Page 14 of Reckless At Raleigh High
Alex opens his eyes and looks at me. I’m so accustomed to his self-assuredness that the desolation I see in him now makes me feel like I’ve been knifed in the chest and I’m bleeding out.
“I let myself be irritated and frustrated by Max ever since he was born. I used to hate having to run around after him all the time. I’ve loved him, but I’ve never really appreciated him the way I should. I know that now. Alex, I am so sorry. This isn’t right. None of it. If there was something I could do to…”Turn back time. Fix this. Fix Ben. Fix you. Make it all go away.It’s pointless even saying it. There’s nothing I can do and we both know it. Alex clears his throat, turning to face the mountain range in the distance, shadowed by the curtains of rain that are still falling.
“Don’t say you’re sorry,Argento. Don’t say you wish things were different. This is the way things are. I have to learn to accept that.” Carefully, he reaches out and traces his fingertips down the side of my face, featherlight and gentle. I try to lean into him, but he drops his hand, huffing under his breath.
In a broken voice, he whispers, “Careful,Argento. Everything I love turns to ashes. Everything I touch falls to pieces in the end.”
Firmly, I shake my head. “That’s not true. What happened to Ben had nothing to do with you. None of this is your fault. You’re notcursed, Alex.”
He drops his head again, smiling bitterly. “I am though, aren’t I. Come on. Let’s go say goodbye to Ben.”
7
ALEX
The small boy standing on the stool in front of the kitchen counter is me.
I’m aware of that. I’m also aware that this is a dream.
Neither shard of awareness allows me to separate myself from the fact that the sun-soaked, warm bubble in which I find myself appears totally real. I exist both within my seventeen-year-old body and that of the much smaller six-year-old version of myself, who sings in soft, breathy melodies as he digs his hands into a fat ball of dough. He grins as he splays his fingers wide, grinning at the thick sticky mess that cakes his skin and shores up beneath his fingernails. I can feel it under my own nails, covering my own hands.
The hands of a boy.
The hands of a man.
I see from two very different vantage points, through two different pairs of eyes. One pair observes the world as a place filled with wonder and hope; the other can’t help but see the promise of hurt and pain in every direction as he casts his gaze.
“Are you ready, mi amore? Have you made it just right?”
I smell her first. The scent of lilies and fresh summer fields floods the cramped space, overriding the bright, saccharine tang of the icing sugar that floats on the air, and my stomach twists in both excitement and bitter pain. My mother enters the room in a whirlwind of music and energy. Her dark, thick curls are wild, reaching in all directions like vines reaching for the sun. Her warm, brown eyes are bright with an electric, contagious energy. The smile on her beautiful face lights up the entire room so brightly that I’m almost blinded by it.
I’m completely in love with this woman. This is the type of unconditional love that sons bear their mothers before they discover she has flaws, and the illusion that she’s the most perfect creature to ever walk the earth is eventually shattered.
Joy washes over me as she rushes up behind me, tickling her fingers into my sides, burying her face into the crook of my neck. I squeal as she pretends to gobble me up. “Who cares about pizza, passerotto? I think I’ll just eat you. Little boys taste the best, I think.”
Six-year-old me gasps for breath, fighting to get his words out around his high-pitched laughter. “No, Mama! No, no, no, don’t eat me! Don’t eat me!”
The older version of myself only rumbles out half of the sentence, his words thick with misery. “No, Mama. No, no, no.”
The smell inside the kitchen evolves, the dream twisting, evolving around me like a shifting painting, and now we are sitting down at the kitchen table, all three of us, staring down at a pizza big enough to feed an army. My mother folds her arms in front of her, leaning toward my younger self across the worn grain of the wood, whispering conspiratorially. “What do you think, mi amore? Is it perfect? Should we eat and eat and eat until our bellies burst open and our guts spill out like little red snakes?”
Young Alessandro giggles, deep dimples marking both of his cheeks. His smile forces his eyes closed as he laughs at the prospect of such gluttony. “Yes, Mama. Let’s eat the whole thing. And then dessert!”
My mother, in her floral print wraparound dress, sits straight up in her seat, jerking to attention. “Dessert? Who said anything about dessert?” She opens her mouth wide in pretend shock. “Did you look inside the fridge, little sparrow?”
The little boy covers his mouth with his hands, trying not to laugh even harder. He turns to me, the older version of himself, sitting next to him at the table, and he cups one hand around his mouth, whispering loudly. “There’s panna cotta in there. Did you see it?”
I nod slowly. Sadly. “Yeah, buddy. I saw it.”
I saw it just now, when I snuck a peek inside the refrigerator, even though Mama told me not to. I saw it eleven years ago, before the darkness, and the suffering, and the broken bones, and the prison bars.
“You cheated,” Mama cries, addressing both of us. “That was very naughty.” Her eyes dance with delight. “Dessert is only for birthday boys, you know. I don’t think I know any birthday boys.”
Two voices fill the kitchen, loud and excited, quiet and withdrawn. “It IS my birthday.”
My mother continues to feign surprise. “It is?”
“Yes!”
