Capture the World (2 page)

THREE

The real world

Heart Bay High

I AM INSIDE my head, still flying over ancient Greece, when he sits down next to me on the bleacher, the side of his leg brushing mine, denim against denim. I don’t notice at first because the gym is exploding with chaos. Pompons fan, little red and white plastic pieces flying. Yells sail through the air carried on a tier of voices.

A basketball bounces in front of my face, so close I can feel the wind off of it, the voice it belongs to growling, “This shit is lame,” before settling behind me.

The leg shifts to the left, away from me.

Mr. Winks—the principal of Heart Bay High—stands on the gym floor, tapping a microphone. “Is this thing on?” A shrill, technical squeal deafens the room. Hands cover ears. “There we go!” he exclaims, grinning. “Hello, student …”

I tune him out, all of it background noise, my fingers folding and unfolding a piece of paper in my lap. This side up, another side down. This piece tucked in here. That piece tucked in there. Fingers. Paper. Fingers.

The denim leg presses into me again, his exhaled breath tickling the skin of my neck, smelling of cherry cough drops. “Is that a bug?”

Startled, I scoot away, fingers folding, his voice—all deep and curious—washing over me. He’s Matthew Moretti, Heart Bay High’s senior basketball star. Tall, athletic, and friendly, there isn’t a person who doesn’t like him.

Except me. I don’t like anyone.

“It’s definitely a bug,” he says, invading my space.

“Watch it, Moretti. The girl’s a loon,” Kagen Raddock hisses.

Matthew doesn’t hear him, or he pretends not to. “No, wait, maybe it’s a bird?”

My heart beats, drumming a tune that gets lost in the crowd. Ancient Greece fades around me, and I hate him for it.

“A butterfly,” I whisper, all cranky. “It’s a butterfly.”

“What?” He leans over me, his body a shadow net trapping me in place. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

My face turns his way too quickly, and he’s so close, we bump heads. “A butterfly,” I squeak, sliding over, flesh stinging.
 

Watching my lips, he repeats the word, and then quirks a brow. “You got a thing against birds?” he asks, amused.

Anger turns to shock to mortification to curiosity.

Why the devil is Matthew Moretti talking to me?

I ogle his face, enthralled. Which isn’t like me. I don’t stare at people; I stare at things. But for some reason, seeing him speak sends shivers down my spine, as if his acknowledging the paper insect in my hand makes it real, part of a world I’d rather not exist.

I can’t breathe.

Matthew Moretti is too much boy, his presence sucking the oxygen out of my personal bubble. He is skyscraper tall, his frame dwarfing mine. A red T-shirt with a rearing black horse on the front stretches across his lean, muscular torso, the hem resting untucked over a pair of faded jeans. Damp, midnight-colored hair curls against his olive-toned forehead, a testament to his Italian roots, the strands bringing attention to the faint line of whiteheads near his scalp and the subtle patch of stubble he missed while shaving. Somehow, the flaws make his face stronger. Real.

Next to him, I am less …
way
less height, less tan, and less firm. More hair on my head, though, and definitely more curves.

I like his skin color, and I would tell him that if I was a normal girl, but then again, I guess telling someone their skin reminds you of light brown sugar wouldn’t be a normal thing to say.

My head falls, my straight, brown hair forming a curtain around my face, closing him away. Closing all of them away.

If only hair shut off thoughts.

“Told you, man,” Kagen laughs. “Crazy ass girl.”

“She isn’t crazy,” Reese Gavin argues, her lilting voice rising above the cheers. “It’s her mother that’s nuts.”

My fingers make love to the paper in my hands, folding and smoothing. I want Greece back. I want Mount Olympus, and a world full of gods and magic.

Applause fills the space, shoes thundering against the floor as the entire gym rises to its feet. My butt stays planted on the bleacher.

“It looks real.” Matthew remains on the bench, his leg pinned to mine.

“Mmmhmm …” I mutter, dismissing him. Hard to do when he’s touching me, but I manage. He smells like the tropics. Should boys smell like that? Like island paradises with see-through water and coconut-laden palm trees?

Or is it just him?

Somewhere during the paper folding and Bora Bora fantasy, the pep rally ends.

The crowd surges forward, feet thudding on wood—school-trained ants marching down a hill of bleachers to the gym floor and out the exit doors. The air is a lingering cacophony of perfumes, colognes, deodorants, and soaps mixed with floor wax, the fluorescent lighting draining everything of color.

“You go on ahead,” Matthew calls out, standing slowly. He touches his ear, his eyes falling on me. “The noise can get to be a little much sometimes.”

He smiles, and his face, which was rugged and sharp before, transforms into something softer. A butterfly breaking free of its cocoon. I squeeze the paper in my hands.

“Do you take art?” he asks, ducking his head.

Forehead crinkling, I catch his eyes. “No.”

My lips must fascinate him because he stares at them and doesn’t even try to hide it. It’s better than him looking at my breasts, I guess. My lips
do
take up most of my face. I’ve always had full lips, the kind people told my mother I’d grow into when I got older. I didn’t grow into them; they outgrew me. At birth, the nurses at the hospital dubbed me the Angelina Jolie baby—in awe, like my lips were the most beautiful thing they’d ever seen. However, big lips mean nothing if the rest of the face doesn’t match up. If I wear lipstick, I look like a clown.

Matthew shoulders a duffel bag. “Matthew Moretti. I didn’t catch your name.”

“I didn’t give it.” He gives me an expectant look, and I frown. “Reagan Lawson. We’ve been in school together since forever.”

“I know,” he answers, surprising me. “I just wanted to see you say your name.”

He wanted to see me say it?
“Okay.”

The gym has emptied, and I sling my backpack onto my shoulder, dropping the paper butterfly.

Matthew catches it midflight. “Can’t let it get away.” He offers it to me. “That’s pretty cool that you can do that. Origami, right?”

“Yeah.” I’m not winning any social points here. Conversation sucks. My fairy godmother did not hit me with the witty stick.

“We live down the street from each other,” he reveals suddenly. “Wasn’t sure if you knew that. We’re the ranch-style house just before you get to Sandy Hill Road.”

I don’t know why he’s telling me this, and I shrug. His family is large and loud, the smell of food and the sound of laughter often wafting from their back patio.

“Anyway,” he continues, “your uncle owns the junkyard on Maple, right? I heard he takes scrap metal. There’s this old car my nonno, my grandfather, used to drive, and I was wondering if you knew what your uncle would pay for something like that.”

It all makes sense now. Kind of.

“I don’t know,” I answer. “Depends, I think.”

He nods. “I might stop by sometime and ask.”

Absolutely not!

Dread curls like an angry, coiled snake in my stomach, and I find myself blurting, “No!” too quickly and too loudly, voice shrill with panic before recovering with a softer but no less firm
and
no less panicked, “He’s not home much! His office is at the junkyard. It’d be better if you went there.”

Undeterred, he moves toward the stairs. “We’ll see.” Throwing me a wave, he smiles, cheeks dimpling. “Better watch that butterfly.”

I’m crushing it in my hand, and I loosen my grip. Watching him go, I can’t help but think Greece feels very far away at the moment.

Lifting the butterfly, I make it fly, the paper wings fluttering. Pulling my arm back, I throw it. It doesn’t glide. It falls.

I leave it there.

“PAIR UP!” IN chemistry, Mrs. Pierson has us stand at the tables, her wrinkled fingers crooked at the room, her old voice cracking.

She laughs, and it sounds like a cackle, a witch placing a curse.
 

Nearing ninety, Barbara Pierson is far too old to be teaching school, but there isn’t a soul alive courageous enough to tell
her
that.
 

Last year before going away to college, my cousin, Naomi, told a group of freshmen Mrs. Pierson had a Frankenstein in her basement, the body parts taken from unruly students.

Being sliced and diced sounds way more appealing than group projects. I’m
that
kid, the one that either ends up alone or paired up with the odd man out.

There’s a tap on my shoulder, and I spin to find Matthew Moretti peering down into my face. “Partner?”

Tabitha Grey, a junior I’ve been sitting with since the beginning of the year, stares, stunned.

My lips part, but no words come out because I’m stunned, too.

I glance down at myself, at the thin long-sleeve shirt I’m wearing with the cracked words
Mon Chèri
in French on the front, which I think means ‘my darling’ but could possibly mean ‘shove it’ because it once belonged to my adorably bad ass, gothic-hippy-witty cousin.

Yep, I’m still the same old Reagan in the same hand-me-down clothes and knock off Nike tennis shoes.

“Hey, Moretti! You? Me?” Carl Pace shouts.

Matthew ignores him, his gaze on my lips. “Well?”

Tabitha bumps me from behind, and my head bobs. Matthew takes it as a yes.

“Awesome!” He takes the seat Tabitha vacates.

People are staring.

I’m dreaming … or something. “I should warn you that this is my worst subject,” I say quickly, sliding into the seat next to his. “In case you thought I was good at it or something.”