must be his—
His mom.
She’s got long blonde hair and a smile that looks warm and happy. But if this is his mom, then why is Gary being so friendly with my mom? And where is she? Matt’s never spoken about her, and she’s definitely never there at school. Maybe they’re divorced. Or maybe—
I feel horrible thinking it, but maybe she’s dead.
I shiver at that.
“Thanks,” I say, snapping back to the moment and glancing away guiltily.
“Feel free to go up. I’m just finishing up a bit of work, so dinner will be a little while, I’m afraid. It’s been a bit hectic since . . .”
He trails off and his eyes go foggy like Mom’s did for a while after Dad left. I stand there waiting for him to say something, but he doesn’t, so after a while I brace myself and head upstairs.
As soon as I reach the landing, I can hear the sound of guns popping and bombs exploding. I knock three times on Matt’s door, but he doesn’t answer. The gunfire gets cut off by silence, though, so I know he’s heard me. I can’t believe I’m about to walk into his room. My heart’s beating as loud as the Xbox. I wait and wait, but it’s clear he’s not going to say anything, so I open the door and poke my head in.
It’s pure black, Matt’s room, and covered in posters of cars and rappers. He’s sitting on the bed clutching the controller, but as soon as I step inside, he’s up and bounding across the room.
He shoves his hand in my face.
“See this?” he says, pointing to the edge of his desk. He runs his hand in a line from wall to wall. “This is a line. You don’t cross it. You get me?”
“I get you.”
“Good.”
He slouches back and carries on playing Call of Duty. There’s nowhere to sit, so I just kneel on the floor. Mom would never let me have an all-black room. Or play CoD.
“Is this the latest one?” I ask.
“What do you think?”
His character ducks behind an exploded tank, fires a shot over the top, hides again. Planes roar through the sky above him.
“You’re so lucky your dad lets you play on this.”
His mouth tightens, and his thumbs move over the controller in fast-forward flicks. The soldier on-screenswaps an empty M16 for an RPG launcher and fires a rocket into the window of a burning building. He sprints out from behind the tank and rushes forward over ditches and barbed wire and—
Pat-pat-pat.
Three bullets and the screen’s red, and now Matt’s throwing down the controller.
“You made me do that,” he says.
Then he falls back on the bed, puts his hands behind his head.
Somewhere I can hear an old grandfather clock. I listen to the minutes ticking away until BONG BONG BONG BONG it strikes four o’clock.
The clock reminds me of his story earlier today.
Something rises inside me, and suddenly it’s so tempting to ask him, to bait him . . .
He’s not going to fight me here, surely . . . not with his dad downstairs.
“Why did you lie?” I say.
“What?”
“Why did you lie? Earlier today, with the egg? When you told your story—why did you lie?”
He doesn’t sit up, doesn’t even move. “I didn’t.”
Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock.
“You said your granddad showed you how to play chess.”
“He did.”
“Isn’t he in the retirement home?”
That gets his attention. He jolts up, eyes glaring.
“DON’T talk to me about that retirement home.” He screams the first word, but after that his voice is so quiet I can barely hear him. His eyes get thinner and thinner.
“Why not? My grandma’s in there too. I know how it feels.”
“You don’t know how it feels!” he yells. Then, maybe realizing how loud he’s being, he says again, much quieter, “You don’t. No one knows how it feels.”
There’s a knock on the door. His dad pokes his head in and asks if everything’s okay. Heart racing, I turn to Matt, but he just nods and picks up his controller again.
“We’re fine,” he says. “We’re taking turns playing this.”
“All
His mom.
She’s got long blonde hair and a smile that looks warm and happy. But if this is his mom, then why is Gary being so friendly with my mom? And where is she? Matt’s never spoken about her, and she’s definitely never there at school. Maybe they’re divorced. Or maybe—
I feel horrible thinking it, but maybe she’s dead.
I shiver at that.
“Thanks,” I say, snapping back to the moment and glancing away guiltily.
“Feel free to go up. I’m just finishing up a bit of work, so dinner will be a little while, I’m afraid. It’s been a bit hectic since . . .”
He trails off and his eyes go foggy like Mom’s did for a while after Dad left. I stand there waiting for him to say something, but he doesn’t, so after a while I brace myself and head upstairs.
As soon as I reach the landing, I can hear the sound of guns popping and bombs exploding. I knock three times on Matt’s door, but he doesn’t answer. The gunfire gets cut off by silence, though, so I know he’s heard me. I can’t believe I’m about to walk into his room. My heart’s beating as loud as the Xbox. I wait and wait, but it’s clear he’s not going to say anything, so I open the door and poke my head in.
It’s pure black, Matt’s room, and covered in posters of cars and rappers. He’s sitting on the bed clutching the controller, but as soon as I step inside, he’s up and bounding across the room.
He shoves his hand in my face.
“See this?” he says, pointing to the edge of his desk. He runs his hand in a line from wall to wall. “This is a line. You don’t cross it. You get me?”
“I get you.”
“Good.”
He slouches back and carries on playing Call of Duty. There’s nowhere to sit, so I just kneel on the floor. Mom would never let me have an all-black room. Or play CoD.
“Is this the latest one?” I ask.
“What do you think?”
His character ducks behind an exploded tank, fires a shot over the top, hides again. Planes roar through the sky above him.
“You’re so lucky your dad lets you play on this.”
His mouth tightens, and his thumbs move over the controller in fast-forward flicks. The soldier on-screenswaps an empty M16 for an RPG launcher and fires a rocket into the window of a burning building. He sprints out from behind the tank and rushes forward over ditches and barbed wire and—
Pat-pat-pat.
Three bullets and the screen’s red, and now Matt’s throwing down the controller.
“You made me do that,” he says.
Then he falls back on the bed, puts his hands behind his head.
Somewhere I can hear an old grandfather clock. I listen to the minutes ticking away until BONG BONG BONG BONG it strikes four o’clock.
The clock reminds me of his story earlier today.
Something rises inside me, and suddenly it’s so tempting to ask him, to bait him . . .
He’s not going to fight me here, surely . . . not with his dad downstairs.
“Why did you lie?” I say.
“What?”
“Why did you lie? Earlier today, with the egg? When you told your story—why did you lie?”
He doesn’t sit up, doesn’t even move. “I didn’t.”
Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock.
“You said your granddad showed you how to play chess.”
“He did.”
“Isn’t he in the retirement home?”
That gets his attention. He jolts up, eyes glaring.
“DON’T talk to me about that retirement home.” He screams the first word, but after that his voice is so quiet I can barely hear him. His eyes get thinner and thinner.
“Why not? My grandma’s in there too. I know how it feels.”
“You don’t know how it feels!” he yells. Then, maybe realizing how loud he’s being, he says again, much quieter, “You don’t. No one knows how it feels.”
There’s a knock on the door. His dad pokes his head in and asks if everything’s okay. Heart racing, I turn to Matt, but he just nods and picks up his controller again.
“We’re fine,” he says. “We’re taking turns playing this.”
“All
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