Thinking Of You

Blue Jeans

I never meant to hit the kid.

Well I didn't expect him to walk into my fist either.

Me, Xavier McKinley, bash a kid into a lunch tray? Pfft. Never.

Adding that to all the many reasons why I'm 3 hours away from Tifton towards Atlanta. While my mum flicks through every radio station until the bursts of static make her give into silence I'm huddled into the back seat with bags too big for a Mazda 2 resting my head against the window. only 30 minutes ago did we pass the 'Welcome to Atlanta' sign on the freeway and yet from that point on I could only dream about escaping the ache of sudden doom spreading through my chest. Outside the car long highways turned into dusty tress then into streets and schools that held the familiar comfortable tinge in my chest even if I've never seen such a place in my life neither return to such place.

The car makes a quick turn into a street, slowing into  an even pace as we pass through deep emerald tress and beige pallet houses. Considering the new place was supposed to be a new start for my mum, dad and  for I a chance to try something new then I don't expect a bedazzled 3 story house.

The bags rose giving me a second to change positions as we pulled into a driveway. Dragging my attention towards the house in front was beige toned wood with turf in the front yard greener than the grass a few miles back. The width and length was at least twice the size of the tiny flat we had in Tifton going up to the second floor lined with brown skirt and crimson brick roof. After all I've done previously this feels like some pity prize to say 'we are always here for you so here's a new house because we don't understand how to communicate to a 17 year old'. Not that I'm not grateful for moving, that shit whole of a school was tearing me from the inside out. My dad seemed to be going back and fourth eyeing the GPS and the house we sat stationary at.
"Well we're here," stretching his arms out  he turns to me with a hand on the steering wheel. "Now you gonna help out with the bags?"
"Yes sir." Guess now I'm going to have to be on my best behaviour since that stunt i pulled. I pulled the handle towards me and watched as one of the bags tumbled out, I leapt to catch it before something broke but horribly missed and watched it sat idol on the grey stone footpath. I could only hope it wasn't my bag.
The breeze carried little weight to it then usual as it continued to toss around my brown hair although it wouldn't make a difference to its natural form. I slung the strap of the bag around my body as I reached for the other bags, piling them beside me one by one. My back was seriously hurting at this point from every bend and stretch, when I heard a car approaching.
No.
Not a car. A truck. With every splatter from the engine the truck pulled in steadily behind our car. I let go of what I wished was the final bag I'd have to hall out and peered into the drivers seat. Just a regular moving truck driver. But from the front of the house my mum shrieked half way into jabbing the keys into the hole. Snapping my attention towards her in utter confusion.
"Lucia!" Her smile reached her eyes, creasing the corners as her brown  hair bobbed with every step towards- our families best friends?
"Mary!" Lucia raised her voice, her thick Italian accent curving every word as they embrace each other with a warm hug and light laughter.

A man comes around the car with a leather jacket thrown over his shoulder as he starts towards my dad. My dad was only slightly taller with softer features like a guy you'd encounter helping the elderly compared to the sharp brown eyes Mr. Berardi.
"Nice seeing you old man." My dad pulled Mr. Berardi into a handshake turned into a a stern hug. Before a low chuckle escaped his throat.
"Y'know i was very surprised to hear you were moving to Atlanta." His voice was laced with a sharper accent than Mrs. Berardi.
"Hah, me too," the sudden strain in his voice could've pulverised my freedom of speech as I felt his gaze wash over me. Immediately making myself busy with hurdling bags under my arms almost tipping myself over. Honestly I'd rather hit my head against a brick then listen to someone complain about me. At this point my parents had forgotten about actually moving in before the sun set and more on the people in front of them-

"How's Matheo?" my mums voice rose, her brows knitted together with curiosity.

"Matheo?" I could barely get the name off my tongue before my legs decided to buckle forward. 

Matheo Berardi was a name I could render through my head no matter how many times I've tried to forget it. Besides the ringing in my head after hitting the ground his thirteen year old self swirled into memories that crowded my mind. How he was smaller then most boys our age. his black messy hair every morning. Being pulled out of English into EAL. The fastest runner on track but the quietest achiever. The middle school councillors always trying to scout him out of class. The other students pointing and laughing anytime he read out loud. My best and only real friend when I was 13. and I'd be driven mad if I still cared about him. 

So what if he didn't utter a word to me about leaving? 

Not like I lived with the thought that he allegedly hated me.

I dusted off my jeans- fuck, how did they even stain on turf? seriously? From a clean blue pair to a shitty wash job on the colour.

"Y'know you're still as clumsy as you were when you were 13,"