Matt's Story

by Lauren Gibaldi

  “Hey, Matt,” Chris says when he sees me, and I kind of wave, kind of nod, feeling the first bubbles of anticipation. “How’s my lil’ bro doing?”

  “Okay.” I shrug. Chris looks exactly the same as he did last week, only lighter. And happier. “How’s it feel to be home?”

  “Amazing. Especially when it includes Mom’s cooking,” he says, putting his arm around her. She leans on him, her head only reaching his shoulders, and grins this crazy huge smile, and it hurts to see her so proud after all he’s done to us. But he’s my brother, so I walk over to give him a hug. When I’m about to grab him, he tackles me and puts me in a headlock, yelling, “I’M HOME, MATTY PANTS!”

  “I thought we agreed to never use that name again,” I choke out. He lets go and tousles my hair, so I punch him in the shoulder.

  “Matt-a-roni and cheese?”

  “I hate you.” I grin. It was always his obsession, making the worst nicknames for me possible.

  “My boys,” Mom says, and we both give her a look, and okay, I can see the resemblance again. And it feels not awful to have him around. Like, things are kind of right, or at least as right as they can be.

  “Where’s Dad?” Chris asks, and I stifle a laugh. Like he’d be home for this.

  “He’s still at work—he’ll be home soon,” Mom says, not quite looking at us, and I know Chris is disappointed, but really, he should know not to expect more. I mean, of course Dad would miss the day his son gets out of rehab. He’s hardly been around since we got back, and was against us coming here in the first place. His job is the most important thing to him, a fact we’ve learned over and over again by the numerous moves, all my gigs he’s missed, the lack of knowledge about anything going on in any of our lives.

  “Of course. I’m gonna call Delilah and let her know I’m home,” Chris says excitedly, heading toward his new room, and I’m left alone in the hall with Mom. I awkwardly shuffle and head back to my room, thinking about Chris and Delilah. He still has her, despite everything. And I had to give up my girlfriend for him. And . . . that just sucks.

  I flop on my bed and a few minutes later there’s a knock on my door.

  “Hi, honey,” my mom says, poking her head into my room.

  “Hey, Mom,” I say, resting my head on my hands and staring up at the ceiling, watching the fan blades go around and around.

  “How was school?” she asks, leaning one hand against the doorframe, and the other on her hip.

  “Fine,” I say, not really wanting to talk, especially as I hear Chris mumbling across the hall.

  “Have any homework?”

  “Some. An essay.”

  “Talkative today, aren’t we?”

  “You know me.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Ha,” I say, sitting up and leaning against the wall.

  “Matt, honey,” she says, slowly coming into my room and shutting the door behind her. “I know it’s been hard on you. . . .”

  “Seriously, it’s cool,” I say again, finding a guitar pick on my comforter and tossing it around my fingers to give me something to look at that isn’t her worried face.

  “Hey, your spring break is coming up soon. Why don’t you go visit your friends in Orlando? I haven’t heard you talk about them in a while,” she suggests, and those words hurt me more than she knows.

  “Nah, I should stay here and catch up on things . . . ,” I say, but of course that’s not really the reason. I just can’t take all that out on her. The thing is, my life there is over. I’m here now.

  “Honey . . .”

  “I’m fine. I’ll be out for dinner in a bit, okay?” I say, walking over to my desk and sitting down.

  “Okay,” she says, shuffling again. “If you want to talk . . .”

  “Mom.”

  “Okay, okay,” she says, and I wait until I hear the door shut before opening my laptop. I go to my email. I still have her address memorized.

  To: Ella

  From: Matt

  Subject: I’m sorry

  Hey, it’s me. I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to

  No. I can’t. I can’t open communication back up like this. But I need to do something. I need to say that it’s over without saying it’s over. I can’t actually type those words because it would kill me. But she needs to move on, and I need to make that happen.

  An idea hits me, and I run to my closet. Under the discarded shirts, I grab the box of notes I randomly picked up off the ground and search through it, looking for the paper. I’ll know it when I see it. This is a habit I’ve had for years—finding notes on the ground that people left behind and collecting them to, I don’t know, live through their words or something. It made me feel involved before—before I met Ella and really was involved and didn’t want to live through notes and memories. Now it’s just out of habit. Now I don’t even care what I pick up.

  But there it is. Still folded intricately, just as it was when I found it behind the school a few days ago.

  B—I’m sorry about everything. I still care, but I can’t do it anymore. It’s over. —L

  They’re not my words, but they are words. She’ll understand. She has to.

  I run out of my room and into my parents’ office. I grab an envelope, address it, and stuff the paper inside. No return address. I open the drawer for a stamp, and affix it.

  Before I can rethink this, I run outside and down the street. I pass the houses on both sides, and people coming home from school and work, ready to start their nights, right as I’m about to end a significant part of my life. I cross over to the street behind us, and wait at the light. When the bell rings for me to cross, I run into the post office parking lot. I throw the envelope into the blue mailbox and close the door with a satisfying thunk.

  There. It’s in. No turning back now.

  CHAPTER 3

  A few days later, Ella unfriends me on Facebook.

  I put the past behind me. I’m here now. I have to start living again.

  So in class I try to pay attention. I write down a few notes that look more like gibberish. There’s a cosine! There’s a ratio! They go together . . . somehow.

  When the bell rings, I see Cindy get up and walk outside. She’s wearing a dress that reminds me of one Ella had—blue and wavy—and I find myself following her out.

  “Cindy,” I say without thinking.

  She turns around and smiles. “Hey, Matt.”

  “Hey,” I say. What am I doing? “I was wondering . . . if the invitation was still open to study?”

  “Of course!” she says excitedly, and I can’t help but smile a little bit. She actually wants to hang out with me. I didn’t realize it, but it’s nice to be seen.

  “Cool. Yeah, I was thinking I could use some help. . . .”

  “You took notes today, at least,” she says, shuffling her books from one arm to the other.

  “Tried.” I shrug.

  “Well, that’s step one. Want to meet up after school at the bookshop across the street?” she asks, and she has a bit of a southern accent that’s more pronounced when she says things like “street.”

  “Yeah, sure, sounds good,” I say, and I pause, then blurt out, “I have a girlfriend.”

  Her eyebrows go up in surprise, and I mentally beat myself up for saying that. I mean, I don’t want her to think this is anything more than just studying, but why would I even say that? Her eyebrows smooth out and a smile comes back to her lips.

  “Well, good. So do I,” she says with a wink, then turns and leaves.

  School ends and I’m still not sure if I want to go, but I find myself outside the bookstore anyway. I take a deep breath, my heart pounding as if I’m on a date, and walk in. I don’t see Cindy, so I put my books down on a table in the café, where a bunch of people are sitting and talking over coffee. There’s an indie band’s album playing that sounds familiar, but I can’t place it. I start twisting my watch around my wrist, forming a circle with each rotation, calm
ing my nerves.

  “Hey,” a voice says. I turn around and see a cartoonish dog staring at me, and it takes me a second to realize it’s Cindy’s bag. “Hope you don’t mind, but I brought Kat,” she says, gesturing to a girl behind her. She’s tall, wearing tight jeans and a long cardigan. She has short, cropped hair, and a curious smile. “Kat, my girlfriend,” Cindy repeats, and I must make a look of recognition because the two of them laugh.

  “Hi. Sorry,” I say, standing up. “I’m Matt.” The girls sit down opposite me, and I can’t help but laugh. “I thought you were kidding.” This could be okay after all. It might be nice to talk.

  “I thought you would, which is why I brought her. You were so ‘I have a girlfriend’ that I didn’t want you to feel awkward,” Cindy explains, sitting closer to Kat. She touches Kat’s hand gently with her pinkie.

  “Speaking of, where’s this alleged girlfriend?” Kat asks, and I go blank. “Is she coming?”

  “Oh,” I say, twisting my watch again. “Um.”

  “Stop, he’s uncomfortable,” Cindy says, nudging Kat playfully. “It’s okay, we were just curious. I’ve never seen you with anyone around school, so . . . I mean, not that I noticed, it’s just . . .”

  “It’s cool,” I say. I can’t admit that I lied earlier . . . I’d look stupid pathetic. So . . . I guess I’ll go along with it. Because that’s not painful or anything. “Um, she lives in Orlando.”

  “Oh! Long distance! How’s that working?” Cindy asks.

  “Um, fine, yeah,” I say, trying to stay afloat.

  “Which means not fine,” Kat says, and I hate that she’s putting me on the spot like this.

  “It’s fine, really,” I say, decisively.

  “It’s okay, don’t listen to her.” Cindy smiles, and I try to in return. “So you just moved here, right?”

  “A couple months ago, yeah,” I say.

  “From Orlando?” Kat asks, bringing that back up again.

  “Yeah.”

  “Why’d you move?” Cindy asks. “I mean, that kind of sucks. Senior year and all. You are a senior, right? I mean, you’re in my class, so I assumed. . . .”

  “Yeah, no, I am. A senior, that is,” I say, answering that part. “Why do I feel like I’m playing twenty questions?” I laugh nervously and avoid the other part of her question.

  “We like playing twenty questions. So why’d you move?” Kat asks.

  “Um, family stuff,” I answer, looking around at anything but her. I don’t want to bring it up, not now. “Maybe we should look at some math?” I mumble.

  “You’re very vague,” Kat says, ignoring me, “about moving and about this girlfriend.” And I scowl, turning in to myself. The overhead music suddenly feels louder, like it’s engulfing me with melodies. “Give us something to work with.”

  “I don’t know,” I say, scratching my head, because I don’t want to talk about me and my past. That’s why I’m here. That was the point of hanging out. I just want to move forward. “I’m just me. What about you? What’s your story?”

  “Nuh-uh,” Kat says. “You first.”

  “Kat,” Cindy says, leaning into her, but I’m not listening. I’m being drowned out by sound, and then I realize how I know the band playing. Ella put their album on my iPod right after we met.

  I remember when Ella started going through my music and telling me what was crap and what wasn’t. She did it in the cutest way, approving my love of the Clash but banishing the Drake I might have downloaded because I liked the beats. That day I sat on the chair behind her, and pulled her onto my lap.

  “So what should I be listening to?” I asked her.

  “Me,” she said before kissing me.

  I fade back into the conversation happening in front of me and irrationally get angry. At the memory. At myself. At them, asking me to open up. “Actually, things aren’t good with the girl in Orlando, and we moved here because my brother was in jail, okay?”

  “Oh,” Cindy says, leaning forward toward me, but it’s too close, too soon, and her sympathy isn’t enough. “Oh, Matt, we didn’t realize . . .”

  “You know what, I should go,” I say, standing up and trying to sound reasonably sane and calm.

  “No, wait, Matt. We’re sorry . . . ,” Cindy starts, but stops, seeing my face.

  “No, it’s okay. It’s just . . . I forgot about some stuff, and I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say, grabbing my books and heading out. I jump into my car and drive home, refusing to put the radio on.

  CHAPTER 4

  After class the next day, Cindy pulls me to the side.

  “Hey, are you okay?” she asks, today wearing a dress with horses on it. Her hair is back in a headband, and she kind of looks like she’s from the 1950s.

  “Fine,” I automatically answer.

  “No, you said fine yesterday, but you were clearly not fine. You freaked out on us.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m just . . . going through some things,” I say, scratching my head, and hoping that says enough.

  She presses her lips together and stares at me. “I know, you told us. And again, I’m really sorry. About your brother . . . is everything okay?”

  I sigh, because I don’t want to talk about this, but I should answer. “Yeah, right now, he’s home and okay.”

  “Good,” she says, nodding. “And your girlfriend . . .”

  “Yeah . . .”

  “Are you fighting?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Is the distance a problem? Because that can be a problem, from what I hear.”

  “It’s more complicated than that,” I say, hoping that’ll give her the answer she wants so we can move on.

  She cocks her head and stares at me. No, through me. “This girlfriend . . . she’s not a girlfriend anymore, is she?”

  I open my mouth, then close it and just nod in response, because I’d rather not admit it.

  “And you’re not happy about it.”

  “Yeah . . . look, do we need to talk about this n—”

  “So why don’t you get her back?” she asks, putting her hands on her hips.

  “What? It’s not that simple,” I say, backing up so I’m leaning against the wall. I need to rest on something, let something else hold me up.

  “But it could be,” she says. “Meet me after school in the bookstore.”

  “No, I don’t think—”

  “Matt,” she says, stopping my protest. “Just do it.”

  “Why?” I ask. “I don’t mean to be rude, but seriously, why? After yesterday. After everything.”

  “Because you can’t keep sitting alone in class,” she says, decisively. “Besides, we all go a little crazy when we’re in love.”

  This time Cindy and Kat are the first ones at the bookshop, watching me as I walk in and take my seat across from them. I feel like I’m being judged, like I’m on trial.

  “Hi again,” Kat says, and I try to smile at her. Cindy stares at her, and Kat rolls her eyes. “I’m sorry I was so . . . candid yesterday. I’m a bit overbearing sometimes. Some people like that about me.”

  “They do. But not around new people who might get scared,” Cindy says, and I nod. This is kind of weird.

  “Listen,” Kat continues. “Cindy said you seemed like a cool guy, and when I saw you, you had this . . . like . . . puppy-dog look on your face, like you were begging for someone to just talk to you, and that’s probably why she invited you out, because she likes to take in strays. And that’s what I love about her. But I just . . . I wanted to see why you were a puppy dog, if you were just emo and needed to get the shit kicked out of you, or if something happened that turned you that way.”

  “Whoa,” I say.

  “Told you, candid.” She shrugs, and I look at Cindy, who further explains what’s going on.

  “Once she stared down a waiter until he gave her the chips she wanted.”

  “They had this gross lime flavor, and I just wanted plain ones!” Kat protests.

  “Th
ey were delicious and you know it!” Cindy says, staring at Kat until Kat laughs softly. “She’s actually a big ol’ baby, and this whole thing is an act.”

  “I hate you,” Kat says, shaking her head.

  “I’m learning so much,” I say.

  “He jokes!” Kat exclaims, and I can’t help but smile.

  Cindy twists her hands and explains. “Last time we invited someone to hang out with us, they kind of went psycho. Like, telling-the-whole-school-that-we’re”—she gestures toward the two of them—“together psycho. So, Kat’s a bit . . . cautious about the people we hang out with now. But I told her you were different.”

  “Like, not stab-us-in-the-back different. She said you needed a friend,” Kat continues, and I bob my eyes back and forth between them. They really have this whole duet thing down.

  “And I thought we could be just that!” Cindy concludes excitedly.

  “You kind of make me sound like a charity case,” I say, scratching the back of my neck in contemplation.

  “I mean, you kind of are,” Kat says, and Cindy playfully hits her.

  “You’re not, I just felt bad that you were always alone. And it’s not like we have many other friends to hang out with. . . .”

  “We have plenty of friends,” Kat says, to Cindy.

  “Who all left us when they found out about us. So, no, we don’t. Matt, you won’t leave us, now that you know about us, will you?” Cindy turns to me and I feel like a bright beam is shining down on me. God, they’re intimidating.

  “Um, no.”

  “See, told you he was cool,” she says, back to Kat.

  “Should I be here?” I ask, confused, and they both smile, like, genuinely smile at me, and I think that’s the first time I’ve gotten a smile without sympathy since . . . moving.

  “Sorry, sorry,” Cindy apologizes, again. “We can be a bit much.”

  “And we’re sorry about the brother thing. That really sucks,” Kat says and I nod, because what else is there to do? “And the girlfriend thing.”

  “Yeah,” I say, looking at them. “Um, thanks. For inviting me out. And thinking I’m cool, I guess. I don’t . . . mean to be awkward, I’m just going through a lot. So I’ve been keeping to myself, mostly.”