Page 50 of I Can’t Even Think Straight

Empty-Handed—Lunchtime—Vass’s Bedroom

When Matt arrives empty-handed

in his handsome church clothes,

I’m so much more excited to see him

than I was to see Obi this morning.

The bouquet of flowers from Obi

trumpet orange and yellow beside me

from a vase on Vass’s bedside table.

I pray Matt doesn’t mention them.

“You look busted!” Matt says.

“How many colors is that bruise?”

“I decided I wanted to match Vass’s bedroom

with a rainbow and some evil-eye blue.”

Matt takes in the colors of Vass’s bedroom.

He looks at my arm again,

and lets out a laugh.

I love Matt’s laugh.

I think of what Obi said:

Laughter is the best medicine.

Matt thinks of something:

“That has to be the most mixed-race bruise

I’ve ever seen.

You can never make your mind up

what color you wanna be.”

I’m dead. Buried. A ghost.

“Matthew! How dare you?!” I howl.

We both take a moment to recover.

Still catching his breath,

Matt says, “Vass said to tell you

they’re helping their mum make lunch.”

He regards the big, showy flowers.

“Are you staying for lunch?” I ask.

“Auntie Estélla insisted,” Matt says

as he returns his attention to me.

“You know how aunties love me,”

he says with mock-cockiness,

before he becomes more earnest.

“Is that okay with you?” he asks.

“Yes, you have to stay,” I say.

“Theía Estélla is making my favorite:

mακαρ?νια του φο?ρνου.

It’s a pasta bake, like lasagna.”

“Isn’t fish and chips your favorite?”

Matt asks, confused.

“I meant my favorite thing

that Theía Estélla makes.”

“Oh, okay,” Matt says, oddly.

“What’s up?” I ask, suspicious.

“Nothing’s up,” Matt says

as he carefully collects

the stack of Vass’s books,

my phone, notebook, and pencil case,

and places them on the floor.

“Don’t you need these?” he says,

picking up my boot and sling.

“I think Vass is trying to

hold me hostage here,” I joke.

“Are you here to break me free?”

He chuckles. “I’m here for

whatever you need me for.”

He sits beside me on the bed,

cradling the boot and sling,

one in each arm, like two babies.

He looks like a grown man.

He looks like a dad.

It’s so beautiful it hurts.

“Put them down,” I say, and he obeys.

I thought seeing Matt in his church clothes

in Vass’s bedroom full of LGBTQ+ rainbows

would feel like a contradiction,

but it’s more like an expansion

of everything I’ve been thinking.

By learning to accept Matt’s contradictions,

there’s more possibility,

and less binary thinking.

“How was church?” I ask him.

Followed by, “Did you say a little prayer for me?”

“I did, actually,” Matt says gently.

Followed by: “For a quick recovery.”

I want to get back

to laughing and joking with Matt.

He looks at me

like I’m a fragile little bird

with broken wings.

I look at him

like he might also have hollow bird bones

and I could lift him with one arm.

He is as delicate a creature as me.

“Did you pray for my soul as well?” I smirk.

“I think it’s a bit late for that,” he jokes back.

I breathe a sigh of relief.

We sit in silence for a while.

I feel as comfortable as I can,

given my injuries and the predicament I’m in.

“You know,” I begin,

“when I was falling,

I thought of a Bible verse

I heard at your church.”

“Oh yeah?” asks Matt.

“Which one?”

“Proverbs 16:18,” I say, having looked it up

in preparation for this conversation.

“That’s deep,” says Matt.

“Thank God for crash mats,” I joke again.

Matt looks serious.

“I’m sorry I froze when

you fell from the wall.”

“It’s okay,” I say.

I try to lighten the mood once again:

“Spider Girl swung in and saved the day!”

“And I was useless,” says Matt.

“Well, it wasn’t your responsibility,” I say.

Then I ask, “Do you reckon I could

sue Coach for not supervising me properly?”

A jokey tone for a few seconds:

“Yeah, I reckon you could.”

Then Matt’s seriousness descends.

“I know it’s not Coach’s fault you fell,

but he wasn’t looking out for you, Kai.

He never looks out for us.

I don’t know, man. It pisses me off.

His work ethic is so slack.”

“I was saying exactly that

to Vass last night,” I reply,

“when they were blaming

themselves for my fall.

It was obviously my own

fault for being careless,

showing off and posing

like that for Vass’s photo.

But Coach lets us get away

with that kinda stuff.

He’s not like Mr. Ndour,

who’s always on our backs.

I have to admit.” I point

to my rainbow-bruised elbow.

“This makes me appreciate

the stricter adults in my life.”

I recall Mr. Ndour’s advice

“not to lose your sense of self

for any group, or anyone else.”

“Our boxing coach,

TJ, is so strict,”

Matt says dreamily,

in his own world:

the boxing gym

I’ve never been to.

“Oh yeah?” I ask, intrigued.

“Yeah,” Matt says.

“TJ inspects our hand wraps

after we’ve done them,

and if he thinks

they’re not good enough

he’ll unravel them

and make us start again.”

“I know all those words

individually,” I admit,

“but I still have no idea

what you just said.”

Matt laughs.

“I’ll show you,” he says.

He takes out his phone

and shows me a video

of how you wrap your hand

with a long strip of fabric

before you put on a boxing glove.

Afterward, Matt says,

“I’d really like you

to come to boxing

when your arm is better.”

“Don’t forget about my foot,” I say.

I point to my rainbow-bruised ankle

elevated by colorful cushions.

“How badly does it hurt?” Matt asks,

as he lightly pokes it and I wince.

He doesn’t apologize and I’m relieved.

“Probably as bad as being punched in the face.”

I ball my fist, but Matt doesn’t flinch.

“Has that happened to you yet?” I ask.

“No. We punch the punching bags, not each other.

We haven’t started sparring yet.

We do lots of conditioning work,

like push-ups, sit-ups, and skipping.”

I fail to suppress my laughter.

“Skipping?” I splutter.

“Are you telling me

you and The Boys spent the summer

skipping together?”

I laugh freely and pay the price

with the pain in my arm.

I wince again.

“Yeah, that’s right.” Matt smiles.

“But Nathan said you were a beast.

And Kwesi said he was scared

to be paired with you.”

“That was just to hold

the punching bag in place.

I guess he could feel

my punch through the bag,

but I’ve not actually

punched anyone.”

“Let’s keep it that way,” I say.

“I thought you said

I’d have to punch someone.”

“When and why would I say that?”

“It was our second day back after summer.

It wasn’t Pavlov’s dog or Schrodinger’s cat,

but it was something like that.”

“Chekhov’s gun...” I remember.

“Yeah, that was it!” Matt laughs.

He makes gun fingers.

He points them at my right foot and elbow.

“Pow!

Pow!”

I laugh a little until

I recall something else.

“But I remember you said

Nathan, Kwesi, and Kojo

could all throw a punch.”

“Yeah, into the punching bag.

Come see for yourself sometime,” he says.

“It might be a good outlet

for that temper of yours.”

I feel embarrassed by this.

Everyone around me thinks

I have an anger problem.

I brush it off with a joke.

I repeat what Mum said:

“Every weekday at school.

Bouldering on Saturdays.

Surely you see enough of me already?”

“I could never see enough of you,” Matt says,

and I can’t tell if he’s joking or not.

I examine Matt’s serious-looking face,

and wait for him to crack a smile.

I see tears welling in his eyes.

“What’s up?” I ask again.

“I was so scared when you fell...”

Matt starts to sob.

I reach out my left arm

and Matt falls onto the left side of my chest

and I hold him in a half embrace.

I slowly rub Matt’s back with my left hand.

I bear the pain in my right elbow

caused by Matt’s muscular weight

as his heavy sobs shake me.

“I’m okay,” I say to my favorite boy.

It’s the first time I’ve seen Matt cry.

I think of Granny comforting me,

and how I comforted Vass.

I was a shoulder to cry on for Vass,

and I’m a chest to sob into for Matt.

“I’m okay,” I say again.

“I know,” Matt mumbles into my chest.

“But what if something worse had happened.”

“But it didn’t. It’s not that bad,” I say softly.

“I love you so much,” Matt sobs at my heart.

“I love you, too,” I whisper,

just loud enough for him to hear.

I realize this is the first time

we’ve said these words

to each other in a serious way.

I realize I’m crying, too.

I can see my used tissue on the bed

but I don’t have a free hand

to reach out for it.

My tears flow

down my cheeks

and fall

into Matt’s afro.

“I’m getting tears in your hair.”

I giggle through my waterworks.

I continue to rub Matt’s back.

The fist-shaped handle

of Matt’s afro comb is half out

of his back right pocket.

“I don’t care,” Matt mumbles into my chest again.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

I laugh.

“Come on, Matt.”

I pickpocket Matt’s afro comb.

I wait for a reaction

but it doesn’t come.

I poke his ribs with its metal tines.

No reaction. Nothing at all.

“Come on, Matt,” I repeat.

“You don’t have to worry.

I’m not on my deathbed.

I’m just a bit battered and bruised.”

Matt sits up slowly

with a stern look on his face

that becomes more pleading

with each passing second.

Matt wants me to read his mind,

but I’ve given up trying.

I wipe my eyes with my used tissue.

“There’s a box of tissues

on the desk,” I say.

He doesn’t break eye contact.

His face isn’t as wet as I’d expect.

His tears are on my chest.

There’s a wet patch

on the left side of my chest,

right over my heart

and the “Y” of “OBEY.”

Why Obi?

Because I didn’t think

Matt liked me back.

We stare at each other.

We both breathe heavily.

When I venture a smile,

Matt smiles back at me.

I can feel what Matt wants to say

because I wanna say it, too.

I want Matt

to say it first.

I need Matt

to say it first.

Matt gulps

and swallows before

he speaks,

like he’s had

a mouthful

of rainbow sprinkles.

“Remember when we were watching

Nicky Anderson and her girlfriend?”

“Yes, of course I remember,” I say.

“Do you remember what I said?” Matt asks me.

“‘I want that one day,’” I answer.