Words and Their Meanings (21 page)

50

J
oe used to recite this one poem to me a lot when I first started writing. His high school English class was in the thick of a poetry unit and he became obsessed with the sound of William Stafford's works, especially this one about grass and sky and a heart that stops beating. I thought it was morbid.

“That last line is so great, how it wraps up all the gone and here and past and future and right now, like it's right around us in the clouds,” he'd say.

I never forgot Joe's words. Or the poem.

I don't know why I'm thinking about it right now. Maybe because I'm all of a sudden not mad anymore. I'm hurt. But it's the kind of hurt that comes with loss and letting go. It's just another layer in what the word “sad” means to me.

I'm sad. And missing the way things were. And grieving the way things will never be. And maybe accepting, a little bit, the way things are, right now.

I repeat the lines, shush them into the soil, hope the sounds carry below or above or all around.

I will the words to reach him. Then I feel it. A pulse in the ground. Vibrating sounds, the beat of a heart. I push my ear against the grass. A steady rhythm, getting closer. Opening my eyes, I see Mateo jogging my way.

51

I
sit up too late. Nat's BMW's taillights are already disappearing around a bend. A green Jeep is parked on the roadside. Mateo is close enough that I can't run. My eyes dart in every direction, searching for an escape route or place to hide.

“Anna, please.” Mateo stops jogging. He's seven headstones away. He holds his hands up where I can see them, and approaches slow. Like I'm a wild animal. Like he's afraid to scare me.

“Just stay right there and let me talk to you. Please. Just listen.”

“I can't believe she left me,” is all I can eek out as I stare at the place where Nat's car had been sitting.

“She's upset. She felt like you needed space. She called me.”

“Of course she did.”

Mateo looks hurt.

“Come on, don't be like that. I'll drive you home. I want the chance to explain.”

“Explain what? Why does everyone think they get the chance to explain after ripping me into shreds? How do you think you can explain away all the stuff I told you, when everything you were telling me was a lie?”

I rake my hands through my hair. Lean against the tree.

“I know what it looks like,” he says, stepping closer. “And I'm not going to act like you're wrong.”

“It doesn't matter now. Whatever we were was fake anyway, right? Just a way for you to get back at your parents, or lose your spot in the culinary program so you could go off to New York without even saying goodbye? Don't you think I've had enough of that in my lifetime?”

Mateo doesn't take his eyes off me. Not even for a second.

“I know what I said. When we first saw each other, you know you felt that connection too,” he says, searching my face. “But I also knew you looked like trouble and maybe that made me want you more. That's not the truth of what we were, though, or how I feel about you now. I never thought New York was even possible. I didn't believe it would happen—so many things had to fall into place. The scholarship had to be a full ride. My parents had to agree. I wasn't even sure I wanted to go—I mean, the culinary program could be a meal ticket. What's art school? Maybe nothing. I never should have let myself fall—”

“Give me a break.”

“Look, when we met it's not like I was thinking, ‘Aw, man, where has this girl been all my life?' You're beautiful. But actually, you just looked like—like red paint.”

“Red paint? You fake-liked me because I looked like red paint?” I halt between words because the sentences sound so crazy.

“Basically. To everybody else, I think you looked like the color gray, like something dull and empty and strange. I could tell, though. I could see it. And the night I took you home, when we started talking, I felt sure—”

“Sure that I was red paint?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know how insane that sounds?”

Mateo laughs a little. He drops his head and nods.

“I gotta believe you know what I mean,” he says, looking up at me from heavy-lidded eyes. “You're an artist. I can't explain it except to say you are vivid color. And I wanted to be around you.”

“Okay, enough with the bullshit. You've already admitted you used me. I'm done. I'd rather be home.”

“No. No, we aren't done. Because I'm trying to explain. My very first thought, after that night we shared a smoke? Yes. I
t was that you looked like the kind of trouble I n
eeded. But honest to God, Anna, that was the last time I thought it. And when I first kissed you, everything exploded—my feelings, my job, my future—I wanted to
stay away from you and figure out my own mess and yet I showed up at your house within a few days. I started believing this was real and then you walked out in the middle of dinner and I was so pissed I just said a
bunch of stupid, stupid things. But we just keep bumping back together.”

“Fragile magnets,” I whisper.

“What?”

I shake my head, picture bad-ass girls dancing like they don't care, swinging microphones, getting carried away by a crowd. I'm channeling. I'm staying in character.

“Never mind. I'm done with people who can't tell the truth.”

Mateo has the nerve to look pained, his eyes as vulnerable as the night we met. Maybe more.

“You don't get to call me out on not being truthful when you're dressed like some punk rock poet whose words you stea
l like penny candy—”

“Did you just say ‘words you steal like penny candy'?”

Mateo breaks into a sheepish grin. I've felt like Atlas all day, carrying the world on my shoulders. For whatever reason, “words you steal like penny candy” is the funniest phrase I've ever heard. I can't stop laughing. Between this and a constant flow of tears, my whole face is a giant bee sting, swollen and heavy and zonked.

“Can I get you out of here?” Mateo is cautious as he motions toward his Jeep. “You don't have to say a word to me on the ride home.”

It's getting late, and everything is shadowed in orange light, like an old photograph. It carries the softness of the past, of remembering.

“Fine.” I'm too exhausted to argue.

As soon as we get in the Jeep, Mateo opens his mouth again.

“I really like you. I mean, I have never felt like this about—”

“I thought you said we didn't have to talk?”

He shrugs and turns on his radio.

“Are you listening to Patti Smith?”

Mateo shrugs again.

“I like her stuff,” he says, staring at the road. “But I will say, for someone you want to be just like, you're a little short on optimism.”

“What are you talking about? I wouldn't call Patti an optimist. She's a realist.”

“Are you joking me? I mean, her memoir—
Just Kids
—the whole thing is one giant ode to hopefulness.”

I blink at him.

“No way,” Mateo says, ping-ponging his glance between the road and
me. “You're obsessed with being like this woman, but you haven't even read her memoir? Nat bought it for you, right? I mean, I've read her copy—she lent it to me as what she called an ‘Anna Study Guide.' What have you been doing for the last year? Using bits and pieces of her world? I gotta tell you, a lot of the book felt like you—I mean, not like the same situations or anything, but the emotion. Patti Smith was kinda a lost soul too, I figured you clicked wit
h the idea. But she found herself. I mean, that's the whole point.”

I stuff my hands into my borrowed sweatpants. I can't have my fingers wandering free. I'll reach for him.

52

A
s soon as we get within two miles of my house, I start panicking. It's not a cute panic either. It's a full-blown attack. I can't br
eathe. I can't move. Mateo pulls over and leans back in his seat.

“Can you, can you take me to the Roethke House?” I ask as soon as I can gasp enough air to form words.

“I'm not taking you to some dead poet's house to leave you sitting alone, outside, in the dark. I want to take you home, Anna, but I'll wait until you are ready to go.”

“I won't be outside.” My mind reels. I know I can't see my mom or Bea yet. The aftermath of what I did—what I tried to do—I can't stomach it right now. I can't. I can't go. I need a place to sort out my thoughts. To figure out what I'm going to say. To grieve everything that is and isn't.

I've never used the key around my neck. When Mrs. Risson realized I was serious about never writing again, she gave it to me and said if I ever needed to find my words, the museum she helps care for might serve as inspiration. I took the key to be nice. I've never taken it off, but it's been hung around my neck for all this time only to remind me what I need to keep locked away. But I don't have to stay outside tonight, and when I tell Mateo this, he turns his Jeep around.

53

W
e step into the dark house. Mateo bumps a metal coat rack. It tips against me. Startled laughter. We fumble for the light switch. The bulbs are dim at first. We wait in silence until the entryway is a mix of light and shadows. Ah, the metaphor.

“What have you eaten today?” Mateo asks as we tiptoe into the kitchen. He clears his throat and asks again, remembering we are the only two people here. I watch him survey the buttercream walls, the dark wood window trim dividing the top of the glass into three small square panes. He looks at the stove and fridge, both new but made to look old. I follow his eyes: small wooden table, four dining chairs, dishes stacked on shelves above the sink.

“Um …” I pause and walk out of the room. I don't need to be taken care of, but admitting I haven't had anything but river water and a croissant in my system might not be the best proof.

“Nothing, right?”

When I don't answer, Mateo frowns.

“Okay, we need to remedy that,” he says, glancing toward the front door and back to me. “If I leave you here and run to the store, can I trust you'll stay put?”

“What is it with you people? Where am I going to go?” I ask. He glares at me. I pout.

“Yes, fine. I promise. But you don't need to go to the grocery store for me. Let's just go get some fast food or something. Taco Bell's open.”

I can't help a tiny grin when Mateo waves off my idea as “ridiculous.” He checks his wallet, nods, and walks out the door. I listen to him jog down the steps. There are seven of them, painted gray. An engine rumbles. Tires crunch in the gravel drive. I settle onto a green couch and wait.

I must have fallen asleep, because I wake to the rhythm of Mateo in the kitchen. I can see him through the door, his body moving in and out of the frame. He glances my way, feeling my stare. He flashes a dimpled half-smile.

It occurs to me I've never actually eaten anything Mateo has prepared. The plate of food he brought to my house got devoured by Mom and Bea, but I opted to make a peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich instead. The smells coming from the kitchen are rich and warm. My stomach responds with a growl.

“Come on in here,” Mateo says.

The plate set down in front of me is simple. I never understood, until this moment, what it means to have someone make art for you. It doesn't matter the medium is a plate of wilted spinach with a balsamic-drizzled crepe in the middle, stuffed to the point of bursting with rice and mushrooms and kale.

I can't explain how this food tastes like more than food, but it does. Maybe it's because this is the first real meal I've had since yesterday. Maybe it's the late hour. Maybe it's eating at the table of a poet who spoke in waltzes and phrases of flowers. Maybe it is the way Mateo watches me chew and swallow, every muscle in his face defined by worry, compassion, and something like love.

“You are really, really good at this,” I say, nodding toward my plate.

“Thanks.”

“How did you choose? I mean, I know you can draw amazingly well and all, but how did that kind of art win out over this? Cause I have to say, this is to die for.”

“Not the best word choices for today, hmm?”

“Don't change the subject,” I warn, dragging my fork across my plate.

“Cooking is personal for me. I love to cook. I love to make food for my family, friends. But cooking for strangers kind of sucks. It's not my thing. I don't want to do it for the rest of my life just because I'm good at it. It's hard because there's a lot of pressure on me to go to culinary school. My parents aren't going to be around forever. Val's gonna need help, which means I need to make money. But I don't know. Art degrees can lead to jobs too, despite what high school counselors claim.” He leans into me.

I lean back, sharing his joke.

“Stay with me tonight,” I say when the last bite is settling into my stomach.

I leave the plate on the table. Dishes are scattered across the counter. Cooking as art is a messy business. I lead him to the bedroom upstairs. My hands might be sweating too much. My experience is limited to some tongue action and a single boob feel-up at the park during a game of spin-the-water-bottle one afternoon. It doesn't inspire confidence. I need to stop thinking. Walk. Hold his hand. Breathe. Stop blushing. Stop sweating into his palm. Stop thinking about what to stop doing.

The four-poster bed is short, the dark wood matching the windows and stairs. It has a red-and-white quilt of entwined circles, like a mandala.

Mateo stops at the door. He holds me by the small of my back and my neck, kisses me like I'm fragile. Like he's a warm breeze just passing through.

“I'll stay,” he whispers. “But not like this.”

He steps into the room and folds back the quilt. There are no sheets underneath, but I crawl in anyway, trying not to cry as he pulls the cover back over me. Tucks me in like a child.

“Don't,” he murmurs, catching a tear with the side of his finger. “It's not that I don't want to. I just don't want it to be like this. I'm gonna call Nat and have her somehow let your parents know you're safe. And then I'll stay on the couch. But I won't go downstairs until you're sleeping.”

I only feel two more tears slide down my nose.