by Lisa Loomis
Every day we skied, and at night we would rotate whose condo was hosting dinner. I skied with a group of girls all week. At night, I couldn't avoid seeing Mathew. We exchanged the usual pleasantries: hello, goodbye, how was skiing, but that was it. Mathew and Bobby skied together and hung out at night as I expected. No doubt drinking or smoking pot.
The hot tub was outside and under the stars at the back edge of the complex, and it became a nightly ritual for most of us teens. It gave us a place to hang out and talk, and it helped our sore muscles.
“Oh, did you see that!?” I exclaimed as I jerked upright to watch a shooting star blaze across the sky.
Mathew flashed into my head as I looked at the moon. Little green men I smiled to myself. I settled back against the wooden edge of the tub and absorbed the smell of chlorine mixed with the scent of moist wood as steam from the water rose into the still, cold air. When it was just the girls, we talked shit about boys. When the boys were around, we talked about everything but boys. Seems we spent a lot of time on things we couldn’t change, like rules and parents.
Mid-week, I ran into Mathew at the lodge while we were getting lunch. I was on my way back to the table with a tray of food, and he approached me.
“Why are you avoiding me?” he asked.
“I’m not avoiding you,” I said with a chuckle. “Isn’t it the other way around?”
“Really?” he questioned.
“Yes, really. And what makes you so self-important that I would make any effort to avoid you?” I asked, feeling the fight.
He cocked his head and smiled in the way he always did when he was really questioning me. I could feel the anger rising in me.
“You’re right,” he said finally and walked away.
I watched as he made his way to where Bobby was sitting. Bobby caught my eye. He said something to Mathew, and Mathew turned to look at me. I turned away and proceeded with my tray back to the girls. Mathew and Bobby were advanced skiers, and even if I had been invited, I couldn’t have kept up with them or wanted to. Why was I so angry? I had promised myself: no caring. I took a deep breath and thought get over it.
That night when I was in the hot tub with Melanie and Sheryl, Mathew and Bobby showed up. Again, I had an unexpected flash of anger. What the hell? Why hadn’t I gotten a better handle on my emotions? Although anger was better than longing I supposed.
“How’s it going?” Mathew addressed me while he lowered himself into the hot tub next to me.
“Fine,” I answered, not looking directly at him.
I had found if I didn’t look into his eyes I had a better chance of not letting my emotions rule. I fell silent while conversation continued around me. I watched the steam rise, and I wanted to vanish into the air with it. When I finally looked at Mathew, he smiled, his kind smile, and some of my irritation subsided. I tried to pinpoint the reason for my feelings. He hadn’t done anything to me except not include me.
Maybe I was a moody teen like my mom often called me. Maybe it was the memory of the beach. Maybe it was Mathew’s ability to get to me when I swore he couldn’t. As I was talking myself through it in my head, Mathew put his hand on my thigh and gave me a squeeze. Screw you I thought don’t give him a reaction. I cautiously scanned the others in the tub to see if anyone had noticed. It appeared not.
It was dark outside, and we were up to our necks in water. I could feel my skin get hot where his hand rested. What? The thought screamed in my head. What is he doing? What is his point? He let his hand linger. Then he rubbed up my thigh, coming very close to my crotch, and I had to concentrate hard not to react. What I had previously felt as a tingling suddenly felt like a fire between my legs. I could feel some of the emotions and feelings for him come rushing back, swelling up into my chest; flooding me like water.
“So skiing was good today?” he asked, leaning forward moving into my sight.
His hand? Why was his hand on my leg? I looked into his blue eyes, searching. It was as if he had spoken a foreign language. I knew the words, but they weren’t registering. I stared at him, my body giving way to all my strong thoughts. As I sat there, mute, Melanie finally answered for me.
“Yeah, we had a great day.”
I had to leave. No amount of searching his face was going to give me an answer. I had to distance myself from him, before I slapped him or kissed him. And I knew both were a bad idea.
“Gotta go,” I said, taking his hand and slowly pushing it away, not wanting to call attention to us.
I pushed myself up out of the hot tub—I could tell he was watching me. I quickly wrapped my towel around me, and slipped my wet feet into my shoes, not stopping to dry them.
“What’s the hurry?” Mathew asked.
“No hurry. I’ve had enough hot tub,” I babbled. “See you tomorrow.”
I headed toward the condo, and Melanie and Sheryl quickly caught up to me.
“What’s wrong?” Melanie asked.
“Nothing, I think I’m just tired.”
“Is it Mathew?”
“No,” I answered tersely.
“It has nothing to do with Mathew,” I lied.
Chapter 13
The O’Conner’s house in Almaden was getting closer to completion, and Mathew was voicing his frustration about not wanting to move.
“I hate this, Morgan. I hate leaving my friends, my school, the band, everything. My parents want me to be excited, but I can’t be. The house is great. I just don’t want to move.”
“Mathew, you'll make new friends, and you'll like Bret Harte. It’s a cool school,” I reassured him.
“Right,” he said, sounding somewhat defeated.
“I can help you meet people,” I said, trying to make it better.
“Morgan, I know you’re trying to help, but don’t, okay?”
“Okay,” I said with a shrug.
He would not be convinced by me or anyone else. He resented his parent’s excitement. He withdrew from them, and in turn, from family activities. He spent more time in his room playing guitar, his way of taking himself to another place. They moved into their new house in March, and it was a showcase. Ann decorated it in the most up-to-date, cutting-edge style. The floor plan was very open, and she had used top-of-the-line everything from flooring to appliances.
The living area had lime green carpet with all white-on-white furniture and a mini-bar, things my parents couldn’t even dream of. Both the living area and family room opened to a beautiful deck with a pool and hot tub. I liked design, and to me, this house was everything someone could want. It was shaped like a wide horseshoe: the master bedroom on one end with all the kids' rooms on the other end. Mathew’s large room overlooked the valley views; heck, all the rooms were large. It was like they had gone from normal like us, to rich, and I envied Mathew; on top of all my other feelings about him.
“New queen bed. That’s nice,” I said, pushing on his new mattress.
I glanced over to where he sat at the built-in desk underneath the window. I couldn’t image anyone not being happy to live here. He watched me as I looked around his room, admiring it.
“Big closet,” I said, opening it.
He seemed amused I was so pleased over their new house. We had stopped by the Saturday before they were to start in their respective new schools, and while Sara and Sam seemed nervous but excited, Mathew didn’t seem either.
“Let’s go out back,” he said, getting up.
I followed him through the house into the backyard, around the pool deck and down the stairs. He sat down on the last one; I sat next to him and wrapped my sweater tighter around me against the cooler air.
“I dread Monday,” he moaned.
He visibly slumped forward and I could sense his unhappiness. I wanted to snuggle into him and make it all right.
“You’ll be fine. I’ll introduce you around, and everyone will like you,” I said, knowing he didn’t want to hear it.
“I feel like nothing will ever be the same.”
“It won’t, but you’ll adjust. You can keep in touch with your friends like you do with Bobby.”
He shrugged his shoulders. I knew he was feeling really down and I felt helpless. We sat and looked out at the view for a long while in silence, as I tried to support his depression. I pulled my knees up to my chest and wrapped my arms around them.
“Cold?” he asked.
“A little,” I answered.
He rubbed my back quickly in an attempt to warm me.
“Come on, we can go back to my room,” he said, tugging at my arm as he stood up.
Back in his room I sat down on the end of his bed. He picked up his guitar, flopped down next to me, and started plucking chords. He would play a small piece, then quit, and start something else. I could tell he wasn’t concentrating, playing fragments, like he was distracted. I watched him, wondering how I could be important to him for a change, a sort of lifeline to a new world. I imagined him walking with me in the halls, and me introducing him to friends. I saw the girls wondering who the good-looking guy was with me.
What I failed to visualize was how quickly Mathew would fit in. Mathew didn’t need my help—or anyone else’s. He was instantly popular. His looks and his overly confident, almost cocky, demeanor attracted people like flies. The girls I’d imagined being envious of my friendship status with him were not shy in the least to introduce themselves. They not only were forward, they couldn’t stop talking about him.
“He’s so cute,” Gayle mimicked.
She was sick of hearing it too. I pushed on the door to the girls’ bathroom, and she followed me in.
“Gayle, don’t,” I said, feeling like a lovesick dog, my heart aching.
She took my arm and gave me a squeeze.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean anything.”
“I know. Gayle, this isn’t how I imagined it. Why was I so fucking stupid to think I would be important to him?” I asked, not expecting an answer.
“I’m sure you are important to him. Morgan, he’s a good-looking guy. He has all these girls fawning over him. He’s the most popular guy in school right now. He’s new. They don’t know him the way you do.”
My stomach twisted into a knot and then did a back flip.
“Wow, Gayle, that makes me feel so much better,” I said sarcastically. “I’m his friend, goody, goody.”
Then it hit me. My throat suddenly constricted and I found it hard to breath.
“Oh god, now I’m going to have to watch. This being his friend shit is going to suck.”
I leaned against the sink and looked in the mirror, feeling like I might just vomit. My blue eyes stared back at me as I pushed my hair back.
“Am I pretty, Gayle?”
“You know you are.”
“No, I don’t. Why doesn’t he think so?” I asked, inspecting my face further.
I wondered how adults claimed I was pretty when I felt like the ugly duckling.
“Because he’s a stupid boy, just like the rest of them,” Gayle said.
I turned as the door swung open, and three girls came in giggling. Gayle and I were silent as they chatted; two of them using the facilities while one checked her makeup in the mirror next to me.
“So who do you think will get him first?” one of the girls asked from inside the stall.
“Who knows, but whoever it is will be lucky. He’s so amazing,” the one standing next to me said as she put more mascara on while she talked over the stall.
I looked at Gayle.
“What’s his name again?” the other one asked.
I looked back at the girl at the mirror who now was putting on lip-gloss.
“Mathew O’Something,” the other answered, exiting the stall.
I could feel my pulse in my neck, it felt like it would pound right through my skin. I waited until the girls left. I turned and looked into Gayle’s eyes and I could see the sympathy.
“Here we go,” I said bitterly. “Just imagine how many girls are having that same conversation.”
“Morgan, don’t do this to yourself,” Gayle said, taking my hands gently, reassuringly.
“I know,” I said, leaning my head back and taking a deep breath, “I know.”
I felt like he had been stolen from me. He’d easily been accepted by many of the groups who weren’t so accepting of me. Within a week’s time, I had lost Mathew to people I couldn’t keep up with, and in many cases, didn’t want to. I was seeing firsthand what I had only imagined was the case when we talked so many times together. I was seeing the Debbies, one of the girls he’d talked about on the beach, who were falling over themselves to be around him. I was shocked at how he transformed and fit in so seamlessly. Where was the downtrodden boy who hadn’t wanted to go to a new school? Hadn’t wanted to meet new friends? I suppose, for Mathew, it made the leaving of his old school easier. For me, it was my worst nightmare.
We were at the O’Conner’s new house a lot the first few weeks after they moved in. Partly because my dad was traveling, and partly because my mom was helping Ann unpack and get settled in. Brad worked late a lot and being over there seemed to work for everyone but me. My feelings for Mathew had returned with a vengeance. I became almost desperate to let him know, but I didn’t know how. I chastised myself and then encouraged myself, all the time afraid of my feelings. I didn’t want to assume he didn’t have some of those same feelings for me. Maybe he did and wasn’t sure of mine. It was driving me crazy thinking about it. Were his kisses and touches really as just a friend?
We spent the next few weeks, Mathew and I, talking. More and more, the boy-girl conversations would come up: who liked who at school, who was kissing who, who we thought was doing more. I had seen him flirt with some of the girls at school. Our worlds were now colliding daily, and I was jealous of his ability to be popular by just being. I would run scenes in my head about what I could say or do to make him acknowledge he knew about my feelings.
In a way, it gave us more to talk about, to have in common, in a hard sort of way for me. No matter what we started talking about, our conversations always wrapped back around to sexual things. Mathew seemed to like to shock me. He would throw things out to try and get a reaction from me. I would look at him in disgust and change the subject. Sometimes he would let me, and other times he would persist, and I would become increasingly embarrassed. He knew I wasn’t doing anything sexual; I suspected he wasn’t either. He talked about girls at school who he thought were hot. Those conversations frustrated me, as that isn’t where I wanted it to go with him.
“Morgan, who do you think is hot?” he asked.
I looked at him blankly, my lips tightening slightly. How did I answer that? Was it not so obvious to him?
“I, ah-” I lay back on his bed, not finishing.
“Come on,” he teased, jumping on the bed, causing me to flop up and down.
He was taunting me, the lazy sexy grin on his face.
“Morgan, who?” he asked, dropping to his knees, making me roll to the side, this time up against him.
“Why do you ask me questions like that? Who cares?” I said annoyed.
He felt warm and I sucked in the smell of him closing my eyes tight trying to block out my feelings. I could feel him lean over me, and I kept my eyes shut. After what seemed like a long time, in which he didn’t move, I finally opened my eyes and I looked right into his. He stared for an instant, a fleeting look of knowing, or compassion, and then he started to tickle me.
“Stop,” I squirmed away from him, grateful that it broke the mood.
This Mathew was the boyish playful one, the one who would hide whatever he was feeling behind rough housing or being silly.
“Mathew, stop,” I laughed, struggling to get off the bed.
I tried to roll away from him as his fingers dug into my sides, continuing to tickle. Twisting and tugging I fell off the bed finally to the floor. He rose up from the bed and leaned over the side, his hair hanging down around his face, and looked at me, and we both
laughed.
It seemed he was constantly getting into my space now, sometimes in little ways like tickling, other times almost challenging me. I felt like there was some kind of attraction or tension growing between us, but Mathew still didn‘t make any moves. I longed for him to touch me more intimately or kiss me like he had at the beach. I wondered what I had done to prompt that kiss, what I could do again. I constantly tried to position myself very close to him so he could.
“Mathew, do you ever feel like kissing me?” I blurted out, as I lay on the floor looking up at him.
“No, not really,” he said, looking surprised.
“Liar,” I said.
“Maybe,” he teased.
I searched his eyes for what maybe meant. Maybe, he felt like kissing me?
“If not, why are you always doing things that make it feel like it’s moving to something more,” I asked.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, propping himself up on his elbows.
“Like the comments you make if I’m not paying attention to you. Like the kiss at the beach, like the way you touched me in the hot tub in Tahoe, right now tickling me.”
“I was being friendly,” he said with a grin.
“Really? It didn‘t feel friendly. Not like friend friendly.”
“It was, Morgan. Why are you trying to make something more out of it?” he asked more seriously.
Had I just imagined the fleeting knowing look I wondered.
“I don’t believe you, Mathew. I have other guy friends, and they aren’t ‘friendly’ like you. It’s like if I move away from you or don’t pay attention, you do something to make me pay attention,” I said, anger creeping into my voice.
“Don’t be a fucking drama queen, Morgan.”
I didn’t move. I looked away from him, staring instead at the ceiling. I felt hurt, angry, and prideful all at the same time. I’d asked, he’d answered, and it wasn’t what I wanted to hear. I finally got up from the floor. He rolled to a sitting position and stared at me.