cheek. “Mrs. Powell?”

She glances at me over her shoulder.

“I don’t want to write about my mother.” It’s the hardest admission I’ve ever had to make.

Sitting on the edge of her desk, Mrs. Powell studies me. Patient. “Why?”

“Because it would be like trying to hold the Earth in place.”

She smiles. “Then hold the Earth in place, Ms. Lawson. Capture the world and turn it in. I’ll take it.”

She doesn’t know what she’s asking for.

Next period’s students start filing into the room, and I edge toward the door, my back ramming into someone in the entrance.

“I’m sorr—”

Spinning, I find Matthew Moretti’s tall frame scurrying down the clearing hall, his sneakers squeaking against the scarred linoleum.

NINE

The real world

In which I embarrass myself … and boys are stuuuppiiid!

Basketball practice means no Matthew, which is a relief because I had decided, after history, that I wanted to walk home. No bus. No rusty van. Just me, my knock-off tennis shoes, and the road.

We live a so-so distance away from the school, which translated means: “It’s better to ride than walk, but walking is doable.”

I barely notice the burning in my calf muscles, the chill chafing my cheeks, or the heavy humidity pressing down on me.

I’m a mess.

By the time I make it home, it’s raining, a slow drizzle that promises heavier stuff later. Mom’s asleep because Aunt Trish has given her something to relax. Mom has a plethora of medications, but rain, especially predicted severe weather, calls for the heavy stuff.

Climbing the stairs, I look in on Mom, peacefully sleeping, and even though it isn’t bedtime, I kneel next to her bed.

“This has been a weird week. Not terrible exactly. Not good either,” I tell her. “It started out okay, me doing what I always do, but the whole Matthew thing has completely screwed it—and my head—all up. With him being nice to me, the other students at school can’t figure out what to do with me, Gracie’s mad, and now I have to do this history project I …” I don’t finish the sentence because, even though Mom’s asleep, I can’t make myself say
why
I don’t want to do the project.

Laying my head on her bed, I study Mom through half-shut eyes. “Was high school like this for you? Completely weird? Were you shy? Outgoing? Was Dad there?”

Turning, I sit, gaze straying, my fingers playing with the carpet. The drizzle has turned into pelting rain, the water running like a river down Mom’s window, streaking the room in water-embossed shadows.

Tugging an afghan off the end of her bed, I wrap myself in it. “I like this time of year, especially when it’s cold. Right before the holidays when the lights go up and everyone gets pumpkin obsessed. You liked it, too, didn’t you? I think I remember you liking it.”

For a long time, I stare into space. Being in Mom’s room is like sitting inside of a travel agency that smells like a cup of warm tea sweetened with honey and spritzed with lemon.

Thunder booms, and Mom stirs, restless, before hugging herself and falling back to sleep.

The rain slows.

Aunt Trish calls me down to dinner—grilled cheese and tomato soup—and we eat quietly.

Uncle Bobby comes in from work, joining us, but no one speaks. We rarely talk when the weather is grey. We listen and wait.

Rain thumps the tin roof, fast and hard, and then tapers off until we don’t hear anything.

I escape into the backyard stuffed inside of a large, hooded jacket. Rain boots keep the mucky ground from soaking my feet.

My breath doesn’t puff. It’s cold, but the temperature has risen with the rain. It smells like moss, mud, and wet things.

A vehicle roars down the street, clanking and clinking, and then goes still. A car door slams.

After a minute—I know because I count it out in my head—I walk to the middle of the yard and pretend I’m not trying to see if it’s Matthew returned from practice. The van is in their driveway.

I crane my neck.

“Looking for me?” a voice asks.

I squeal, spinning to find Matthew behind me, his cheeks pink from working out, a huge grin on his face.

My gaze bounces over the yard. “How did you—”

“Four siblings require extensive stealth knowledge. I am light as a feather on my feet and faster than a cheetah.”

And then it slips, my social faux pas. I blame it on Gracie. “Hashtag impressed.”

Silence.

Kill me now.

“Tell me you didn’t,” he says, laughing so hard he has to gasp for breath. “Did you just hashtag me? Out loud?”

I’m totally embarrassed. “Seemed like, uh, a
current
thing to do?”

“Hashtag you need help,” Matthew deadpans, and then chuckles at his witticism. “I’d bless your heart, but then I’d sound like my mother.”

“So not amused.”

“You’re lucky I like weird.” He falls quiet, studying me, and the way his eyes travel over my face makes every goose bump on my body stand at attention. “So
were
you?” He quirks a knowing brow. “You know, looking for me?”

“What? No!” I’m a terrible liar.

Pulling his jacket close, Matthew smiles. “Methinks the lady doth protest too much.” He drops a hand, starts to reach for something—
me, maybe?
—and then drops it again. “Want to come over?”

I hesitate.

He crooks his finger at me. “You can do this! Be daring, take the bull by the horns, live life on the edge, live vicariously, and … okay, I’m all out of idioms.” Stepping back, he opens a pretend door and waves me through. “Fair warning: the Moretti house may cause temporary loss of sanity.” He freezes on the last word, eyes shooting to my face. “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s okay. It was funny. I know the difference between banter and cruel remarks.” I glance at his house, and even though I’m melting over his use of the word “idiom”—seriously he’s not a normal boy—I hold tight to my resolve. “Maybe next time though?”

“Come on, Reagan! Don’t wimp out on me.”

“I’ve got homework.”

“You actually do that?”

“Hardy har har.”

The back door opens, and Aunt Trish pokes her head out. “Go, Reagan! I’m locking the door.”

What?
I gawk at her. “Were you eavesdropping?”

She smiles. “And it closes in three, two—”

“Aunt Trish!”

The door slams shut.

Horrified, I rush to it. “She’s wouldn’t!” The knob rattles in my hand but doesn’t turn. “Aunt Trish!”

Laughter roars out of Matthew. “Now I know why Nonna gets along with her so well.” Pulling a fake whistle away from his chest, he pretends to blow it. “Over to my place, Lawson.”

I yell at the door. “This totally counts as abuse!”
Rattle.
“Aunt Trish!”
Rattle.
“Come
on
!”
 

The only reply I get is a muffled, “You’re going to wake your mother up.”

I think I hear a “this will be good for you, too”, but I choose to ignore it.

“I’ve got to
admit,
I’ve never had this much trouble getting a girl over to my house before.” Matthew pulls a hurt face, and then smirks in my direction. “As for getting them to leave, that’s easier. Brothers.”

I have no choice but to concede.

Matthew preceding me, we make our way through four sloshy yards to a cement patio that is decidedly messier than ours. Dirt-caked boots rest next to a pile of bicycles and skateboards in varying sizes and states of deterioration. Discarded T-shirts and work rags hang lopsided, seven deep, over a bent, metal folding chair.

Shoved up against the side of the house on the cement slab, a laundry basket sits filled, not with clothes, but with balls. Which isn’t as dirty as it sounds, but saying balls does have a certain ring to it when it comes to a house full of boys.
So
many balls—
trying to keep a straight face here—
basketballs, footballs, soccer balls, golf balls, and marbled pink bouncy balls.

One of the pink balls has rolled into the grass, and I nudge it with my boot. “Yours?”

Matthew picks it up, tosses it from hand to hand, then places it next to his face. “Goes well with my eyes.”

“Among other things.”

“She’s funny, too,” he teases.

Dropping the ball, he pulls the back door open and waits for me to step through.

Walking into the Moretti house is like walking into a zoo. There is so much
noise.
I am instantly blasted by a train full of sounds: arguing, the television blasting, the
ping,ping,ping
of a game system, a washing machine spinning, a dog barking, and food sizzling—sausage by the smell of it.

“Ma!” Matthew shouts. “I brought company!”

His yell brings the entire house: a weary-looking Francesca Moretti, a scowling Christopher, a distracted Anthony, a stumbling toddler covered in grape popsicle, and a dog—breed unknown—in dire need of grooming.

One look at me, and the faces disappear as quickly as they emerged.

“Oh, it’s just you,” Christopher grumbles, ducking into the hall.

Anthony slinks away without uttering a word.

Mrs. Moretti immediately begins apologizing. “You’ll have to excuse the mess.” Stooping, she sweeps up a pile of dry cereal off of the floor into her palm. “I keep my granddaughter, and with the boys …well, I get one thing picked up and something else shows up in its place.”

“It’s okay.” My voice squeaks with nerves.

“There’s really no good way to transition into this,” Matthew says next to me, all smiles. “Just dive in and pray you don’t die.”

Matthew’s house—outside of the noise and chaos—isn’t much different from ours. Their kitchen is larger, the floors clean other than a trail of colorful cereal that disappears into the hall. A small hairball peeks out at me from beneath their table. I’m guessing from the dog. None of the appliances match. There’s a stainless steel stove, a black refrigerator, a red toaster, a white microwave, and a maroon coffee pot, a stack of Styrofoam cups shoved next to it.

The space has character.
Lots
of character.

“It’s good having you over, Reagan,” Mrs. Moretti says. “I’ve been meaning to get over to your house for a while now, but then
kids.
” She emphasizes the last word, and by the smile she throws me, I know she means it.

“We’re just going to go to my room,” Matthew tells her, leading me away.

She’s already distracted, sniffing the air, her attention caught by the sudden smell of burnt meat and a whimpering dog.