More Than We Can Tell

Rev,

For I know my transgressions, and my sin is ever before me.

Psalm 51:3.

In other words, I’m sorry.

Emma

The note was shoved through the slats on my locker, and I don’t find it until I’m swapping books before lunch. I read it three times.

I’m not sure how to respond. My head is still full of anxiety about my father. About Matthew, who told Mom nothing, and now his life secrets carry equal weight with mine. I don’t know if Emma’s apology is a brush-off, or an invitation for more discussion, or if she’s so lost in her own issues that we should just let it drop here.

I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.

I shove the note in my backpack. I need to eat.

Declan is waiting at our table.

To my surprise, so is Matthew. A brown paper bag sits on the table in front of him, but he hasn’t pulled anything free. I wonder if he’s waiting to see if I’m going to chase him away. The ride to school this morning was filled with his usual silent rebellion.

I wonder if he’s wondering when I’m going to reveal his secrets.

Maybe I should. Telling Dad everything was such an unexpected relief. I’d been so worried that he would condemn me—and instead, he reminded me I’m not so alone.

This isn’t my secret to tell, though.

I throw my bag under the table and fish out my own lunch. “Hey,” I say.

Matthew waits for a moment, then opens his bag.

Juliet arrives at the table with a tray, trailed by her friend Rowan, and Rowan’s boyfriend, Brandon Cho. They’re all laughing. Declan and Brandon don’t have anything in common, but they tolerate each other for the sake of the girls. Usually I have to kick him under the table when his muttered comments get a little too edged. I’m pretty sure Juliet kicks him from the other side.

Matthew watches them all crowd onto the benches. His hand stops on one of the containers Kristin packed.

The girls and Brandon give him a little wave and introduce themselves.

He mutters, “Hey,” and turns his attention back to his food, though he still hasn’t opened anything yet. A moment passes, but they let it go, and return to their conversation. I wonder how much Declan told Juliet about him.

I lean in against the table. “You all right?” I say to Matthew.

His fingers fiddle with the lid to a container. “I’m fine.”

“We can go to another table.”

“I said, I’m fine.” He’s not belligerent about it. His voice is low. It sounds like he’s trying to convince himself.

A camera shutter snaps, and I jump. So does Matthew.

“Sorry,” says Juliet. “I’m sorry. I should have asked. It was just—it was a good shot.”

“It’s fine.” I tell my nerves to back off.

Matthew says nothing. He looks back at his food.

Juliet is pressing buttons on her camera, staring at the screen on the back. Brandon is on her other side, and he leans over to see. “It is a good shot.”

She turns the camera around so I can see. Matthew and I are very still, facing off across the table, our expressions intense. The other students merge into a colorful, active blur behind us.

Rowan leans over to look, too. She’s not a photographer like they are, but she says, “I like it. You should call it The Final Showdown.”

“We’re not fighting,” I say.

Matthew still hasn’t said anything.

Declan is quiet, too. I wonder if he’s thinking about his father. I wonder if he’s told Juliet what he’s doing. When he picked us up this morning, he said, “You still good for this afternoon?”

When I said yes, he changed the subject.

Juliet studies Matthew. “I should have asked you, too. I know Rev doesn’t like—” Her voice falters. “I didn’t mean to be insensitive.”

“It’s fine. I don’t care.” Matthew’s voice is low and quiet. He’s finally cracked open his Tupperware, but he’s eating like an animal that’s scared you’re going to steal its food.

Declan said those boys from yesterday probably wouldn’t bother him now, after what I did, but maybe he’s wrong. Maybe Matthew is hiding here, with us.

It should be reassuring after our rocky start. It’s not. It’s depressing.

But then he looks over at me. “You don’t like having your picture taken?”

I freeze. At the end of the table, Juliet winces. I’m sorry, she mouths to me.

And of course now I have everyone’s attention.

“Leave it,” says Declan. “They don’t need to know.”

Even here, my father has power over me. I set down my food and look at Matthew. “When I was a kid, my father used to take pictures. So I’d have reminders.”

“Reminders of what?” says Rowan, before Juliet hushes her.

Matthew stares back at me. “Your father sounds like a real prick.”

That shocks a laugh out of me. Matthew looks back at his food and doesn’t say anything else.

I’m encouraged that he said anything, though, even something about this. I realize that I know the worst parts of his life, but otherwise, I know next to nothing about him.

“What’s your schedule like?” I ask him.

His eyes flick up, like he’s surprised by the question. That surprise might be the only reason I’m getting a response at all. “It’s all right. They put me back in the same classes I had before.”

I wonder what it would be like to constantly change schools, even if it’s within the same county. To meet new teachers in the middle of a semester, to have to learn a new routine. Dad’s words are loud in my head, about how the unknown can be especially frightening when you don’t trust anyone. “Are you in class with those boys from yesterday?”

“Yeah.”

“Are they still hassling you?”

He shrugs. “Whatever.”

“Not whatever. You can switch classes, you know.”

“Yeah, whatever. You think I’m going to be here all that long anyway?”

That takes me by surprise. “You can’t keep running.”

He snorts. “I’m not even talking about running.”

I blink. “But—”

“I don’t really want to talk about this, okay?” His shoulders are tight, and his eyes are on his food.

“Sure.” I glance at Declan, to get his read, but he’s locked in his own head again, trapped with his own thoughts.

Great. We can all sit here and be quiet.

I’m not even talking about running.

He must be talking about Mom and Dad. I want to tell him that they have never—not ever—given up on a child. They have never needed to find an alternate arrangement for anyone.

Then again, they’ve never housed another teenager before. And Dad asked me if he needed to find another arrangement for Matthew. If it was too much for me to handle. I said no. And even without knowing Matthew’s history, I wouldn’t have said yes. I wonder if Matthew knows that.

I look at his hunched shoulders, at the way he’s tearing through his food, and wonder if it matters.

“Was that girl your girlfriend?” Matthew says, out of the blue.

“What girl?”

“The one with the dog.”

“Emma. No.” I have no idea how to classify her.

I glance at Juliet and Rowan, who’ve stopped focusing on me, and are now talking about Spring Fling. I don’t even know when it is. It’s some kind of miracle I even know it’s a dance.

I assume Declan is going. I have gone to exactly one dance throughout all of high school, and that was Homecoming last fall. I went solely to play wingman for Dec.

Matthew continues, “That night I saw you in the rain, I thought you were making out.”

The words hit me with a jolt. “No.”

His eyes narrow just a little. “You sure?”

He sounds like he’s a breath away from mocking me. I narrow my eyes back at him. Maybe Juliet can get another intense picture. “I’m pretty sure I’d remember making out.”

“I think she has a class across the hall from me. In the computer lab. I saw her yesterday and again today.”

“She’s into coding.” I pause, thinking of her letter. She was crying in Declan’s car yesterday, and I had to go off on a rant. “How did she look?”

“Like a girl who’s into coding.” Matthew begins snapping containers back together.

I frown. “Where are you going?”

Matthew shoves the containers into his backpack. “I’m going to class.”

“Lunch isn’t over yet.”

“Like it matters.” Then he weaves through the other students.

I don’t know what just happened.

My phone chimes. I yank it out of my pocket, glad for a distraction. Any distraction.

Any distraction except this one. It’s an e-mail from my father.

Tuesday, March 20      12:06:16 p.m.

FROM: Robert Ellis <[email protected]>

TO: Rev Fletcher <[email protected]>

SUBJECT: Obedience

If a man have a stubborn and rebellious son, which will not obey the voice of his father, and who, when his father has chastened him, will not hearken unto him:

Then shall his father lay hold on him, and bring him out unto the elders of his city, and unto the gate of his place, and he shall say unto the elders of his city, “This, my son, is stubborn and rebellious, he will not obey my voice. He is a glutton and a drunkard.”

And all the men of his city shall stone him with stones, that he die: so shalt thou put evil away from among you.

“Rev. Hey. Rev.” Declan’s voice.

I blink. Look up. Half the cafeteria has emptied. Rowan and Brandon are gone, but Declan and Juliet are watching me.

How long have I been staring at my phone?

Too long, if lunch is over.

I know the verses well. Too well. Better than any other verses in the Bible.

The lines are from Deuteronomy. The Old Testament, which is full of vicious stories like this one. The verses actually include a mother, too, but my father has clearly altered them to suit his needs. He did it once before. I’m not surprised he remembers the exact wording.

“Rev?” Declan says again.

The e-mail has the potential to crush me. I think it was crushing me, until Declan pulled me free.

The bell rings. We have three minutes to get to class. Declan glances at Juliet. “Go,” he says. “You don’t need to get in trouble.”

She doesn’t move. “You don’t either.”

“I’m okay,” I say. “Go ahead.” But I don’t move.

Declan looks at Juliet. Something unspoken passes between them. She goes.

“Your father?” he says quietly.

I hand him my phone. He reads.

“Boys!” Mrs. James, my new favorite teacher, is rapidly approaching the table. “The first bell has rung.”

“Come on,” says Declan. He carries my phone with him.

I follow him.

“Do you want me to write back to him?” Declan says. “Because it’s taking everything I have not to.”

“No.” I snatch my phone back from him.

The men of his city shall stone him with stones, that he die.

I cannot let this unravel me again.

I keep thinking about Emma’s note. For I know my transgressions, and my sin is ever before me.

She was apologizing. Is this a sign that I should apologize to my father?

My phone pings. A text message slides down from the top.

It’s Dad.

Dad: Just checking on you.

I want to burst into tears right there in the hallway. I’m not alone. I’m not.

And maybe this is the sign I should be listening to.

I take a screenshot of my father’s e-mail. I send it back to Dad.

“Come on,” I say to Declan. I have to sniff back tears. He’ll think it’s allergies. Which is fine.

My phone pings again. Dad again.

Dad: You are not stubborn and rebellious.

You are kind.

You are thoughtful.

You are the best son we could have ever hoped for.

We love you. And we are proud of you.

The phone pings and pings and pings as his messages come through, and the words should be corny, but right now, each one is like an injection of reassurance into my heart.

We come to the intersection where Declan needs to go left and I need to go right. The hallways are almost deserted, and we have less than a minute until the bell, when we’re supposed to be in our classrooms.

“Do you want to skip out of here?” says Declan.

“No.” I scrub my face. My voice thickens. “No. I’m okay. I sent it to Dad.”

“Good.”

We part ways, and somehow I find my way to my seat in Precalculus. Students rustle around me, getting situated, ignoring me. For once, I’m glad for it.

My phone pings one last time.

Dad: Let me know if you want Kristin to come get you. It’s OK if you need a break.

I smile and write back.

Rev: No. I’m OK.

After a moment, I pull my phone back out of my backpack and add another line.

Rev: Thanks, Dad

Then I lock the screen, shove it into my backpack, and pay attention to the class.