pencil shavings

six: matt

"... and she was literally ridiculous. The hair, like - God, I almost felt bad for the poor girl. Like, I don't know. Curly is not in. Oh. My. God. And did I tell you - that snob who sits like right next to me and, like, picks her nose? Mattie oh my God she's so weird. Like, they totally made a movie character straight outta her."

"Like the basket case from The Breakfast Club?" I say before I get a chance to think. God, Peter was really rubbing off on me. Ugg.

I watch Carly take those squiggly-turns, hunched forward in concentration. She's the one straight out of the movies. With her cinematic curls of dyed-blond hair, the red lip gloss from that Sea-pora place, or whatever, the Lululemon bags and cropped shirts and tight, tight, jeans. If only she weren't so pretty. Then maybe I could get away long enough to earn back the brain cells she's stolen from me.

"Hmm?" She dares a look in my direction and the car swerves.

One of these days I'm actually going to die in this freaking car.

"Never mind. How was class?"

"...It's been better. Oh Mattie, I really don't think I'm gonna pass. I just - math isn't my thing, you know?"

I nod and my heart thuds at the tone. I know I should help, but was that sincerity or was she trying to guilt me into tutoring her? Sometimes I don't think she knows - or cares. She just gets what she wants.

"You'll be okay - you talked to the teacher right? Just, make sure this time-"

"I know, I know. Make sure this time I try. I get it. Oooh I love this song!"

Then the radio's blasting and she's singing along as we drive out of the town and I smile a little, you know, not like the smile from earlier today, but a happy smile nonetheless. Because this Carly - the one who drives with the top down and blasts terrible music and sings along even more terribly - she makes me happy.

"DO YOU WANT TO GO TO MY HOUSE?"

I turn the music down a little, but she gives me her pouty-face, so I turn it back up.

"YEAH," I yell, waving to the guy who let us turn. Carly didn't even see him.

"COOL."

We drive the rest of the way in silence, that is, except for the raucous overflow of noise from the speakers, until we scrape into her driveway.

Her parents' cars are gone, but the black truck in the front means her sister made it home. Great.

"...finally came back - but I so wish she would just stay at college all year 'round. She's such an idiot - I can't believe I'm related to her."

As we climb out, the giant front door swings open with a bang and out waltzes Sierra Valdez herself, hips swinging, hair perfect, seven ear piercings shining.

I force myself to blink, placing my had on Carly's back, and nodding my chin at the older girl. She ignores us completely.

Carly sneers with bitter envy, but Sierra doesn't so much as look in our direction as she disappears into her truck and roars away. I feel my shoulders relax a little.

"God, she's such an awful driver. And her hair looks like...like... - you know ever since she got that job modeling... "

My lips tug into a slight smile while we walk past the still-open door, winding through the grand hallways to the third (and my personal favorite) TV room.

Carly's still ranting about her gorgeously bad-ass sister when my phone clamors for attention.

where r u

I wince. Rogers.

"-she always gets the freaking best, like she's such a-"

"Carly..."

She takes one look at me with her big blue eyes and crosses her arms. "No."

"I have to go today..."

"God, Mattie, you're good enough at baseball, can you just not?"

I grit my teeth and breathe out, "Basketball. It's basketball. And I promised Rogers, I'm sorry."

She huffs like a bird ruffling its feathers and brushes her lips to my cheek, eyes glowering a little. But the minute I step away from her embrace, she's engrossed in her phone and miles away already.

I wonder if we live in the same world sometimes, as she's drinking an extra-spinach smoothie on a white leather couch with her phone glued to her palm, and I'm blasting Bon Jovi on a run through the trails behind our houses. I've always wanted to take her back there, you know, for a romantic picnic in the fall, but I doubt she would be willing to risk the potential mud splotches or fabric tears from a trip into, God forbid, nature.

I'm changed and on the court before Rogers has completely spammed my phone with angry texts.

"Matt, honestly man, I can't play by myself," he huffs as I walk on the court, muttering, "Trust me, the minute I could, I would." 

"Dude, chill. I'm here."

"Where were you?"

"Carly." It comes out as a mutter, and he gives me that all-too-familiar eye-roll.

"Your life, man," is all he says, driving in hard for a lay-up. 

 It's shot, pass, lay-up, shot, pass, pass, three-pointer, pass... and we're going and there's sweat flying and Rogers throws off his shirt and I try so hard to focus on the net and the ball, but my mind is wandering. Because the sky is warm, like Sam's smile, and it dyes the mountains a neat burgundy, like Peter's sweater, and I miss shot after shot after airball because my head is lost again in the clouds of some fantasy kingdom, in the mind of some want-to-be Hercules, and I can't escape. Frankly, I don't think I want to.