Read Online Sway by Amy Matayo - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Amy Matayo
Tags: Fiction
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for?” Kate asks, stepping off the curb with me. I look over at her, eyeing the blonde curls that frame her shoulders from underneath a wool gray hat. I can still feel the way they felt running through my hands when she kissed me…
I give myself a mental slap. It isn’t fair to think about that when she doesn’t even remember doing it.
“I like Christmas.” I shrug, as though I’m not thinking about what her lips felt like pressed against mine. “It’s my favorite holiday.” Now. Again. As a kid, I loved it—the toys and the presents and the parties and the carols. But like a new Spiderman Band-Aid my mother once enthusiastically placed over some wound or another, it was ripped away with a painful sting. No more fun. No more excitement. No more color. No more anything. It took years, and a few life lessons, to get me loving it again. Now, I get wound up just thinking about the season’s magic and miracles. Not something I would admit out loud, though. I am a guy with a reputation to uphold.
Beside me, I see Kate shiver. At first I think it’s from the cold, until her next words come out. They’re laced with more resignation than this pink-loving girl should ever feel. “Not me. I wish we could skip right over that holiday.”
I look over at her, certain she’s joking, but her serious expression blows that theory. “Sounds like someone has had one too many stockings filled with coal. Naughty kid?”
“More like a kid who never had a stocking at all.” Her hands are shoved in her coat pockets—a normal black wool coat this morning—and she’s looking into the window of a furniture store, though I’m pretty sure she’s not actually in the market for a sofa. Not that she shouldn’t be—her current one sucks. It’s more like she’s looking past it, into a memory that she doesn’t like. Just when I decide to file her statement into the I Have No Response folder in my brain, my mouth opens and blows that plan.
“Your parents aren’t into the holidays, are they?” I kick at a chipped piece of concrete directly in my path. “Sounds like we were raised by the same type of people.” If adults knew what kind of damage they were capable of inflicting on kids, no one would ever have them. Although for some so-called parents, cramming as much harm as possible in eighteen years’ time—or in my case, eleven—seems to be part of the fun. If asked, I could count several right now who enjoy that sort of thing and run out of fingers trying.
Kate is quiet so long I’m not sure what to think. I look over at her and see that she’s wrestling with something. Her mouth is working and her forehead is scrunched up and she looks kind of worried. Finally, she locks eyes with me. Something about that look concerns me, but I can’t pinpoint it. And then she smiles, a sad smile, really. I’ll admit that it’s soft and warm and does all kinds of crazy things to my insides, but I won’t admit much else. The word whipped , however, does cross my mind again for the smallest second.
“No Caleb, they weren’t. They were never real big on Christmas. Still aren’t, if you want the truth.”
I don’t. Want the truth, I mean. Because frankly, that sort of truth just sucks. No toy catalog? No lists? No cookies left out for Santa? What kind of twisted parents does this girl have? I think about what she says for a moment. I can’t help it, because I’m a fixer. A schemer. Both a fault and an asset to my personality, according to my mother. I like to solve things, and this is definitely one area that needs solving, now. It doesn’t take long for a plan to form. Even less time for me to announce it.
“That’s the most pathetic thing I’ve ever heard. You need an intervention. Now.”
“I never asked for one.” Not the response I expected, but I can work with it.
“Lucky for you I don’t usually wait for permission.”
I expect a retort, but she doesn’t give me one. So I take her hand and walk her
I give myself a mental slap. It isn’t fair to think about that when she doesn’t even remember doing it.
“I like Christmas.” I shrug, as though I’m not thinking about what her lips felt like pressed against mine. “It’s my favorite holiday.” Now. Again. As a kid, I loved it—the toys and the presents and the parties and the carols. But like a new Spiderman Band-Aid my mother once enthusiastically placed over some wound or another, it was ripped away with a painful sting. No more fun. No more excitement. No more color. No more anything. It took years, and a few life lessons, to get me loving it again. Now, I get wound up just thinking about the season’s magic and miracles. Not something I would admit out loud, though. I am a guy with a reputation to uphold.
Beside me, I see Kate shiver. At first I think it’s from the cold, until her next words come out. They’re laced with more resignation than this pink-loving girl should ever feel. “Not me. I wish we could skip right over that holiday.”
I look over at her, certain she’s joking, but her serious expression blows that theory. “Sounds like someone has had one too many stockings filled with coal. Naughty kid?”
“More like a kid who never had a stocking at all.” Her hands are shoved in her coat pockets—a normal black wool coat this morning—and she’s looking into the window of a furniture store, though I’m pretty sure she’s not actually in the market for a sofa. Not that she shouldn’t be—her current one sucks. It’s more like she’s looking past it, into a memory that she doesn’t like. Just when I decide to file her statement into the I Have No Response folder in my brain, my mouth opens and blows that plan.
“Your parents aren’t into the holidays, are they?” I kick at a chipped piece of concrete directly in my path. “Sounds like we were raised by the same type of people.” If adults knew what kind of damage they were capable of inflicting on kids, no one would ever have them. Although for some so-called parents, cramming as much harm as possible in eighteen years’ time—or in my case, eleven—seems to be part of the fun. If asked, I could count several right now who enjoy that sort of thing and run out of fingers trying.
Kate is quiet so long I’m not sure what to think. I look over at her and see that she’s wrestling with something. Her mouth is working and her forehead is scrunched up and she looks kind of worried. Finally, she locks eyes with me. Something about that look concerns me, but I can’t pinpoint it. And then she smiles, a sad smile, really. I’ll admit that it’s soft and warm and does all kinds of crazy things to my insides, but I won’t admit much else. The word whipped , however, does cross my mind again for the smallest second.
“No Caleb, they weren’t. They were never real big on Christmas. Still aren’t, if you want the truth.”
I don’t. Want the truth, I mean. Because frankly, that sort of truth just sucks. No toy catalog? No lists? No cookies left out for Santa? What kind of twisted parents does this girl have? I think about what she says for a moment. I can’t help it, because I’m a fixer. A schemer. Both a fault and an asset to my personality, according to my mother. I like to solve things, and this is definitely one area that needs solving, now. It doesn’t take long for a plan to form. Even less time for me to announce it.
“That’s the most pathetic thing I’ve ever heard. You need an intervention. Now.”
“I never asked for one.” Not the response I expected, but I can work with it.
“Lucky for you I don’t usually wait for permission.”
I expect a retort, but she doesn’t give me one. So I take her hand and walk her
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