8. Matthias
8
MATTHIAS
AGE ELEVEN
“Try to keep up!”
I huff a breath at Wyatt’s impatience but push myself faster. A smear of dirt appears on the shining toe of my shoe. I’ll have to remember to wipe it before I get home. Before Father sees. “I’m coming.”
Wyatt is standing at the base of a tree, hands on his hips. The apples of his cheeks are glowing red as he stares up at it. His thin t-shirt and shorts are torn and ragged, but far more suitable than mine for the woods we play in.
Wyatt’s never commented on my clothes, but I know he thinks they’re weird. I don’t own sneakers or shorts. The closest thing I have to a t-shirt is the tank top I wear under my button-downs. Sometimes his eyes linger on my clothes, like it’s on the tip of his tongue to ask, but he never does.
Just as I never ask about the shouting I hear from his trailer when I approach, or the tears he sometimes brushes away as he runs past me into the woods, waiting for me to follow.
I never ask about why his stomach rumbles so much either. But I always bring food with me. Ever since the first time I noticed it, I’ve made sure to sneak down to the kitchens before we meet. Our cook, Ange, hates my father as much as I do. She’s always happy to undermine him however she can when it comes to my brothers and me.
Including loading me up with extra food whenever I ask. Now that Wyatt’s my friend, I ask—a lot.
I don’t even care about the beating I’ll get if Father ever finds out. Not that he knows anything about Wyatt, or where I disappear to several times a week. My friendship with Wyatt is a secret, and for good reason.
Father wouldn’t like me spending time with Wyatt. Or that Wyatt lives in a trailer. That he laughs so freely. That he runs through the woods hooting and hollering. A wild thing. A mystery.
He wouldn’t like that I do those things too when I’m with him. When it’s just me and Wy, I’m not Matthias Buckingham. I’m not a representative of the family.
I’m just Matt. Wy’s friend. A kid.
With him, I’m myself.
I won’t let Father find out. He takes everything from us that brings us joy.
I won’t let him take Wy too.
I knew Wyatt was special the day that I met him, just over a year ago. After a particularly nasty fight with Father, I’d run outside, and I just kept running.
I run until my lungs are burning. Until I can’t tell snot from tears. Eventually, when I can’t take another step, I collapse on the ground. The rough bark of a tree cuts through my shirt, but I don’t care.
It’s no more painful than the hit Father just delivered.
“Why are you crying?”
The curious voice has me jumping to my feet, swiping at my face. “I’m not crying.”
There’s a small boy a few feet away. He looks the same age as me. There’s a stain on the front of his t-shirt, and a hole in his sneaker. I can see a dirty sock through it. “Yes, you were.”
“Was not.”
“What’s your name?”
I straighten my spine, the way Father always tells me to when I introduce myself. “Matthias Bartholomew Augustus Buckingham, the Third.”
I wait for him to mock me the way the other boys at school do. Instead, he cocks his head like a sparrow and says, “Can I call you Matt?”
Matt. A nickname Father would never allow. Too common, that’s what he’d say.
But I like it. I like the way it sounds from this boy’s mouth.
I nod, and he grins. My stomach swoops at the sight. Strange.
“I’m Wyatt, but you can call me Wy.” He puts his hands in his pockets. He looks this way and that, almost as if his mind is moving a thousand miles a minute. A moment later, he blurts, “Wanna see who can jump the highest?”
I stare at him. “Why?”
Now he’s the one staring at me, confusion all over his face. “Umm…for fun?”
Fun. We don’t do things like that for fun. We go on yachts. To charity balls. We stand silently at Father’s side as he introduces us to “important people”.
I’m not sure what fun actually is. Maybe jumping could be fun.
“Come on,” Wy says. “I dare you.”
The competitive streak borne of having five brothers immediately rears its head. “Sure.”
That was the start of our friendship. The start of Wyatt teaching me how to have fun.
Some of his ideas, though, I’ve been less keen on.
Such as this one.
“Come on,” Wyatt wheedles. “Climb the tree.”
I sigh. “What if we fall?”
“What if we don’t?” Wy raises an eyebrow challengingly. “Come on, Matt. You know you want to play with me. Don’t be a stick in the mud. I dare you.”
I roll my eyes, already knowing I’m going to agree. “If you get hurt I’m going to be so mad.”
“I’ll be fine.” He’s already scrambling up the tree. “Try to keep up.”
That’s Wy’s phrase. Try to keep up. I dare you. Sometimes I want to point out that’s all I do—try to keep up with him. Wy’s idea of fun is this endless competition between us. Who can run faster, swing higher, shout louder.
Turns out, it’s my idea of fun too. Wyatt is my favorite person to play with.
I smile as I move to the bottom of the tree. I don’t think about how high it is, I just think about Wyatt.
And keeping up with him.