Nothing Matters (Family Matters Book 1)

by Key, Liana

  "Why don't we go check out the surf shop then?" he asks.

  "Oh, no, I don't think so," I say, "that doesn't sound cool."

  "You're so chickenshit Flynn," he laughs. And of course I am. I don't even try to deny it. She wouldn't look at me in a million years anyway. She probably has a boyfriend, of course she would have a boyfriend. "We'll check it out on Saturday," James says, and I agree, but hoping he'll have forgotten about it by then.

  MAGDALA

  Everything felt a bit strange after my hospital appointment with Dr Surridge. The visit had gone well. She'd talked to me about whether I'd seen a counsellor. I hadn't; would I reconsider? I was non-committal. She checked my scars, happy with her handiwork on my neck, and the surgeon's down below. She sent me for blood tests. No, what was strange is that I couldn't stop thinking about her son. I wondered if he knew anything about me, wondered if he liked me, because blushing can indicate embarrassment as much as shyness or anxiety. I'd never known a boy to go so red. And I know I'd exploited it, been bold in the way I spoke to him, confident even. But somehow it had felt good to feel brave, for too long I'd felt weak, meek, imprisoned.

  So, a few days later when I am serving on the counter and I see him come into the store, my heart rate lifts. He is with a friend, and I notice him looking around, perhaps looking for me? I am busy with a customer, so I can't follow his movements. And if he wants to talk to me he will have to buy something because I am the only one on the counter.

  My last customer leaves, and I see him approaching the counter, a t-shirt in his arms. Again, my heart starts beating faster. Crazy.

  "Hi," he says, putting the shirt on the counter.

  "Hi, how are you?" I reply automatically, but my smile is genuine.

  "Good," he says. I take the t-shirt off the hanger, take my time folding it, he is searching his wallet for his card or money, and that's when I notice his right hand. Or his absence of one. He is wearing a hoodie, but there is no hand where one would usually be. I try not to stare. He leans his wallet against the counter to pull out his card with his left hand. I've folded the shirt neatly, but realize I have forgotten to scan the barcode, so I hastily unfold it.

  "Ready," I say, indicating he should put his card in, thinking, Has he just stretched his sleeve down real long and is his hand up his sleeve. It is a bizarre thing to be thinking about, I feel flustered. Then realize I haven't tried to upsell him.

  "Do you need any surfboard wax?" I say, even though the transaction has been completed.

  "Uh, no." He shakes his head, must think I'm mad. His cheeks are pink again.

  "Well this is the best stuff if you ever need any," I blabber, tapping on the jar. I refold the

  t-shirt and put it into a bag, pop it onto the top of the counter. He puts his wallet into his pocket with his left hand, then uses his left hand to pick up the bag. There I am, staring again. I feel embarrassed by my behavior. There are no customers behind him, so I quickly say, "How's your day been?"

  "Just been working," he says, his eyes looking somewhere behind me. I wonder if my supervisor is lurking.

  "Oh, where do you work?" I ask, trying to keep the conversation going.

  He says the name of a pharmacy, also in the mall. "Oh, I might see you around then," I say, and he says, "Sure, maybe." And I want to curl up and die, like how obviously desperate do I sound, and how turned off by me is he? A rude, staring girl.

  "See ya," he says and smiles and I give a pathetic wave as he leaves, then give a giant sigh of frustration.

  Nick, my supervisor gives a snort behind me. I turn and glare at him.

  "You weren't half obvious," he laughs. I frown. "Don't worry," Nick continues, "he was hot for you."

  "You think?" I say wistfully. "I don't think he was interested."

  "The kid was shaking," Nick laughs, "I thought he'd have a heart attack when you spoke to him." I toss a coat hanger at him, and he manages to just catch it. "I'm telling you, that kid will have twenty new shirts by the end of the week," he laughs. And Nick sends me off to tidy the racks.

  But I can't stop thinking about him, wondering how he only came to have one hand, wondering if he's had cancer, wondering if he's thinking about me at all.

  The following week we get a chance to check out our new house in Santa Monica, get to have a look inside, see our bedrooms. Dad had said it was a good time to buy, the real estate market was favourable for buyers and it was about time they committed to owning their own house.

  Antonia is measuring curtains and walls and taking photos of blank spaces, so Cash suggests we go down to the mall and get something to eat. We are wandering around the food court, trying to decide what to eat. Cash wants Turkish kebabs, I choose sushi. He is about to follow me to the sushi place, but I tell him it's okay. I feel I can do it myself. He says he'll meet me at a table. I'm holding my tray, scanning, trying to locate Cassian, when I see Flynn. He's at a table with four other boys. He's looking at me, like he must have seen me before I saw him. He smiles, I smile back, my heart does this fluttery thing. Several of the boys at his table turn and look at me. I hear Cash's voice call my name and I go over towards the table, set my tray down.

  "Who are you looking at?" Cassian asks, looking over in the direction of their table.

  "That's Dr Surridge's son," I say. "In the blue t-shirt."

  "How do you know him?" he asks.

  "I met him at the hospital the other week." Cash gives me a look of uncertainty. "He's in my year," I say.

  "They're all looking over here," Cash says. I don't turn around, start eating my food. "Is he interested in you?"

  I shrug. "How would I know?" I pretend to be clueless. "You wanna try one of these?" I say, offering him a piece of sushi, trying to change the subject. He shakes his head.

  "Are you interested in him?" Cash asks. I don't look up. "Magdala?" He knows I haven't denied it. He has a look of concern on his face, like he wouldn't want me to be thinking about someone else, like it would be wrong to be even thinking about another boy.

  "He's really shy," I say, and I'm about to tell him he only has one hand, but I don't. Like it's not that important, like I know Cash would never describe someone that way, that it shouldn't be his defining feature.

  We talk a little about the house, and in awhile, Cash comments, "They're leaving." I pretend not to care, but out of curiosity I turn around, but they've already moved on. "He was looking over here," Cash says, finishing up his food, drinking up his bottle of water, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

  Cash indicates we should go, so I carry my drink, sipping as I go. We walk along, just sauntering, glancing in store windows, but not looking at anything in particular. Then Cash nudges me. Flynn and his friend are standing outside a sports shop. My heart rate accelerates. Cash guides me over in that direction, even though we're now walking into pedestrian traffic. I wonder what he's up to, I felt sure he disapproved. Flynn's friend sees me first, then Flynn turns. He flicks his hair and smiles. He looks to Cassian, would he think he's my boyfriend I wonder. Surely not. Everyone says we look alike, there's no doubt we're siblings.

  Cassian stops a few feet from them. He's taller than both of them, like by half a head. I notice that Flynn is quite skinny, compared to Cash, who these days is all muscle.

  "Hi," Flynn says first, smiling.

  "Hi," I say, looking at him, then his friend. His friend has wavy, blonde hair, thick, like it needs a cut. Hell who am I to judge. "Uh, this is my brother Cash," I say, and elbow Cash gently. Cash puts his hand out, he always shakes people's hands, like he's in a business meeting or something. There's a hesitation. Flynn's wearing a t-shirt, but his right arm has some sort of bandage on it, a white bandage from his elbow to his handless arm. Cash notices he doesn't have a hand. He drops his own hand with ease and puts his knuckles of his left hand up. Flynn knuckle bumps him. He does it to the other boy too, who introduces himself as James.

  There's small talk, how's it going, what's happening, are you both starting
at school in the fall. Cash talks more than I do. James is chatting easily. I'm just smiling, nodding. Flynn's cheeks are pink, like he's embarrassed, but he smiles at me. Cash says we better go, damn him and I give a wave and follow him.

  "Why did you have to leave?" I whisper when we are out of earshot.

  "You weren't even talking," he laughs.

  "Well I didn't have a chance, with you gas bagging away," I say.

  He laughs even louder. "He looked too embarrassed to say anything anyway. I think you scare him."

  I punched his arm. "I do not scare him. You probably did, flexing your muscles, standing tall. You intimidated him."

  "Ha!" Cash scoffs, "he didn't even look at me. He only had eyes for you.” Cash puts his arm around my shoulder, pulls me close and we walk along. "What's with his hand?" he asks.

  "Magdala." We both turn at the sound of my name. Flynn is standing there. Cash and I look at each other, feeling guilty, hoping he hasn't heard our conversation. Cash removes his arm from me. Flynn comes towards me, his cheeks still flushed. James is lingering a few metres behind.

  "Hey, I wonder if I could get your number," he stammers. He is holding his phone out towards me, "if it's okay?"

  "Yeah," I say, and Cash turns away, giving us some privacy. I spell my name for him and he puts it straight into his phone. We are both smiling. I put his number into my phone.

  "I'll give you a text," he says.

  "Cool," I reply. And Cash laughs about it all the way home.

  FLYNN

  To see her in the food court seemed like it must have been fate. I wasn't even supposed to be there, but for some reason Aaron and Will had stopped by to pick up James and me and we'd gone to Aaron's to listen to their band practicing. Aaron, Will and two other boys had formed a band, tentatively titled Idle Hands, and wanted our feedback. We weren't that honest, saying they were sounding great, and then we had all decided to get something to eat. James saw her first, and when I first saw she was with a tall blonde guy my heart sunk. But when I looked closer, I thought he might be her brother, you could see the resemblance in the hair color. No way you would date someone with hair color the same as you. James agreed. Aaron stared and proclaimed that there was no way she'd be interested in me, and if I hadn't asked her out already, she was fair game. James told him to fucking shut his mouth. That's why he's my best friend.

  And in what I construed to be another twist of fate, while James and I were window shopping, she walked by and stopped. She introduced us to her brother and we stood there talking. Well her brother and James did. I hardly said a word, cursing my mute tongue, which didn't seem to have anything worthwhile to say. James beat me to every comment or question, I had nothing original to add. Her brother lead her off after awhile, probably bored by the lack of conversation. I felt pathetic, unable to talk to the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen.

  "Why didn't you ask for her number?" James asked as they walked away.

  "Well how am I supposed to do that?" I smarted.

  "Just open your mouth, Flynn. Let the words come out," he said slowly and sarcastically. Then in a normal tone, he added, "She's into you, you can tell."

  So under James' direction, without having a chance to think about it, I ran to catch her, got her phone number and then later that night texted her.

  Me: glad I saw u today

  Her: me too :)

  Me: do u want to go out some time

  Her: ok

  Me: a movie?

  Her: yeah, which one

  Me: whatever you want. When?

  Her: whenever you want

  Me: are u busy on Friday night

  Her: I work till 7

  And, as easy as that, it seemed I had my first date.

  I fussed around for ages getting ready, choosing what to wear, trying to cover up my arm. I'd seen her staring at it when I bought the t-shirt from her, but I could hardly begrudge her that. I'm use to people staring at it, though that doesn't mean I like it. Funnily enough my arm never bothered me till I got to junior high. Because I'd never known anything different, why would it? Junior high is where you meet new kids, kids who haven't known you since elementary school, don't know your history. I got stared at a lot. I started to cover up more. I became self conscious. I hated being different, hated being a freak. I got into trouble for awhile, I skipped school, swore a lot, was moody, rebellious, angry, things that weren't me, but at the time were the only coping mechanisms I had.

  I was born normal, but when I was very small, like weeks or months old, I was burnt, boiling water, hot coffee or tea, no one knows. My birth mother didn't do anything about it. It was days, maybe a week before I was taken to a doctor or hospital. My right arm had become grossly infected, amputating the hand was the only way to save my life. Apparently. The skin from my forearm peeled off like radiation burns from nuclear fall out (my own analogy, by the way). There was only one doctor in the hospital who I responded to, goes the story I've been told. While I screamed the whole place down, when she held me, I was quiet. Apparently. The woman later adopted me after my birth mother died from a drug overdose, brought me up as her own, fell in love with me from the day she saw me. That's her story, and she sticks to it like glue. My Mom, Dr Julie Surridge.

  I needed skin grafts, repeated skin grafts, year after year. My right forearm from elbow to wrist a jigsaw of collected skin from other parts of my body, ugly, red, white, scarred, a patchwork. But ugly only because others told me so. Once it just use to be my arm, then it became my burden.

  The obvious thing is to wear long sleeves, second, if it's too hot, is to wear a bandage around it. On the night of the movies I chose a hoodie over a t-shirt and jeans. There would be air con in the movie theatre, so I wouldn't swelter, hopefully. Magdala asked if I would meet her straight after work, so I did. She didn't look at me strange, she was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, her hair straight, cascading down past her shoulders, her make up perfectly applied, her perfume fruity. I walked on her right side, keeping my bad arm away from her. I longed to slip my hand in hers, but didn't dare, too scared. Scared of stuffing up, scared of rejection. We went for pizza, finger food, my favorite kind, wouldn't need to awkwardly cut it up. I felt awkward enough, didn't need any other additions.

  We bought our tickets, then she went to use the restroom. I stood in the foyer waiting, checking my phone, trying to look casual, a boy waiting for his girl, a totally new experience for me. As the minutes went by, a panic washed over me. How long did it take to use the bathroom? Should she be back by now? Was there a queue? Or, my worst fear, had she slipped out while I wasn't looking, done a runner, realized she'd made a mistake, realized I was a loser? My heart started to pound, I felt sick, like ill. How long does it take before you realize you've been abandoned? I looked at the time, had she been gone five minutes already? Was she having toilet issues, had the pizza gone right through her? That was hardly a pleasant thought either. I started to feel nervous. A kid standing near me had his girlfriend return. So did an older guy with a beard. Should I text her? Was she all right? What if she'd collapsed? Maybe she did have some illness that only my Mom knew about. I felt like I was deep in despair. I was wondering whether I would go to the movie alone and then lie about the date, or should I...she returned. I'd never been so happy to see someone in my life. My heart did a somersault to rejoice.

  "I was getting worried about you," I confidently admitted now she was back.

  "The queue was crazy and there were two out of order signs up," she said, "plus I did a touch up." She pouted briefly, the gloss on her lips tormenting me. "Strawberry gloss," she remarked.

  "Are you sure?" I asked.

  She frowned, "Sure of what?"

  "That its strawberry," I said.

  She looked at me, then smiled, "Ha, you're funny," and she punched my arm, and then, remarkably, held on to it. "Would you like to check for me?" She tilted her head at me, flirting. I was too slow, had no witty comeback, well no comeback, witty or otherwise. The mome
nt passed and I felt my cheeks with the too familiar burn. She held my arm tighter, smiled, like she knew I was was not going to be good at this, that I was terrified, that I had absolutely zero experience in anything. Yet she was with me.

  She took me home in her car. She didn't think it strange that I didn't have my license yet. I didn't mind biking everywhere, it's just what I did, though somehow I thought I'd better get a move on in that department. She stopped in the driveway, there were lights on in the house, so I wasn't going to invite her in. Imagine Mom or Dad sitting in the kitchen or lounge, introducing her, her already knowing Mom. It would be too uncomfortable. So I just sat there and said, "Thanks for the ride home."

  "No problem," she said. She hadn't turned off the engine, so I gathered that meant she was not going to be lingering. "What's the best way back home?" she asked, but then google mapped it as I started to tell her to go back up to Ocean. I unbuckled my seat belt, strange feelings in my chest, a mild panic of what to say and do in the next three seconds.

  "It's been great," I said, a feeble sentence, a feeble voice.

  She looked up from her phone, "Yes, thanks," she said smiling, and then looked back at her phone, frowning slightly at the map on screen.

  "You okay with that?" I asked. I knew she was not that familiar with the area yet.

  "Will I get onto 3rd here?" She leaned closer, pointing to an intersection.

  Yeah, and if you go up here, you'll come out on Ocean," I said pointing.

  "Okay, thank you." She seemed to regain some confidence and smiled. I wanted to kiss her, to see what it was like, to taste her lips, strawberry or not. She was still holding her phone. She didn't lean closer, or run her tongue over her lips in anticipation (read somewhere that's what girls do if they want you to kiss them). There was no indication she wanted me to, so I opened the door and got out. I wanted her to stop me, to say my name, but she didn't. A feeling of disappointment flooded me, reality set in, this was my life, not a romance novel. Magical things weren't just going to happen to a kid with a scarred arm and only one hand. I obviously hadn't made that much of an impression on her. She lowered her window and I went round to her side.