Capture the World

by R. K. Ryals

  “Come on!” his youngest brother, Christopher, shouts. “You two going to flirt all morning? ’Cause I have a meeting with Coach Gipson I don’t want to miss.”

  My brows quirk, my gaze flicking to Christopher. He’s lanky, shorter than Matthew, and not the least bit stocky. “The football coach?” I ask, doubtful.

  Matthew rests his hand on the small of my back, nudging me toward the van. “No pre-judging. Boy’s got a mean arm and a wicked eye for strategy. If he plays his cards right, you’re looking at Heart Bay’s future quarterback.”

  Is there anything normal about the Morettis?

  “Does your mom drug your Wheaties or something?” I ask. “Because it’s weird, right? That all of you are these awesome athletes.”

  “Not all of us,” a brother I don’t remember the name of—lean, tall, handsome, and sporting a great pair of spectacles—says. Leaning against the van, he offers me a wave and a smile. “Anthony,” he introduces, “and I want nothing to do with sports outside of watching it. It’s science for me.”

  Thinking about my grades in that particular subject, I wince. “Let me guess, top of your class?”

  “You bet.”

  “See? Wheaties!”

  Male laughter circles me. I’m in an alternate universe.

  Walking to the driver’s side, Matthew waves me into the passenger seat. “Get in.”

  Anthony, who’s closest to the door, opens it for me.

  I glance at my aunt’s house, my gaze on the second floor where my mother rests. She’s usually up before me, but I’d disturbed her sleep the night before.

  “Seriously,” Christopher grumbles, “I’m in a hurry!”

  I hop into the van. It smells like dirt, rust, and men’s body wash. Cracked leather protests beneath me, the ragged edges pinching my bottom through my jeans.

  Matthew pulls the vehicle away from the curb, and I spend the entire ride listening to the Moretti brothers.

  “Just stay quiet, nod a lot, and let Gipson do all of the talking,” Matthew advises, glancing at Christopher in the rearview mirror. “And try not to look so nervous. You’re strangling your shirt back there.”

  Christopher grimaces. “What do you know about Gipson anyway? You play under Crowley.”

  Matthew clicks on the turn signal and heads right. “Got friends on the football team. Those guys bitch more than we do.”

  Anthony snorts, pushes his glasses up, and pretends he didn’t just agree with Matthew.

  Christopher scowls. “You got something to say, Tony?”

  Matthew glances at me. “Christopher is the hot headed one in the family.”

  “Whatever, man!”

  Anthony throws me an apologetic grin, shrugs, and stares out the window.

  I’m missing something, and it feels big. “I’ve heard Gipson is hard to play for. That his training is hardcore, and he’s incredibly selective,” I mumble. “Makes sense that they’d complain.”

  “Ha! See there!” Christopher leans back in his seat, appeased.

  I’ve garnered Matthew’s attention. “Where did you hear that?”

  That’s the thing. People at school don’t know anything about me because I don’t let them. Only Gracie knows anything, and I even hold back with her.

  I gesture at my ears. “You can hear better today.”

  “Thanks to me,” Anthony cuts in, grinning. “I did my science thing.”

  “Don’t gloat too much,” Matthew warns. “I’m not holding out hope for them. These things have a terrible track record.” Glancing back at me, he studies my profile. “And don’t think I didn’t notice that.”

  “Notice what?” Christopher asks.

  “The subject change,” Matthew replies, eyes flicking from me to the road.

  I stare at my hands.

  “So, Gipson?” he asks. “How do you know about him?”

  The athletes at Heart Bay High are incredibly loyal to their coaches. They only complain amongst themselves.

  “Reagan?”

  Throwing him a pleading look, I keep my mouth shut. But it registers. Oh, it definitely registers.

  The school looms into view, and Matthew parks the van. Christopher and Anthony, recognizing the tension in the vehicle, rush to get out, closing the doors behind them.

  Matthew studies me. “You’ve dated someone on the team.” It’s not a question.

  “Don’t,” I warn.

  He glances out the front windshield. Sun glints off of the cars in the parking lot. Doors slam. People call out to each other, little frost babies born from their lips before vanishing. I envy the frost babies.

  “Does he still go here?” Matthew asks.

  “No.”

  Reaching for me, he squeezes my shoulder. “What—”

  “Would you let it go? I don’t know you. Not really. Not enough.”

  “Okay.” He leans back. “So, let’s get to know each other, huh?”

  “Matthew, I’m not trying to be difficult, I swear I’m not, but you just popped into my life at a very weird time for me. Things with my mom …” I can’t go there. “I don’t even know why you talk to me.” I throw him a look. “And don’t do the whole ‘you’re beautiful’ thing. Because that’s just weird. Not that you wouldn’t want to talk to a girl because you think she’s beautiful. I mean …” I shut my mouth, grimace, and add, “I don’t know what I’m saying.”

  Babbling is a problem for me.

  “You are beautiful,” he insists, “but there’s more to it than that. I’ve been there. Bullied until all you want to do is hide. Having people feel sorry for you. I like that you’ve never treated me like a disability.”

  A short laugh escapes me. “Because I’ve been just as mean to you as to everyone else? Or because I generally ignore you? That makes me feel so much better.”

  “Hey, you don’t play favorites.”

  He’s trying to turn this into a joke.

  I reach for the door handle.

  He stops me, his hand capturing mine. “The guy on the football team really did a number on you, didn’t he?” He squeezes my hand. “You don’t have to tell me anything.”

  “Good.” I push open the door.

  He steps out with me. People stare.

  “I was totally okay being anonymous,” I say when he joins me.

  “I want to play professional basketball, so I have to disagree with you. Anonymity sucks.”

  “Not funny.”

  He takes my hand.

  Eyes widening, I try pulling away, but he doesn’t let go.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I hiss.

  “Proving that not all guys are assholes.”

  “I never said—”

  “I saw it in your face.” Walking toward the building, he draws me along, keeping step next to me.

  “This isn’t proving anything,” I reply, tugging at my hand.

  He releases me. “I’m not embarrassed to be seen with you.”

  “Is that what you think happened?”

  He glances down at me. “Isn’t it?”

  A lump forms in my throat because he’s right. It was my sophomore year. Bradley Cochran was a senior, handsome, and completely devoted to making out with me. In secret. I’d been a lot more open then, toward people and situations. Guys talked to me.

  Oh, they still worried. Everyone had heard about my mother, but I was friendly and so normal. At least that’s what Bradley told me. Truth was, I was still reserved, held back by responsibilities at home, but I had been willing to try. It had all been a joke, an excuse to find out exactly how crazy my mother really was—like a haunted house that everyone wants to break into to see, and then runs away from when they finally get the chance to experience it.

  Bradley had seemed perfect.

  Until I introduced him to my mother.

  Afterwards, the rumors at school grew, becoming so ridiculous, they became legendary. And then, suddenly, I was as crazy as my mother.

  “My junior year. Bailey H
enderson. She was a senior, and at the time, the older woman thing was pretty awesome,” Matthew says suddenly.

  “Huh?” I peer up at him. “Bailey?”

  Bailey Henderson is an athlete like Matthew, a tall redhead who played on the girls’ basketball team. She graduated a year ago.

  Matthew’s gaze meets mine. “We were a hot item that year. Would have lasted, too, I think. If she hadn’t realized how hard it is being in a relationship with a deaf man. That summer, I took the hearing aids out. I try not to wear them when I know I’ll be in the water a lot. Always having to look at me or getting me to look at her frustrated her. She also hated to drive when we spent anytime near the water. It was just all too much work for her.” He shrugs. “It’s not for everyone.”

  Despite Bailey’s treatment of him, I doubt he has issues in the female department. “You don’t have trouble with girls.”

  He smiles. “You saying I’m hot?”

  I can’t help it, I chuckle, sobering almost instantly. “He made my mother cry,” I whisper.

  “What?”

  “He made my mother cry. My mother doesn’t cry. Ever. Not since … she just doesn’t cry.”

  Matthew nods.

  “Hey, Moretti!” Carl Pace shouts, jogging toward him, a group of other guys from the basketball team behind him.

  “That’s my cue,” I say, and before he has a chance to stop me, I leave, racing down the hall toward my first class feeling like I’d said too much.

  “SO YOU’RE SCARED?” Gracie asks, falling in a graceful heap to the school lawn, her sky blue peplum top fanning out over her blue jeans despite the navy blue jacket open over it. “Perfectly reasonable.”

  Setting a blue, floral lunch bag on the ground, she pulls out a blue frosted cookie, a Ziploc bag full of blueberries, and a piece of bread. Tearing open a blue pixie stick, she empties it onto the slice.

  Lunch is always interesting with Gracie.

  “I’m not afraid of being friends,” I argue.

  She eyes me. “Aren’t you?” Folding the bread in half, she takes a bite out of it, ignoring the students near us who, upon seeing it, pack up their lunches and move. “Look, I’m always scared in new relationships. Not like I can help my incredibly cool OCDness, right? Well, there’s meds, but a little blue never hurt anyone.”

  Try telling that to her mom the year she drank out of a bottle of Windex because of the color.

  “I mean, they do have blue condoms.”

  “Gross!” I pretend to gag. “And anyway, I’m not in a relationship with Matthew Moretti.”

  “That’s not what I hear.” She grins, flashing blue-stained teeth. “Hashtag couple.”

  Do these people ever stop? “Hashtag give me a break.”

  “That one was trying too hard.”

  “Whatever. People assume too much.”

  “It is what it is.” Gazing out over the yard, Gracie sits up taller, eyes on Dexter Holloway. He’s a junior, a year under us, and almost as unique as Gracie, his spiked red hair the only thing he manages to get away with during school hours. After school, he’s insanely colorful.

  Overhead, the sky is overcast, threatening rain, and I keep glancing at it, worried. Not for me. Storms don’t frighten me.

  “Now he’s cool.” Gracie points at Dexter. “You should hang with him. Hell, we should hang with him. Who gives a shit about Matthew or any of them anyway? I certainly don’t.”

  “He came over to see Mom last night.” I drop the words, fast and hard.

  Gracie freezes. “Wait, what?” Lunch forgotten, she leans toward me. “Matthew Moretti? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  I shrug. “It wasn’t a big deal. He was really good with her actually.”

  “No one is really good with your mother, except you, and maybe your aunt.”

  Her words sting, but they’re true. Mom doesn’t accept new people easily. Especially after what happened with Bradley; the way he’d laughed at her, the way he’d mocked her, and the memories he’d brought back up. It still hurt. I blame myself for it, and yet here I am, doing it again, bringing someone new—someone I know less than Bradley—into the house.

  “She liked him, I swear.” I hate the defensiveness in my voice.

  Gracie has never been near my mother longer than a few minutes. It’s uncomfortable for her, but she does come to my house often.

  She frowns. “I’m just trying to wrap my head around all of this is all. So is Matthew like your new bestie now? Or your boyfriend? Or what?”

  “No!” I cry, the wail less than convincing. “I just met him.”

  “You’ve known him your entire life.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  She shrugs. “Maybe.” Hurt laces her tone.

  I edge closer. “Are you mad because I let him meet her?”

  “No, I’m just worried about you. Matthew has a reputation and not all of it is stellar.” She holds my gaze. “Word is: he uses his deafness to get close to girls. Even used it to get his spot on the team.”

  I don’t believe that for a second. I may not be a social butterfly, but I’ve seen him play. The girl thing though?

  I gape at her. “That’s harsh. I’ve never heard any of that.”

  “Because you don’t let yourself hear anything!” she fumes. “Hell, you didn’t even know he had a hearing problem until recently and that’s common knowledge. You live in your own world, Reagan. So, maybe he’s using you, too, huh? Get in with the emotionally detached girl using the one tool available to him he knows she’ll fall for.”

  Standing up, Gracie stuffs the lunch she’s barely touched back into her bag. “Don’t be that girl. The one who wants to take care of the damaged guy. You’re better than that, and there’s a long line of girls waiting for him. You really want to be one of them? It’s not worth it.”

  “He’s not damaged!” I call out to her retreating back.

  Is he?

  WHEN I WAS five years old, I had life completely figured out. When I grew up, I was going to do three things: 1) Marry my father. This one was very important because my dad was the best man ever. Better than anyone, and according to Mom, he was also the best husband. So it just made sense. 2) I was going to fly. I’m not sure why I thought this was logical, but to my five-year-old mind, it was everything. 3) I was never going to be lonely. I was going to have a whole world full of friends. Everywhere, from the South Pole to the North Pole. Because internet, and because Mom used to take me online to all of the really cool websites to play Disney games and look up fairy worlds.

  Twelve years later, I’ve learned that failure is a real thing, death is always imminent, there are always two sides to a story, and that loneliness is what you make it.

  In retrospect, that’s why I didn’t believe Gracie. A friendship with Matthew may not be the best idea, but I had been the brunt of too many rumors to start believing in hearsay about someone else.

  Matthew gives me a half smile when I walk into history—the only class outside of chemistry we share together—and I offer him the barest of nods.

  I’m in the front of the room, and he’s in the back.

  Mrs. Powell—seriously the coolest teacher in our school—reclines against her desk, flipping casually through a book she’s barely reading, her dark skin offset by a bright yellow pantsuit. Even though she doesn’t wear glasses, she shoves a pair into her dreadlocked hair, her gaze passing over the room. “I hope you guys—”

  “And girls,” Talia Banks inserts next to me.

  Mrs. Powell salutes her. “Better to let me finish, Ms. Banks.” She returns to the class. “I hope you guys and girls are ready to make history because I’ve got a project for you.”

  Collective groan.

  “An individual project. No groups.”

  Less groans.

  Picking up a stack of papers, Mrs. Powell places them on the first desk: Talia’s.

  Taking one, Talia passes them back.

  “This is going to be an outside project due
after the new year, so I don’t want to see you doing this in here unless you have some free time.”

  The stack makes it to me, and I take a sheet, scanning the page. One sentence in big, bold, capital print sits slashed across an empty half page.

  WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?