The Book of Matthew (The Alex Chronicles Book 1) (8 page)

I wondered how the time and distance would affect us. Would Matt come back to school after five weeks apart ready to confront our relationship? Would I come back still caring more about him than I did about playing the guitar?

Even when Matt and I sat inches apart, we were impossibly far from each other. Would the time and distance draw us closer?

Lisa had her back to me. She was peeling tape off the window with her fingernails. “You have one more guitar lesson this semester, right?”

I hadn’t told her much about Matt. There wasn’t anything to tell, other than he was a finance major. After three months, I still knew nothing about him; he was a stranger. His family. His childhood. His friends. His hopes and dreams. Who knew? I didn’t know the name of his band. I hadn’t seen his dorm room. It was all a mystery.

Matthew Levine was a closed book, one that I was desperately trying to pry open. Every time I tried, attempted to ask questions, he’d change the subject or act like everything was no big deal. He was infuriating. I was absolutely crazy for being so crazy for him.

All I told Lisa was that Matt was someone who was teaching me how to play the guitar.

“Tomorrow’s my last lesson,” I said.

“You know, I always pictured you as a flute kind of person.”

“The flute? Flutes are for girls.”

Lisa turned and looked at me. She had a paper candy cane in one hand and a wad of tape in the other. “Uh, have you looked in the mirror lately?” There was always a singsong quality to her voice. “I mean, seriously.”

“That’s not how I meant it. Guitars are just…cooler.”

“And this Matt guy…is
he
cool?”

“He’s pretty cool.”

Lisa turned back to her project at the window. She began to sing. “Matt and Alex, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S—”

“Lisa!” I interrupted her. “Have you looked in a mirror lately? You’re not five anymore. I mean, seriously.”

She spun around. “Hey!” She picked up a pencil off my desk and threw it at me, pouting her lip.

I stuck my tongue out at her and we both started laughing. Whenever one of us crossed the line and said something hurtful or insensitive, we stuck our tongue out as a way to apologize. It was our silent way of asking for forgiveness. It was a silly gesture, and not as easy as simply saying sorry, but it was just something that we did. And whenever Lisa pouted her lip, I knew I had crossed the line. Sticking my tongue out at her became my immediate response.

Lisa went back to peeling tape from the window. “So is Matt cute?” she asked.

I picked up the pencil that had landed at my feet and started playing with it. “Yeah, he’s cute.”

“Does he have a girlfriend?”

“I don’t think so.”

She turned again. “Then stop moping around and do something! I mean, God!”

I sat up straight. “What do you mean? What are you talking about?”

“Please! Don’t think I haven’t noticed.” She picked up her piles of paper ornaments and wads of tape and threw it all in the trash. “Ever since you’ve met him you’ve been all weird and stuff. And every time you get off the phone with him you have this dreamy look on your face.”

I rolled my eyes. “Whatever.”

“Oh, and then there was the time the two of you were sprawled out on your bed fast asleep.” She put her hands on her hip and grinned at me as if she had just caught me in a lie.

“That was totally innocent, Lisa. Nothing happened. We’re just friends.”

“Ha! Friends my butt! It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see that the two of you like each other!”

The phone rang. Lisa reached for it. “Hello?”

There was a pause. She smiled. “Yes, she’s here. Hold on.” She grinned and held the phone out to me. “It’s for you.”

I closed my book. I took the phone from Lisa and sat down on my bed. “Hello?”

“Hey, Alex. It’s Matt.”

“Hi, Matt.” From the corner of my eye I could see Lisa beaming at me.

“Am I calling too late?”

I looked at the clock. It was close to midnight. “No, it’s okay. Lisa and I were just…” I trailed off.

Lisa cupped her hands to her mouth. “We were gossiping about you, Matt! Are your ears ringing?”

I quickly covered the mouthpiece and glared at Lisa.

“Are you there?” Matt asked.

“Sorry. Lisa and I were just talking.”

I motioned with my hand for Lisa to get lost. She put a finger to her lips and silently tiptoed out of the room.

“I’m going to be a bit late for our lesson tomorrow,” Matt said.

“Oh, okay. Is everything all right?”

“Um, yeah.” He paused. “There’s just this thing I gotta do.”

“Do you want to cancel?”

“No!” Matt blurted out. “I mean, it’s our last lesson of the semester.”

“We can reschedule for another day.”

“I’ll only be a few minutes late.”

“Okay,” I said. ”I’ll wait for you at the usual spot.”

“All right.”

“Seriously, Matt. You can cancel. I won’t be upset. I’m sure you’ve got more important things to do.”

“Can’t miss our last lesson of the semester,” he said.

“Okay. If you’re sure.”

“Yep,” he said. “See you tomorrow.”

Lisa must have been listening on the other side of the door; it opened the minute I hung up the phone. She came trundling in, laughing. She paused in the doorway to say her good-byes to the imaginary person she was pretending to talk to. It was obvious, though, that the only conversation she had been involved in was mine.

II.

“Stop squirming,” Bobby said. “He’s waiting.”

The photographer stood in front of us. I was pulling down on the folds of my dress. Dozens of couples were lined up behind us outside the gymnasium in the lobby of our high school. They were practicing their smiles and waiting for their turns to be positioned into uncomfortable poses.

“I can’t help it,” I said. “My dress is too tight. It’s hard to breathe.”

Bobby’s hands were lightly grasping my hips as the photographer had instructed. Once I was done fixing myself, I clasped my hands together at waist level, making sure the small bouquet of flowers around my wrist was perfectly centered.

“All ready, then?” The photographer inquired.

Our perfect postures and sculpted smiles indicated yes.

The photographer put his eye up to the lens of the camera that sat about neck high on a tripod. “Look at the camera. On the count of three…”

At that moment I remember thinking: The number of times he repeats that phrase in the course of a year must be staggering. Weddings, proms, bar mitzvahs, graduations, birthday parties…

Until that point, I had thought photography was one of the best professions in the world. It must be great to be surrounded by happy people and have the honor of capturing on film some of the happiest moments of their lives. And then being paid for that art you created—it must be so rewarding.

But standing there like a plastic mannequin under a bright spotlight, feeling like the intense heat would make me melt, made me change my mind. The stress of finding the perfect thing to wear, a dress I’d never wear again. Making sure I looked picture perfect. Posing ourselves so unnaturally. What a charade. But I had to do it. I had to go through all this bullshit first in order to lose my virginity to Bobby Fraser. I just hoped it was worth it.

“Smile big for me!” the photographer called to us.

I whispered under my breath through a toothy grin. “This is stupid.”

Bobby heard me. “I know,” he whispered.

It’s amazing how many events require people to submit to such fakery. And it’s even more amazing that people continue to subject themselves to it. Dress themselves up in uncomfortable clothing, put on their best simulated smiles and pretend to be happy. How bogus.

Any seasoned photographer must see through it after awhile. He must notice the hint of sadness behind the smiles. The beads of nervous sweat clinging to a groom’s forehead. That twinkle of teenage lust in the eye of a tuxedoed prom boy. The embarrassed sideways glance a mother gives her child right before the snap of a family photo to make sure he’s standing still.

But even worse, he probably empathizes with his subjects, shares in their pain and fear and frustration. How could he not? After all, he’s probably gone through some of the same things at some point in his own life. After awhile, he must become like a sponge that soaks up all the negative energy until it becomes his own. It must be uncomfortable to do his job. It must be hard to show no emotion.

While putting on my own pretend smile the thought occurred to me: Other than working in a funeral home, being a photographer must be the most depressing god damned job in the world.

The photographer counted aloud. “One, two, three!”

There was a flash and a snap. Before I had time to blink away the white circles in front of my eyes, I was being ushered away from the flowered backdrop to make room for the next couple.

Hip-hop music was playing. Some brave souls were already dancing and making fools of themselves, flailing around as if they were inventing a new twist on The Twist. These were the artsy-but-still-somewhat-popular kids. The truly popular kids had already staked their claim by the punch bowls, pounding down Kool Aid like it was tequila shots. They stood around in large groups, shifting a few paces anytime someone outside their social caste came near them.

The losers had found their place too—way in the back corner of the room. They hadn’t the energy to stand, what from all the pot they smoked before they got there. They chose to sacrifice their clothes to the dirt and grime that layered the gymnasium floor. None of them gave a fuck anyway; they were all high as a kite. The only thing they did give a fuck about was not giving a fuck about anything or anyone. I was surprised they were there at all.

I spied one of the girl losers, Becky, and she gave me a thumbs up. Naturally, she was wearing a black dress, ripped fish-net stockings and ankle-high Doc Martens. I smiled and waved.

Becky sat behind me in home room and for the longest time she scared the shit out of me and I was afraid to even look at her, let alone talk to her. But one day she accidently poked me in the back with a pencil and as I half-turned to look at her the squeakiest apology came out of her mouth. The high-pitched voice humanized her, made her less scary. And talking to her made me realize that the loser act was just that—an act. She wasn’t a loser at all, and she only looked scary. After many homeroom conversations with her I realized that unlike most of the losers, she gave a fuck about almost everything and everyone.

With that innocent little pencil poke we became instant pseudo-friends.

The hierarchy of cliques at my high school, from lowest to highest, went something like this: losers, geeks, artsy, artsy-but-still-somewhat-popular, semi-popular, popular.

I had friends who were losers. These were the kids who smoked weed and wore black t-shirts every day to school printed with obscure band names no one had ever heard of. I also had friends who were geeks. These were people who played a musical instrument, and especially those who were members of the marching band. And I had friends who were artsy—all the wanna-be thespians and kids on the yearbook staff.

But my associations never went higher than that. Dividing the sum total of the people I knew and hung out with into their respective cliques, and my guess is that I was considered an artsy geek.

Bobby, on the other hand, defied categories. If not for the fact that he helped jocks cheat on tests and scored for chicks all the cigarettes they cared to smoke, he would be the geek no one wanted to associate with. But Bobby’s connections saved him.

And I was saving myself for Bobby…

More fast songs played and the dance floor started filling up. Latecomers were still filing in, waiting in line to have their pictures taken.

It was about this time that I noticed a burning in my left heel. I looked down and noticed a tear in the heel of my pantyhose. The skin underneath was exposed and had turned bright pink.

“Damn it,” I muttered.

“What’s the matter?” Bobby asked.

“Stupid shoes are rubbing the back of my heel.”

“Take them off,” he suggested. “Now that we’ve had our picture taken you won’t need them.”

Bobby Fraser always had an answer or a solution for everything.

A slow song started to play. Couples made their way to the dance floor. Girls led their guys by the hand. Bobby and I looked at each other and shrugged in what-the-hell-why-not fashion.

He stepped on my feet twice before we found our rhythm. I looked around and noticed everyone else had found their rhythm too. Couples were grope dancing all around us. They were grinding their adolescent bodies together, writhing, making out like the future of the world depended on the swapping of their spit.

My left heel burned intensely and it started to throb. Both shoes were pinching my toes. It was hard to stand and keep pace with Bobby’s shuffling.
Why hadn’t I broken the shoes in?
I thought.

I looked around at some of the other girls’ feet. They all still wore their shoes. Not a single one of them was barefoot.

I was too entangled in Bobby’s arms, and we were spinning too quickly for me to stop and look at my aching heel. I couldn’t risk looking like a weirdo by being the only barefoot girl in the room. Besides, Bobby was too tall for me as it was.

This wasn’t how the evening was supposed to go.

I panicked. I stared at Bobby’s black tie as we spun in place and concentrated on the song. I tried to push the pain from my mind. There was only about thirty seconds to go and then I could go sit down.

Bobby went rigid and stopped moving. I looked up at him in confusion. He had a rascally look in his hazel eyes and a huge impish grin on his face. Suddenly, his tongue was in my mouth and his hands were groping my back. I squirmed in his grasp and grabbed his neck tighter as the back of my shoe dug into my aggravated, swollen heel.

I felt something burst and a sudden relief from pain. Bobby’s tongue was no longer the only moist thing I felt. Having been rubbed raw, my heel had reached its breaking point; warm droplets of blood soaked through my pantyhose and oozed down the back of my shoe.