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Authors: R. K. Ryals
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enough tears for all of them.
EIGHT
The real world
In which he dares to be my friend
I WAKE UP thinking about Matthew, the way he swept into my life and planted himself there like a tree, as if not knowing someone one day and then becoming fast buddies with her the next is normal.
It isn’t normal. It has my head spinning.
At school, I am a collection of words I’ve saved up until they’ve all run together forming one big word: oddbasketcasestrangecrazynutspsychoweirddistant . They replay in my head like a breaking news story flashing across the bottom of a television screen. After last night, new words chase them: beautifuljealouscrabbyfriendlyunfriendlypitiful.
I am crazy. Matthew Moretti is making me crazy.
Mom is sleeping when I go downstairs to breakfast, and I barely acknowledge my aunt as I choke down a bowl of corn flakes.
Aunt Trish sips her coffee and glances at her lit-up phone, the screen flashing her social media account like she’s actually paying attention to it. She’s not.
I don’t give her the satisfaction of saying anything.
Me. My life. I’ve got this. Really, I do.
Fighting a smile, I drop my empty bowl into the sink, listening to it clatter. Rinsing it, I place it in the dishwasher and run upstairs to throw on a pair of jeans and a faded Heart Bay Hoodie, another relic of Naomi’s.
The air outside is brisk, a thin layer of frost covering the ground. The early morning sun sneezes random light rays, turning the ice into shimmering silk, beautiful and fragile. November is an odd month in the South. Sometimes it’s hot, other times it’s cold. Some years we wear T-shirts and shorts, and others we’re in sweatshirts and jackets. This is a sweatshirt year.
Frost crunches under my feet and my breath puffs, my lungs hyper alert to the cold. My sneakers thud quietly against pavement. A mist crawls up out of the bayou and over the roads.
An engine roars to life, cutting through the silence and hushing the random bird call. Yells fill the air.
I keep my head down because I know it’s the Morettis’ rusted van, the one the younger three brothers share.
“Want a ride?” Matthew calls out.
One of the brothers whistles.
I pass the driveway, not looking. “The bus is fine.”
Matthew jogs to catch up. “That mumbling you did is you saying yes, right?”
Stopping, I turn to him. “No.”
He’s even better looking today than he was yesterday, his face smooth as a baby’s bottom, not a single whisker having escaped the razor. Oddly, I miss the stubble.
He hops from foot to foot, warming himself, his letterman’s jacket covering a black Doctor Who T-shirt. “A friend would accept a ride,” he goads.
“I’m starting to think you have selective hearing,” I tell him.
He laughs. “No one has ever been brave enough to accuse me of that.”
“Because you’re deaf?”
His amusement grows. “Says the girl who flew the red-eye from Egypt last night.”
Though I bite my lip to keep it in, he manages to get a smile from me.
He gloats. “See that! You do want that ride! Our van might be falling apart, but it’s heated.”
“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
EIGHT
The real world
In which he dares to be my friend
I WAKE UP thinking about Matthew, the way he swept into my life and planted himself there like a tree, as if not knowing someone one day and then becoming fast buddies with her the next is normal.
It isn’t normal. It has my head spinning.
At school, I am a collection of words I’ve saved up until they’ve all run together forming one big word: oddbasketcasestrangecrazynutspsychoweirddistant . They replay in my head like a breaking news story flashing across the bottom of a television screen. After last night, new words chase them: beautifuljealouscrabbyfriendlyunfriendlypitiful.
I am crazy. Matthew Moretti is making me crazy.
Mom is sleeping when I go downstairs to breakfast, and I barely acknowledge my aunt as I choke down a bowl of corn flakes.
Aunt Trish sips her coffee and glances at her lit-up phone, the screen flashing her social media account like she’s actually paying attention to it. She’s not.
I don’t give her the satisfaction of saying anything.
Me. My life. I’ve got this. Really, I do.
Fighting a smile, I drop my empty bowl into the sink, listening to it clatter. Rinsing it, I place it in the dishwasher and run upstairs to throw on a pair of jeans and a faded Heart Bay Hoodie, another relic of Naomi’s.
The air outside is brisk, a thin layer of frost covering the ground. The early morning sun sneezes random light rays, turning the ice into shimmering silk, beautiful and fragile. November is an odd month in the South. Sometimes it’s hot, other times it’s cold. Some years we wear T-shirts and shorts, and others we’re in sweatshirts and jackets. This is a sweatshirt year.
Frost crunches under my feet and my breath puffs, my lungs hyper alert to the cold. My sneakers thud quietly against pavement. A mist crawls up out of the bayou and over the roads.
An engine roars to life, cutting through the silence and hushing the random bird call. Yells fill the air.
I keep my head down because I know it’s the Morettis’ rusted van, the one the younger three brothers share.
“Want a ride?” Matthew calls out.
One of the brothers whistles.
I pass the driveway, not looking. “The bus is fine.”
Matthew jogs to catch up. “That mumbling you did is you saying yes, right?”
Stopping, I turn to him. “No.”
He’s even better looking today than he was yesterday, his face smooth as a baby’s bottom, not a single whisker having escaped the razor. Oddly, I miss the stubble.
He hops from foot to foot, warming himself, his letterman’s jacket covering a black Doctor Who T-shirt. “A friend would accept a ride,” he goads.
“I’m starting to think you have selective hearing,” I tell him.
He laughs. “No one has ever been brave enough to accuse me of that.”
“Because you’re deaf?”
His amusement grows. “Says the girl who flew the red-eye from Egypt last night.”
Though I bite my lip to keep it in, he manages to get a smile from me.
He gloats. “See that! You do want that ride! Our van might be falling apart, but it’s heated.”
“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
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