Authors: R. K. Ryals
The last time I did something like that with Gracie, we ended up drunk on her mother’s wine, dancing in our underwear in her front yard with cars honking at us from the road. Things like, “Work it!” “Hell, yeah!” and “Don’t you have any decency?” being yelled at us from open car windows.
I cringe. “No.”
“Reagan!”
“That’s date night for Aunt Trish and Uncle Bobby, remember?”
A sudden commotion at the end of the hall spares me the guilt trip I know is coming. The swelling chant, “Fight, fight, fight!” echoes along the walls.
Gracie rolls her eyes. “This school is full of barbarians.”
The voices escalate. A crowd forms, pushing forward like a wave.
Across the hall, Kagen Raddock stands surrounded by friends, his girlfriend, Vanessa Meyers, tucked under his arm. She laughs, nervous and amused.
“What are you doing, man?” Kagen calls, his voice rising above the mantra. “You’re only hurting yourself. I just don’t get it. She’s fucking mental.”
Like the other basketball players, Kagen is tall, his dirty blond hair short and spiked in places, messy on purpose. He’s broad, his skin pale where it flashes beneath his clothes. A spattering of freckles
line
his nose.
Opposite Kagen, his face hard, Matthew Moretti slams his locker door closed. “Shut up!”
Kagen raps his knuckles against the red metal. “You really want to chance the girl going psycho on you? Being friendly is good and all. Really. Super decent, bud. But next thing we know, you’ll be bringing her to the prom, and she’ll go all Carrie on our asses.”
I freeze, unease rushing through my system like liquid fire. There’s only one potential basket case at this school. They’re talking about me.
“What the hell?” Gracie breathes, glancing at me. “Do you know what’s going on?”
“I’m just saying,” Kagen continues, “it doesn’t do you any favors being friends with her.”
“Shut up,” Matthew warns, face darkening. His chin juts forward, the muscles in his jaw bulging. His gaze roams the hall.
I drop my head. I’m used to the whispers. He doesn’t deserve them. Not when he’s been nice to me, even if it is something his grandmother asked him to do.
This is what happens when adults play with teenagers’ lives. It turns perfectly reasonable, clichéd existences into an after school special.
Ancient Greece, Italy, India, Monaco …
I throw the names around in my head, trying to put myself there the way my mother does. It doesn’t work for me.
I’m stuck. Here. Now.
“She’s a—”
The rest of Kagen’s words are drowned out by the roar of the crowd. Teachers force their way through the chaos.
Through the shifting feet, I catch a glimpse of Kagen Raddock on the floor clutching his nose, blood oozing between the gaps in his fingers.
“Oh, shit!” Gracie blurts.
I’ve lost sight of Matthew.
“It’s her fault!” Vanessa Meyers screams, pointing at me.
Faculty members yell, parting the crowd like the Red Sea, the basketball coach inserting himself between Matthew and Kagen.
A red-faced Mr. Winks stomps down the corridor. “My office now!” Vanessa keeps yelling my name. The principal finds me leaning against the lockers. “You too, Ms. Lawson.”
“She didn’t do anything!” Gracie protests.
Matthew and Kagen walk by, silent and subdued, the basketball coach, Mark Crowley, hissing in Kagen’s ear before forcing Matthew to look at him.
With Matthew’s eyes on his face, Coach Crowley repeats himself.
Quietly, I follow, leaving the crowd and a fuming Gracie behind.
In the office, a long counter separates four red plastic chairs resting on hideous red-orange carpet from three desks. Three women man them, wide-eyed and curious.
Mr. Winks leads Kagen away first, guiding him around the counter, past the desks, and into a secluded office marked
principal
with a screwed in, faded gold plaque.
The school nurse enters from the hall, rushing past us to join Mr. Winks, her hands clutching a first aid kit and a cold compress.
Matthew sits, not looking at anyone.
Falling into the chair next to him, I nudge him, getting his attention. “What the hell was that?”
He pinches his lips together.
“You just made a fool out of me,” I scoff, eyes watering. He was defending me, I know that, but it never should have happened. “I don’t know why you’re doing this. Why you seem so determined to be friends with me … if it’s because of your grandmother or whatever, but this is ridiculous. Maybe you should stop.”
“I’m not doing it because of my nonna,” he growls, shushing me.
“Then why?” He hit a guy for God’s sake!
Matthew palms his face, lines marring his features. “I feel sorry for you.”
I fall off the end of the world. “What?”
“I know what it’s like, okay?” He glances up. “I know what it’s like trying to feel normal in a world that isn’t normal.”
Oh, no! He didn’t!
Standing, I glare, heart cracking. “You don’t know anything!”
Mrs. Morrison, our school’s attendance clerk, frowns at us. “Hey.”
Lowering my voice, I repeat, “You don’t know anything.”
Matthew scowls. “Stab a man when he’s down, why don’t you?”
“You did it to yourself. You want to help me, fine, but hitting Kagen because he called me things he’s called me before isn’t helping. I don’t want you to feel sorry for me.”
Feeling sorry is the
last
thing I want him to feel for me.
“I figured being friends would help you,” he confesses.
“What? Like my social status? You’re kidding me, right?”
“It could have helped,” he defends.
“Maybe,” I admit. “Except, aren’t you the one that said people don’t like me because I’m crabby?” I see the sudden dirty joke lurking on his face and quickly counter with, “You know what I mean!”
So, I’ve owned up to it. He’s right. I’m not all that nice to people. If I was friendlier, then him being nice to me might not have turned out so sour. Instead, it went to hell. Fast. Two days including me in his existence, and he’s punched a guy.
Says a lot about all of us, not just me. We stare at the hideous carpet.
“We’ve lived on the same street for a long time,” he reminds me. “People are allowed to feel sorry for other people. You don’t have to like it.”
I make damn sure he can see my lips. “Yeah, well, it’s pretty much impossible to build a friendship on pity. My life isn’t terrible, and I’m not going crazy.”
“I know that.”
“Then why do you feel sorry for me?”
“Because you feel sorry for yourself.”
“I don’t—”
“Yeah, you do. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t have looked so scared when I mentioned stopping by your house in the gym yesterday. You’re embarrassed.”
I know what he’s implying, and it makes me die a little inside. “I’m not ashamed of my mother!”
Face hard, he stares me down. “Prove it.”
“Damn you!”
An unexpected laugh slips from his lips, the sound so out of place, it silences me.
“I get that a lot at home,” he reveals, chuckling.
I’m not surprised.
Amused and loathed to admit it, I sit. “If you’re this forthright at home, I can see why.”
“They still love me.”
“They’re family. They kind of have to. It’s like some unwritten rule.”
He grabs his chest, all mock hurt. “That blade of yours is sharp.”
We fall silent, me sneaking glances at him. For the life of me, I can’t figure him out.
Time eats the world.
The door to the back office opens, an apologetic Kagen—a cold compress clasped to his nose—lumbering out ahead of Mr. Winks.
The principal crooks a finger at Matthew, and he stands.
I stand with him, touching his arm. “Okay … my house. Tonight.”
My words catch him off guard. “What?”
“You wanted me to prove it, right? I’ll do it. Tonight.”
Before he has a chance to speak, Mr. Winks calls out to him, and I’m left sitting alone, confused and scared.
SEVEN
My mother’s world
Egypt
MOM DUCKS, PEEKS under her bed, and hisses, “It’s here! The entrance is under here!”
We’re on an excursion in Egypt, searching for tombs full of ancient artifacts. Usually, her excitement grabs me, drawing me into her fantasy. Not tonight. Tonight, I’m too nervous.
“Keep looking, Mom,” I tell her. “I’ll get flashlights.”
She starts to protest, but I don’t give her time to object.
For the umpteenth time, I leave the room to stand at the top of the stairs, my gaze on the front door below.
Aunt Trish appears, drying a dish from dinner. “You keep doing that, and I’m going to assume you’re planning something terrible. I’m hiding all of the knives.”
I cringe. “I’ve had Gracie over too much.”
“She’s an odd bird,” Trish concedes, her gaze flicking to the door. “What’s up, Reagan?”
It’s half past seven, and Matthew still hasn’t shown. Disappointment crushes me, which is wrong.
All
of this is wrong.
“Just checking. I heard it was supposed to rain tonight, and you know how Mom—”
“There’s no rain in the forecast.”
Frustrated, I scowl. “It’s nothing.” Jogging down to the main floor, I pull two flashlights from the hutch in the foyer. “We’re searching pyramids. In Egypt.”
“Watch out for that. Mummies’ curses and all that.”
On my way back up the stairs, there’s a knock on the door.
Time stops.
Aunt Trish peers up at me. “Expecting—”
“I’ve got it!”
She beats me to the door, cradling the dish while yanking it open. Matthew stands on the other side, hair damp despite the cold, his hands shoved into his jacket pockets.
“Matthew! Fancy seeing you here!” my aunt exclaims, throwing me not so conspicuous glances, her grin the size of Louisiana.
I plant myself behind her, and he straightens, eyes fixed on me. “Sorry, I had practice and it ran late. You didn’t give me a chance to tell you that earlier.”
“It’s fine,” I reply.
Awkward silence stretches, and Aunt Trish exhales. “Come on in,” she insists, opening the door wider. “You here for school?” The curiosity is killing her.
Our discomforted silence has Aunt Trish glancing at me, and all at once, her grin turns super cheesy. “Or is this a date?”
“What?” I cry, horrified. “No!”
At my vehemence, Matthew’s face lights up, his eyes wicked. “She’s in denial.”
I gape at him. “He’s here to see Mom,” I state firmly.
Trish pauses, her shocked gaze bouncing between us. I’ve never invited anyone over to see Mom. Except once, and that was a disaster of epic proportions. For me and for her. Actually, other than Gracie—who comes to see me, not my mother—I’ve never invited anyone over period. Not since then. But Matthew’s challenge burns. I need to prove
to myself
that I’m not ashamed of my mother.
Aunt Trish backs toward the kitchen. “So, you’ve warned him—”
“It’s fine.”
She stares at me long and hard before retreating.
Matthew hesitates. “If this is a bad time—”
“It’s your challenge.” Motioning at the stairs, I hand him a flashlight. “We’re visiting Egypt today. It’s kind of what Mom does. She likes to travel, so we see the world
her
way.”
Matthew grips the light, his intent gaze on my face. “I won’t be intruding?”
“Beginning to doubt yourself already? You can back out if you want.” I don’t actually know how Mom will receive Matthew, if she will accept him or flip out, but I don’t tell him that.
His jaw visibly relaxes. “No, I’m here.”
Reaching Mom’s room, I walk in, head high. “Got the flashlights!”
She’s kneeling on the floor, a black crayon in her hand, doodling hieroglyphics from a book onto the wall. “Just in time!” Glancing up, she freezes when she catches sight of Matthew.
I avoid looking behind me because I’m too afraid of what I’ll find. He’s seeing Mom’s room for the first time, and it’s a daunting sight. Crayon doodles litter the wall, maps are taped up everywhere, globes rest on the carpet, brochures and books flood the space, the Travel Channel plays on mute, and the cardboard passports stare up at us from the desk. The television’s flashing glow casts the room in an eerie light, making it seem even more surreal and strange.
Mom grins. “You brought help!” Standing, she opens her arms. “Welcome! You came all the way from Italy?”
She remembers him.
Matthew steps up beside me, so tall he makes me dizzy. “It was a long flight, so it took me a while.”
His reply is perfect.
Delighted by his response, Mom claps. “I like him!” Rushing to us, she drags us forward by the arms. “We have to be careful! It’s night and getting cold, so stay close. The stars are watching us like diamonds waiting to fall from heaven. The world has stopped breathing, anticipating. We’re not supposed to be near the tombs, but we are.” She tugs us down toward the floor, and we kneel, Matthew’s large frame making the room feel far too small. “See that? It’s the entrance to a tomb, part of an archaeological dig site that has shut down for the night. We’re trespassing.” She throws us a smile full of mischief.
Matthew gestures at the wall, at the hieroglyphics. “What does that say?”
“It’s a warning to all those who enter. Death to those who wake the dead.”
“That’s reassuring,” he mumbles.
“Scared?” I tease.
Squinting, Mom sweeps her hands over the carpet. “See this? The notches? We follow these!” Glancing up, she sniffs. “The air has changed. It’s musty, and the light is gone. We need a torch.”
My mother has a narrator’s voice—beautiful, sweeping, and full of intrigue.
I hand her my flashlight, and she holds it up, as if the glare is a flame lighting the way. “Watch for traps,” she warns.
She inches forward, and we move with her, slowly.
“I can almost see it,” Matthew whispers, impressed.
His voice washes over me, squeezing my heart. “She has a way of painting images with her words.”
The room is dim, and I’m not sure he hears me, but what he said stirs something inside of me I’m not used to feeling: pride.
Reaching her bed, Mom peers beneath it and cries, “This is it! The tomb!” She gestures at Matthew. “Come look!”
I know what’s hiding there, but he doesn’t.
Aiming his flashlight, he bends, shines it under the bed, and then rears back. “Holy shi—”
Pouncing, I throw my hand over his mouth and fight hard not to laugh, my heart pounding. “Mom doesn’t like cursing.”
The feel of his lips against my palm sends electric shocks through my system, the sensation pleasant and unpleasant. It’s unsettling.
We tumble, his arm circling my waist, his face too close to mine.
Shaking my hand loose, he mutters, “There’s a miniature coffin under there! And spiders.”
“It’s paper,” I whisper, smiling. “An origami sarcophagus and spiders. I made them last year for Halloween.”
“He saved you!” Mom declares, ecstatic. “He rolled you away from the trap, from the collapsing ceiling! What a hero!”
She lowers the flashlight, the beam lighting up her face.
Matthew’s grip on me tightens, his amused gaze traveling over my face. He’s
so
close I can smell the soap he washed off with after practice. “Collapsing ceiling?” he breathes, so low only I can hear. “Wow, I’m going to have to step up my game.”
The fingers he has pressed against my waistline shift, the movement jolting me. My skin is suddenly too sensitive, painful and sweet all at once, and I gasp, breath hitching.
Matthew’s expression alters at the sound, becoming dark and rapt, his head lowering, his eyes fixed on my mouth. My lips throb.
“A hero!” Mom cries again, happy.
Matthew freezes, visibly collecting himself. “The pleasure was mine, Mrs. Lawson,” he says aloud, offering me a stunned half-smile.
It’s the right thing to say, and suddenly I’m there inside the fantasy. All of it. Surrounded by a dark, dangerous pyramid wrapped in the arms of a handsome stranger who’s saved me from death. My mother’s world has never been so tempting, and it’s scary how much I want it to be real.
Squirming, I break free of his embrace, pulse racing. “Thank you,” I murmur, because I’m supposed to be playing a game. My words hang there—fantasy because it’s what my mother expects me to say, reality because I mean it.
“Is your heart light?” Mom asks unexpectedly, her hawk-eyed gaze pinning Matthew.
I nudge him, and he startles, his eyes finally leaving me to find her face.
“Ma’am?”
Her head tilts. “Is your heart light?”
“Light?”
Lowering a hand between us, she passes it from my chest to his, not quite touching. “In order to pass into the afterlife, your heart has to be light. The better you are and the better deeds you do, the lighter your heart. After death, your heart is weighed. You want it to be light, so that when your soul splits in two, the part the Egyptians call the Ba will fly off to watch over your family and the other half, the Ka, will fly off to enjoy the Land of Two Fields.” She nods at him. “Is your heart light?”
He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing, his gaze flicking between us, troubled. “I don’t know,” he answers finally.
“I think it is,” Mom insists, too sure.
Releasing a content sigh, she slinks away and climbs onto her bed.
I know by the way she settles against the wall she’s coming off the high she gets during her ‘travels’.
“Tired, Mom?” I ask.