More Than We Can Tell

This shouldn’t be so hard.

Maybe that’s a sign. I keep trying to make things work with Emma, but maybe we’re both too screwed up and broken.

I tell Declan everything. Matthew, too, because he sits at the lunch table with us like he’s been doing it all his life.

He slept on the futon last night. He was sound asleep when I woke up, and I left him there. He hasn’t said a word about it, so I haven’t either.

The cafeteria isn’t crowded today. The weather outside is beautiful, so most people have taken their trays out onto the quad.

I wish Juliet were here, because she could give a girl’s point of view, but she’s working on something for the yearbook.

“What do you think I should do?” I ask.

Declan spreads his hands. “What do you want? You said you’re going to meet her tonight.”

“I want you to tell me what I’m supposed to do.”

“No.” Declan shakes his head. “You spend so much time worrying about what you’re supposed to do. This is about what you want to do.”

“I don’t know what I want to do.” Just like everything else in my life, Emma isn’t simple. She’s complex.

I can’t believe she thinks I’m jealous.

Then again, yes, I can. From her descriptions, everyone else in her life is selfish and controlling; why not me, too?

“Hey.” Declan reaches out and taps me on the top of the head. “Get out of your head. Eat some lunch.”

“This is so complicated.”

“It’s not complicated,” Declan says. “This is a girl who wants to talk. You know how to do that. A girl thinking you’re two different people is complicated.”

“What?” says Matthew.

“Long story.”

I shove my lunch sack across the table. This sucks. “I’m not hungry.”

Declan’s words rattle around in my head, though. You spend so much time worrying about what you’re supposed to do. This is about what you want to do.

This feels like the conversation I had with Dad.

Do you want your father in your life?

I don’t know.

I think you do know, Rev.

Declan wanted to confront his father, so he did it.

Even Matthew wanted to take action. He picked up a knife and was ready to walk out the front door.

Not a wise course of action, but he was doing something.

Emma wants to talk.

And here I sit, frozen with indecision.

Across the table, Matthew has gone still, too. He’s doing that looking-without-looking thing, the way he did the first few nights he lived with us.

“What’s wrong?” I say.

“It’s nothing.”

“The way Neil was ‘no one’?”

His eyes flash to mine, but he sinks into himself. “Don’t talk about that.”

I scan the people in the cafeteria, but then I spot them—the boys who were hassling him the other day. “Are they still bothering you?”

“Leave it.”

“Dude. They can’t—”

“Leave it.”

Declan turns to follow my gaze, then looks back at me. “Friendly reminder, but if you get into it, hit them. Not me.”

“I’m not getting into it with anyone.”

Matthew has stopped eating entirely. His shoulders are tight, and his fingers fidget with the lid of a container.

“You should tell Mom and Dad,” I tell him.

He snorts. “Sure.”

“You don’t think you can?”

“Don’t you understand that I’m trying not to cause a problem?” His voice is low and derisive, but he glances across the cafeteria.

Those boys are paying at the register. One of them spots us, then pokes his friend to indicate where we’re sitting.

Matthew shoves his food back into his lunch sack. His motions are tightly controlled.

“Where are you going?” I say to him.

“Nowhere.” His backpack goes over one shoulder, and he strides away from the table.

I want to let him go. I don’t like confrontation. But maybe that’s the whole problem.

“Watch my stuff,” I say to Declan.

Matthew beat me through the door to the hallway, but I catch up to him fairly easily. He’s heading toward the south side of the school, which surprises me. All that’s down this way is the fine arts wing. Juliet is probably down here in the photo lab.

He doesn’t stop walking. He doesn’t even look at me.

Without warning, he ducks into a classroom.

It’s so unexpected that I almost walk right past it. This is the art studio, a room where I’ve never had class. A fine arts elective is required to graduate, but I took Music Appreciation freshman year, just to get it out of the way.

The art studio is a huge room, but it somehow seems cramped. Color is everywhere, from the paintings and drawings strung along the walls to the reams of paper, jars of tempera paint, and rolls of newsprint lining the back half of the room. Half the room has six long tables, with stools pushed underneath. The other half has a dozen easels. The lighting in here comes from overhead track lights instead of the fluorescents everywhere else. It’s a quiet room. A peaceful room.

I wonder if he has class here or if this is just a convenient place to hide. “Do you take art?”

He hesitates, then shrugs. “Yeah. It’s just an elective.” He drops his bag under the whiteboard at the front of the room, then moves to the narrow shelves under the window. A dark canvas slides free, and he carries it to an easel.

Once the canvas is in the light, I realize it isn’t dark. The painting is. Most of the canvas has been painted in wide swaths of red, with black streaks and jagged, broken curves throughout. The uppermost part of the canvas is still untouched. It’s very abstract, but the painting radiates with anger.

Matthew sets it on an easel. He hasn’t looked at me since we’ve walked in here. The air is uncomfortable suddenly, as if I’ve walked in on something very private.

“This is more than an elective, isn’t it?” I say.

He doesn’t answer that question, but he doesn’t have to. “I started it a few months ago. Mrs. Prater still had it. At first I was glad, because it always sucks to leave something unfinished. But I keep messing with it and I can’t get it right. I might trash it and start over.”

The more I look at his painting, the less I want to look away. My eyes keep finding tiny details. Small streaks of purple and orange almost hidden by the twists of red and black.

“How did you learn how to do that?” I say.

“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “One place where I lived, the woman was an illustrator—like for kids’ books? She used to let me paint.” He pauses. “And it’s something you can do at pretty much any school.”

A wistful note has entered his voice, and I wonder what happened to this illustrator. It’s the first time he’s mentioned a foster home without any resentment in his voice.

He glances at me, as if reading my thoughts. “Her husband’s job got transferred, and they weren’t interested in adoption. You can’t leave the state with a foster kid, so …” He shrugs again.

“You’re really good.”

He gives me a cynical smile. “You don’t even know what you’re looking at.” But he looks pleased.

“Do you have anything else here?” I say.

He nods, and his eyes lift to the wall. “Up there. The woods?”

I find the painting he’s indicating. It’s primarily black and gray, dark trees on a night sky. Stars peek between barren branches. There’s nothing to indicate winter, but somehow the painting makes me think of cold weather. At the base of one tree is a small dark form, like someone crouched, and a burst of color, yellows and oranges, like a fire.

I think about what he just said. It always sucks to leave something unfinished. I wonder how many paintings of his are stashed in art rooms around the county, works that he began and then abandoned.

This feels like more of a secret than what he told me about his prior foster homes. There’s nothing to indicate an affinity for art among his things. It softens him somehow.

“You should tell Mom and Dad,” I say. “Tear down that alphabet border in your room and paint something of your own.”

He smiles. “That would be cool.” But again, the smile vanishes. “They wouldn’t let me do that.”

“Why not? It’s just paint.”

“Because it’s not my house.”

I don’t know what to say to that. But I do know I can’t force it. I shrug. “Well, you should tell them about the artwork. They’d get you some supplies. Paint or whatever.”

For the briefest instant, he looks like he’s considering it, but then his expression closes down. “They already spent money on the bed and things.”

It’s the second time he’s mentioned money. What did he just say in the cafeteria? Don’t you understand that I’m trying not to cause a problem? I’ve thought about all the things he’s done since he moved in with us. The running. The knife. The hiding in the dark. I haven’t really thought about the things he hasn’t done. He hasn’t given Mom or Dad a hard time. He hasn’t gotten in trouble at school. He hasn’t dodged chores or started fights or even raised his voice.

He hasn’t fought back against the kids who’ve been tormenting him.

It reminds me of Dad’s comment about how we have to ask questions to hear the quiet people.

For all Matthew’s bravado about jumping from foster home to foster home, and for all his certainty that his time with us is limited, I hadn’t realized how much that must weigh on him. It reminds me of being with my father, the span of time between action and discipline, when I knew something terrible was coming, but I didn’t know when, and I didn’t know how.

The uncertainty, the waiting, must be awful.

My phone chimes, and I pull it out of my pocket.

Wednesday, March 21      12:05:34 p.m.

FROM: Robert Ellis <[email protected]>

TO: Rev Fletcher <[email protected]>

SUBJECT: Answer me

“My days are swifter than a weaver’s shuttle, And come to an end without hope.”

Perhaps that is too subtle. Perhaps you’ve forgotten your lessons.

I demand a response.

Maybe it’s the demand. Maybe it’s the time I’ve spent with Mom and Dad. Maybe it’s everything going on with Emma, or with Matthew, or with Declan.

But this time, his e-mail doesn’t upset me. It pisses me off.

The lunch bell rings. I need to get back to the cafeteria to get my stuff.

Matthew is sitting on a stool in front of his easel. “I think you know what you want to do.”

I snap my head up. “What?”

“She likes you. I think you know what you want to do. You just have to get your nerve up and do it.”

He’s talking about Emma.

I’m thinking about my father.

Students begin filing into the room. Matthew glances at the clock on the wall. “Don’t you need to get to class?”

He’s right. I do.

I shove the phone in my pocket and turn for the doorway.

But then I stop and turn back. “Hey,” I say, keeping my voice low. “You don’t need to keep running from them. I’ve got your back. Dec does, too.”

He looks startled, but he covers it quickly. He looks back at his painting. I don’t think he’s going to say anything.

And I really am going to be late to class.

“Hey,” he calls after me. I barely hear him over the rush of students fighting to get into the classroom.

I turn back. “Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

Declan is waiting in the hallway with my backpack. He’s got a free period after lunch, so I know he doesn’t need to be anywhere.

“All okay?” he says.

“Yeah. Hold on.”

I pull up my father’s e-mail, and before I can think about it, I hit Reply.

Wednesday, March 21      12:09:14 p.m.

FROM: Rev Fletcher <[email protected]>

TO: Robert Ellis <[email protected]>

SUBJECT: RE: Answer me

I’m not doing this over e-mail. If you want to talk, we’re doing this face-to-face. Tell me when and where.

I hit Send before I can think better of it.

Then I grab my backpack and start walking.

Dec hustles to catch up with me. “What just happened?”

I hold out my phone so he can see. He reads quickly.

“Holy shit, Rev.”

Normally, I’d give him a look, but right now, I don’t even care about profanity.

Dec glances at me and misreads my silence. “Sorry. But you doing that deserved a ‘Holy—’ ”

“I got it.”

“Here. He wrote back.” Declan thrusts the phone at me.

Another e-mail. An address—his apartment, judging by the fact that he includes a unit number. Or an apartment, but the city is Edgewater, so I’m guessing it’s his.

A time. 4:00 p.m.

Holy shit.

Declan is studying me. “What are you going to do?”

My breathing has gone shallow, and my heart rate has tripled. Despite that, I feel surprisingly calm.

I look back at him. “I’m going to borrow your car.”