Capture the World (12 page)

Even though I know it’s late, I send her a reply.

Me: #forgiven

She’s awake because my phone immediately dings.

The Brilliant One: #allisrightwiththeworld

Me: #tryingtoohard

The Brilliant One: #worthit

Slipping a piece of paper from the pile on the floor, I write Matthew a reply.

ELEVEN

My mother’s world

Mexico

Chichèn Itzà

I wake up to find my mother leaning over me, her hair touching my cheeks, and even though I hate to admit it, I scream.

Mom stumbles back, wrings her hands, and screams with me.

Aunt Trish runs up the stairs. “Reagan!”

Light pours into the room from my window, catching the paper creations surrounding us, bringing them to life. It’s Friday, and I know by the sun’s angle, by the way my swans swim in the glow, I overslept.

“Mom!” I gasp.

She rocks, eyes distant. “Three hundred sixty-five,” she mumbles, over and over. “Three hundred sixty-five.”

Panting, Aunt Trish appears in the doorway. “You okay?”

“Three hundred sixty-five,” Mom chants, ignoring everyone.

“I’m fine,” I reply, pushing the comforter off of me. Paper crinkles in the process. A pencil rolls to the floor.

I step free of the bed and the mess. “Mom?”

She hugs herself, cheeks flushed. “Three hundred sixty-five.”

Sighing, Aunt Trish gestures at the window. “You’re not going to make the bus, Reagan.”

“It’s okay, I’ll walk.”

“You can stay home today,” she offers.

It’s tempting, but the letter I’d written to Matthew taunts me from the bed. “I’ll check in after first period.”

Trish glances at Mom. “You okay here?”

I nod. Aunt Trish leaves.

“Mom?”

“Three hundred sixty-five,” she whispers.

“Three hundred sixty-five what?” I ask gently.

I’ve scared her, and she pats her chest, rocking, repeating herself.

“It’s okay, Mama,” I soothe, touching her gently. “It’s okay. I was afraid, but I’m okay now.” Bringing her face to mine, I gaze into her eyes. “See? Everything’s fine.”

She inhales, calming, and I release her. Her hands dance, as if she’s conducting an invisible choir. “Three hundred sixty-five.”

I smile. “It’s a good number.”

“Steps,” she informs me, smiling because I am. “There are three hundred sixty-five steps. I counted them.”

My sleep-fogged brain fights to catch up, but when it does, I slip into her fantasy the same way I’d slip on a pair of old shoes, quick and effortlessly. “Where are we?”

Mom rises up on her toes, shades her eyes, pretends to look down, and cries, “A step for each day of the year!” Her body spins slowly. “Each side—there are four of them—has ninety-one steps. With the top platform, that makes three hundred sixty-five.” She looks at me, giddy. “Mexico, my jewel!” she reveals. “A Mayan ruin. It’s the fall equinox. I want to see it, don’t you?”

“With you? Always, Mama.”

She reaches for my hand, takes it, squeezes. “Come stand by me, my jewel.”

Suddenly, we’re on top of the world.

“Mom …” I feel like crying, and I don’t know why. I’m not sad.

She pulls me gently in front of her, my back against her chest, and wraps her arms around me, hugging me from behind. “You’re not alone,” she whispers.

It’s not a moment of clarity; it’s part of her fantasy, but the words seem so normal.

I close my eyes, savoring the way they sound, clasping the way they feel to my heart.

“Feel the wind against your face,” Mom breathes. “It’s telling us stories, whispering to us, because the wind does that. The wind is an honest storyteller. All-seeing, it hears everything and smells like the beginning of the world, like the earth when it was new. Before there were chemicals and pollutants, when it was just dirt, grass, water, and beautiful things, unfiltered.”

Taking my hands, she lifts them, holds them above my head. “At night, the stars are so clear, they reflect in our eyes. Seeing it makes you believe in things, in miracles. We are at Chichèn Itzà on the fall equinox, and the sun is about to set.”

“Is it cold?”
 

“No, my jewel, we are warm. It’s tropical here.” She releases me and points at our feet. “On the equinox, when the sun sets, the serpent of El Castillo comes to
life
.” She whisper-yells the last word in awe, eyes wide and shining. “Watch, my jewel! The sun is sleepy, and as it climbs down into its bed, a shadow in the shape of a snake falls over Chichèn Itzà, the serpent slithering down the steps with the sun, its dark shape descending down the Mayan pyramid to join the serpent’s head at the base of the staircase.”

I shiver, the image beautiful and frightening.

The world is stretched out before me, cloaked in a serpent’s shadow, and I see it as clearly as my mother sees it.

I am Mayan.

“The snake,” I murmur, awed by a sudden realization.

Did the Mayans view the world this way? Because it makes sense. Each day, the sun rises, a snake opening its jaws over mankind, challenging us and testing our limits, our endurance. As the day passes, so does the snake, slithering its way down to a peaceful place, leaving us to ponder the trials his journey left behind.

The snake is different for everyone.

I wonder if my mother knows she’s my snake.

TWELVE

The real world

The letters

We are in the crowded hallway, a few classes left in the day, when I pass Matthew an origami medicine bottle, very similar to the one in
Alice in Wonderland
, only instead of the label ‘Drink Me’, it says, ‘Read Me.’

Surprised, he accepts it, quickly sliding it into his jacket pocket, before moving on.

Inside is a letter.

Since you have absconded—also a very good word, much better than acquire—with the formalities, I’m going to do the same. No ‘Dear, Matthew’ or ‘Yours truly’.

I hate my cell phone and rarely use it. Frankly, social media scares me shitless. I’m not sure which makes me lamer, using ‘frankly’ in a sentence, or admitting to no online social life.

I don’t mind writing, but I’ll pass on quoting any books. It’s two o’clock in the morning, and I’m barely able to think straight much less quote anything.

You didn’t lie to me. Not really. No one is perfect.

There is not a man—in history or otherwise—who has never made a mistake.

Not a single one. So you get a pass on the girl thing. Just keep me off the list.

I’m not quite sure what to do with your admissions. I feel like your letter was a confessional somehow, and I was the priest reading it.

About Kagen … he has a strange way of showing he’s interested. I remember the kite, the day I sat on it in class. Even though he’d left it in my seat, I cried afterwards. Replacing it was the least I could do.

Then we grew up, huh? Makes we wish we never had.

We’ll pretend you never figured out the football player. I never dated him btw. Made out with him a few times—oh my God, did I really write
that?—
but we didn’t date. He was a terrible kisser.

Thank you for Egypt. It meant more than you know.

Confession: I pray to my mother at night. How is that for lame? I kneel next to her bed, and I pray. I ask her for things, for answers and clarity. She never responds.
 

So, yeah, I’m not sure if any of that mattered. I’d rather we not use these to blackmail each other, Moretti. Though, let’s be honest here, it wouldn’t be my reputation that was ruined. I don’t have a reputation to save.

Question: Whose idea was it to name you after a saint?

P.S. A bit of advice: Look in the mirror less, Moretti. Lots of potential in that head of yours. Do not tell anyone I
didn’t
quote a book. I lost nerd points with that one. Hashtags are the next best thing to cheesecake. #forreal

P.P.S. Who says ‘Keep it real’ … meh.

I get a reply the next hour, the note stuffed inside my locker.

We need to have a talk about how convenient modern technology is, Lawson. #forreal—see what I did there?

According to the free dictionary online—Googled it ON MY PHONE
—‘
abscond with’ also means ‘to run away with someone’. I had no idea you liked me that much, Lawson.

I’m suddenly feeling better about my mistakes, and I’m not sure that’s such a good thing.

Sucks growing up, doesn’t it?

Kagen isn’t as bad as he seems. His dad is pretty hard on him about the whole basketball thing. His family can afford college, so it’s not about money or scholarships, it’s all about the attention his father wants. The popularity. The name. The fame.

No way am I letting the football player go, especially now. Bad kisser? I sense a story there.

As for Egypt … I’ve actually thought about that a lot. Is it always like that?

Confession: I hate my hearing aids. Sometimes I’d rather not hear the world.

Answer: Believe it or not, my brothers and I all have family names, Apparently, the Morettis have been shooting for sainthood for generations.

Question: Now that you know about Kagen, how do you feel about him?

P.S. A bit of advice: Don’t give me letters that have been ‘origamied’. Is that a word? It completely killed me to destroy such an awesome work of art, and I have no idea how to put it back together. Also, we’ll pretend I didn’t think your origami bottle was cute. I’ve already lost my man card; I don’t need to lose my athletic dignity.

That said, can you make me a spider? Small and black. Got a teammate that’s terrified of them. He pranked me recently, and I’ve got to even the score.

P.P.S. Keep it real.

My reply circa fourth period.

Not that I have a problem with you, Moretti, but I wish you had introduced yourself this way in the first place. I like this guy. No less arrogant, but a lot less intimidating.

Modern technology? What is that?

The football player … so not going there. No story. Just a bad kisser and a terrible guy.

They call my mom delusional. That’s the official diagnosis. One of them anyway. It’s actually really complicated. Kind of like a math problem. Post-traumatic stress disorder+anxiety+brain trauma+psychosis+delusional disorder=what she is. It’s how she copes with life, I guess.

I have to admit; I’ve often wondered what the world would be like if it was quieter.

Question: Why did you ask me about Kagen?

P.S. There’s a spider hidden inside this letter. If you jumped when you opened it, then I have done my job. A bit of advice: Be you more.

P.P.S. Stubborn ass.

MATTHEW IS SITTING at our table in chemistry, his back to the door, when I arrive.

Pausing at the entrance, I stare at him, seriously considering feigning sick.

He turns, looks at me, and smiles, dimples flashing. Running is out of the question.

“Thank God!” Matthew hisses when I get to the table. “I’ve got one hour to explain the fine art of cell phone usage with you.”

I sit, hiding a smile. “Not a chance.”

And then suddenly, we run out of words.
 

It’s like we never met in the first place.

Silence falls. We don’t look at each other. The letters should have been an ice breaker. Instead, they make being next to him uncomfortable.

It’s weird.

For most of the class, we pretend the other doesn’t exist.

Mrs. Pierson places a page of notes on the projector, and then leaves us to copy them.
 

Matthew’s the first to speak. “Kagen still likes you. That’s the real reason we fought in the hallway.”

I’d already gathered that from Matthew’s jealousy comment after our Egypt excursion. The letters left no doubt.

“I’m not interested,” I say.

“Not even a little?”

I glance at him. “He has a girlfriend.”

“If you can call that a relationship.”

“Why do you care?”

Matthew stiffens, runs his hands through his hair, seems to forget he did it, and then runs them through it again. “He can be an ass, but he’s been my best friend since kindergarten.”

“That’s it?”

He nods. We take notes.

Leaning forward, he taps his pencil on the table. Glances at me. Glances away.

“So,” he clears his throat, “have you started the project for Mrs. Powell.”

My face shuts down. I can actually feel it doing it. “No.”

One word. A good one, too.

Matthew stares at me, saying nothing, and then out of nowhere, he scoots his chair over, his leg brushing mine. “Okay, so here’s the deal. I think you should do a project that introduces your mom to the class.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m serious. The whole Egypt thing … it was really cool. I think other people would think so, too.”

He has an earnest expression on his face, his gaze searching my face. His hair falls onto his forehead, a mess after he’d finger-rummaged it.

“Did you come up with this after you overheard me talking to Mrs. Powell?”

He doesn’t look the least bit apologetic. “Film it,” he says, as if it’s the most logical thing in the world.

“Film what?”

“Her,” he answers, “and her trips around the world with you.”

My jaw drops. “You’ve got to be shitting me. No!” I glance at the room, and then back at him. “No!’ Because it bears repeating

“Come on.” He grabs my hand, realizes he’s holding it, and then releases it too quickly. “Think about it. Not only will this open people up to the devastation of mental illness, but it will be the truth, not the damaging rumors already circulating about your mom.”

“Matthew—”

“Confession: I already wanted to talk to you when my nonna suggested I be nice to you. The origami thing is seriously cool. Also, let’s face it, I got tired of watching Kagen be an asshole because he has a crush on you. We’re not in grade school any more where the choice is either pull the girl’s hair or kiss her.” He taps the table in front of me. “A bit of advice: I think you stand a good chance of being something at this school. It’s not a half-bad place, you’re a pretty girl, and if you can talk to people the same way you’ve talked to me, you’ve got this.”