"Thank you for picking up your room, Matteo," Mom said, beaming at Matt. "And I didn't even have to ask. You're becoming such a responsible young man."
Sucking in a sheepish laugh, Matt scratched at the back of his head. The scrapes on his skull were healing, and it had been a full day since his last splitting headache. He had been starting to worry he was going to have to deal with those forever.
"Did you ever get around to asking Quinn to come by like you said you were going to?" Mom went on. She was up to her elbows in flour, making pasta based on her mother-in-law's family recipe. It never came out quite the way it did when Angelo's mother made it, but her children always loved it anyways.
Matt was sitting in the chair at the phone table, picking at the peeling scabs on his right elbow, feeling the strange sense of disorientation he had suffered intermittently since he broke his skateboard. "No," he muttered, twisting his arm to try to look at his own elbow. The rough edges of the thick, crusty scabs were coming free reluctantly to reveal tender pink skin beneath.
"Oh, that's too bad," Mom went on thoughtfully. "I think Frederico would have loved to meet him. Maybe another day, then. Oh, my, I'm running late, aren't I? What time is it?" In response to her own question, she peered up at the clock on the wall. Sunlight slanting through the window above the sink turned its glass face to glittering gold, and she had to tilt her head to see through the glare. "Oh, dear," she murmured. "I should hurry. Your father and brother will be home soon. Did you mow the lawn like your father asked, Matteo?"
"Yeah." Sighing, Matt let his arm drop.
"Good, good." Mom frowned, her eyes far away as her deft fingers kneaded pasta dough. "Is your sister home?"
"I dunno," Matt muttered.
"Please check, will you?" his mom ordered.
Reluctantly, Matt pushed to his feet and ambled over to the bottom of the stairs. "Angie!" he shouted.
"Matteo!" his mom scolded. "Just go up the stairs and talk in a normal voice, please."
Reluctantly, Matt trudged up the stairs to knock on his sister's door. There was no response, so he twisted the knob and slid the door open an inch, slitting his eyes against the blaze of pink within. The room was quiet and empty.
Returning to the kitchen, he slumped back into the chair by the phone table and told his mom, "She's not here."
"Oh, that girl!" Mom exclaimed, frowning. "I told her to be home this afternoon! She hasn't seen her brother in a year and instead of listening to me she's off with that Ryan, who is too old for her--" She slammed a pot onto the stove, water sloshing over her fingertips. "I swear, since she met that boy she has been nothing but a thorn in her mother's side—"
Matt pulled his fingerboard out of his pocket and ollied it listlessly off the thick yellow phone book, tuning out his mom's rant as his mind drifted off to think about Quinn.
He hadn't reacted well to the revelation that Quinn had stolen the money from the store. He had simply stared at Quinn in shock while Quinn had stuttered out a clumsy explanation followed by a clumsier apology, thin lips pulling thinner and pale face going redder the longer Matt hadn't replied. At the end, Quinn had turned away, muttering, "Maybe I'll see you around." Then he had left, and Matt had stood there stupidly until Logan shouted at him.
Jenn hadn't shown up at all, so the viewing party had ended up being a strange assortment of people: Matt and Logan, Everett, Lauren, and Faisal, surprisingly, who seemed to know that Jenn wouldn't be there but had expected to see Quinn. Luckily Lauren and Faisal had quickly bonded over a shared love of horror movies, Logan had somehow managed to talk to Lauren like she was a real person, and once they put the X Games on there was no shortage of conversation and laughter.
But Quinn and Matt hadn't talked since. Matt thought maybe that meant they had broken up.
He had been listening to the CD Quinn had made for him on repeat. Every song made him think about the nights they had spent sharing music with each other, headphones looped between them, exchanging smiles with their secrets. The memories made something ache between his ribs.
The sound of the garage door grinding open tore Matt from his melancholy reverie.
"Just in time," his mom murmured, hurriedly pulling her apron off and patting at her hair. Then she trotted over to run her fingers through Matt's shaggy mop of curls, trying futilely to smooth them away from his face.
Embarrassed, Matt pushed her hands away. "Mom, stop."
"Oh, I do wish you would let me take you for a haircut," she murmured. "Just a nice little trim to freshen things up for the new school year, wouldn't that be nice?"
The interior garage door slammed, and Mom straightened. "Now, don't be alarmed," she warned Matt in a quiet voice.
"Alarmed?" Matt repeated in confusion, pressing to his feet and following his mom into the back foyer.
His dad was crouched down, unlacing his shoes, and on the bench sat Rico, bent over as he slid off one crisp white sneaker. Matt burst into a huge grin, suddenly feeling light as sunshine.
"Rico!"
Rico looked up with a small smile on his face as Matt bounded over. "Hey, little bro. Whoa, watch the leg," he added, lifting his hands protectively as Matt went in for some undetermined combination of bear hug and shoulder nudge. "It's still healing."
Confused, Matt glanced down at the troublesome body part and went very still as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing.
Rico rubbed a hand over his short brown hair. "I told Mom and Dad not to tell you. Thought you should be living your life, not worrying about me."
"Your leg," Matt whispered, staring.
Rico's left pant leg was tied up above where his knee used to be, a knot of khaki fabric obscuring the stump beneath. "Yup. My leg. Won't be able to hit up the skate park with you anymore, but I might get a pretty sweet prosthetic out of it. And I'll make a first-rate pirate at Halloween." His tone was joking, but there was a serious current beneath the words.
"Does it hurt?" Matt asked stupidly.
"Not as much as it did at first," Rico told him, then punched Matt fondly in the shoulder. He was much stronger than he used to be, and the punch hurt. Matt rubbed at his shoulder as Rico went on, "But hey, I'm still alive to bug my little brother so that's something, isn't it?" There was a shadow in the narrow arc of his smile that Matt had never seen there before.
"Oh, my brave boy," Mom said tearfully, squeezing in between them to throw her trembling arms around Rico's shoulders. "My brave, brave boy. I've missed you so much."
Rico rubbed Mom's back soothingly. "It's good to be home."
"Why don't we all move somewhere a little more comfortable?" Mom suggested, pulling away and wiping fiercely at her eyes. "Dinner will be ready in half an hour."
Rico leaned heavily on a crutch with a rubber foot as they moved into the living room. Matt was shocked to notice he was almost as tall as his brother now, with his shoulders hunched as they were.
Dad let Rico have the best seat, the leather La-Z-Boy recliner that Dad usually watched TV in. Matt perched on the end of the couch and listened quietly to the unusually stilted conversation. His brother looked tired, frayed around the edges despite his tidy tucked-in t-shirt and crisp military hairstyle. There was an unfamiliar set to his shoulders, a distant heaviness in his eyes that made him look almost like a stranger.
After a little while, Mom glanced at Matt, then exchanged a look with Dad.
"Well, I suppose I should go finish supper," she said brightly.
"It smells great, Mom," Rico told her warmly.
She smiled fondly at him. "Thank you, dear. I made your favourite. Angelo, will you please set the table?"
"Of course, Ro," Dad nodded.
They moved away into the kitchen and dining room, leaving Matt alone with Rico.
"So what's new with you, little bro?" Rico asked, lifting his stump with both hands to shift it to a more comfortable position. Matt watched this procedure, fascinated.
"Nothing," he said, sucking in a dopey laugh.
"Oh, come on," Rico teased, smiling in a way that felt oddly sad. "You can't tell me that nothing's happened in a whole year."
Matt shrugged. "My life isn't that interesting, I guess."
"Tell me where you got your shirt, then," Rico suggested. "That's a new band to me."
Matt picked at the seam of his baggy jeans. "I got it at a concert," he said, trying to sound enthusiastic. "It was at this cool place downtown."
Rico nodded, as though this was somehow as interesting as anything he had experienced in Afghanistan. "You still skateboarding? You sure looked like a star in that video you sent me. You've come a long way since I taught you how to ollie."
"I was, but I broke my board. How did it happen?" Matt blurted, then looked away and scratched at a zit on his chin. "Your leg, I mean. You don't have to tell me if you don't wanna."
Rico's gaze went far away; he was staring out the window but Matt could tell he wasn't seeing the blossoms on the climbing rose bushes in the front garden. For a while, he didn't answer. Golden sunlight pooled on the carpet, turned motes of dust to glitter in the still air. Matt waited quietly.
"Suicide bomber," Rico said at last, his voice slow and dark. "Right there on the crowded street. Civilians all around. It happened so fast there was nothing I could do."
Pausing, Rico shifted his leg again. In a confessional tone, his thumb rubbing lingering circles into the prickling nerves in his thigh, he went on, "You know, I always thought that when it came to the life or death situation, that I could be the hero. I was always pretty fearless, you know? But then it happened, and I wasn't. I'm just lucky I even survived."
His voice faded, and weighted silence rose to fill the empty space.
Eventually, Matt asked, "Remember how you promised to take me to get a tattoo when you came home?"
With visible effort, Rico pulled himself back to the present, to the humming peace of his childhood home, to his little brother watching him earnestly, looking no younger than some of the Taliban fighters Rico had seen with guns in their hands.
"I remember," Rico told him. "You still wanna?"
"Yeah. I know what I wanna get."
"What is it?"
"I'll show you."
Matt went to get the photographs his mom had taken for him of the tattoo Quinn had drawn onto his arm that day in the store. Rico took them curiously and flipped through the images.
"This is really cool, dude," Rico told him, lifting one of the photos closer to his face to study the details. "Why a lion?"
"Um." Matt laughed sheepishly. "Remember how you used to tease me by calling me Simba?"
Rico smiled without teeth. It didn't make him laugh the way it used to. "Yeah. And I would tell you that you needed to learn how to roar or people would walk all over you forever. I was kind of a jerk to you, little bro."
"I missed you, Rico," Matt said in small voice. "I'm glad that you came home." He didn't add that it felt like a part of Rico hadn't come home with him: his laughter and his teasing and the light in his eyes. It felt selfish to mention that, when Rico was here, and alive, and it could be so much worse.
"I missed you, too, little dude," Rico said softly. "I thought about you guys a lot while I was over there."
For a moment the only sound was the clatter of cutlery as their dad set the table in the dining room next door.
"So who drew this for you?" Rico asked, looking back down at the glossy photographs in his hand. "I didn't know any of your friends were artists."
"My friend Quinn."
"I don't think I met Quinn," Rico said thoughtfully.
Matt looked away, out the window. "I don't know if we're friends anymore, anyways," he admitted.
For a while, Rico didn't say anything, shuffling through the photos again. Then, he said, "You sound pretty bummed about that. Whatever happened, is it really such a big deal?"
"I don't know," Matt whispered, looking away out the window. "I don't think so. But I think he doesn't wanna be friends anymore because of it."
"Sounds like this guy means a lot to you."
"Yeah," Matt agreed quietly. "He does."
Rico nodded slowly. "You know," he began, "there was this girl I went to high school with. Amanda Finch. I really liked her, but she dated around a lot, and I was too afraid to ask her out 'cause I didn't wanna just be another one of her conquests. We kissed once, at a party. I've done more with other girls since, but that kiss with Amanda is still the best kiss I've ever had. It's different when someone means that much to you." A soft, sad smile arced his lips. "Later I became friends with this other girl who was friends with Amanda in high school and she told me that the reason Amanda never dated anybody seriously was 'cause she didn't wanna be tied down if I ever asked her out."
"Oh." Matt was a little confused, but he just nodded.
Rico rubbed a hand through his hair. "Yeah. She's married now and has a kid, but sometimes I wonder what could've happened if I'd just gone for it like I wanted to. Anyways," he added in a self-chiding tone, "my point is, you don't know if you don't try, you know? Life's too fricking short to live with regrets. If you don't blame Quinn for what happened, you should tell him that. At least you'll be on the same page, then. At least you'll know."
Matt picked at his nails. He didn't know what to say.
Taking pity on Matt, Rico changed the subject. "Have you asked Mom and Dad about getting a tattoo?"
"They'll say yes if you ask them."
Rico smiled gently. "I'll talk to them about it."
When Angie finally came home, there was shouting between her and Mom before she saw Rico and her hands flew to her mouth in horror and she whispered, "Oh, I'm so sorry, Rico. I should've been here." Mom looked mollified, her satisfied smile more smug than any I told you so.
Rico slept restlessly in his childhood bed that night. The sheets still smelled like the rose-scented detergent his mom had always used. His posters were still pinned to the walls, sleek cars and scantily clad women, but his TV was gone, moved into Matt's bedroom, and the dresser drawers held only the scattered detritus of a life that felt like it was so long ago: a pair of yellowed underwear, an expired condom he had borrowed from a friend and never used, an old wallet so worn on the seams it was almost falling apart. His left leg ached in memory of the innocent boy he had lost.
In the morning, Rico drove Matt to the tattoo parlour where he had gotten his first tattoo, a heart with their parents' names on his left shoulder, Roisin and Angelo intertwined in ornate script. It was still strange to drive without needing to worry about where his left leg rested, but it felt nice to do something so mundane as taxiing his little brother around the familiar sun-drenched streets of their hometown.
"You haven't got your license yet?" Rico asked. "You're almost seventeen, you should be able to drive yourself around."
Matt huffed in a laugh. "I've been too busy."
"Busy?" Rico teased, giving Matt a small smile. "Thought you said your life is boring."
Shrugging and grinning a little, Matt looked away.
At the tattoo parlour, Matt showed his photographs to the artist, who studied them.
"I can do something similar," the artist agreed, and before too long had a design sketched out. "It'll take a couple sessions."
"That's okay."
"You said your friend drew this for you?" the artist asked while he puttered around prepping the space and his tools. "It's really good work."
"Yeah," Matt agreed.
"If your friend would be interested in an apprenticeship, send them my way. I know talent when I see it."
Rico didn't miss the way Matt's face fell. He knew heartbreak when he saw it. Matt might not know it, but Rico wasn't the only one who had changed while he was gone.
When they got home, Logan was in the sunny kitchen chatting with their mom over warm chocolate chip cookies. He grinned at them and admired the start of Matt's tattoo and he and Rico chatted for a while, catching up. Logan and Matt had been friends for long enough that Rico was like an older brother to Logan, too, bullying and sage advice and everything else that entailed.
After a while, Logan said gleefully, "I have something for you, Matt."
He went out into the foyer and came back with a skateboard under his arm. The brand-new wheels were smooth, the trucks gleaming, the grip tape rough and clearly unused.
"You got a new skateboard?" Matt asked in confusion.
"No, dude," Logan scoffed, rolling his eyes. "It's for you. Your parents paid for it, so don't go thinking I'm super generous or something, 'cause I'm not."
"Oh, um." Matt huffed in some stupid laughter and took the board from Logan. The weight of it in his hands felt like coming home. He ran a thumb along the edge, grip tape catching his skin like sandpaper. "Thanks, dude," he mumbled, embarrassed.
"We bought it on the condition that you promise to wear your helmet from now on," Mom said firmly from the sink, where she was washing her baking dishes. "No more head injuries or I won't hesitate to ban you from the skate park."
"Yeah," Matt said, nodding fervently. "I will."
"Turn it over, dude," Logan complained. "You haven't even seen the best part yet."
Matt flipped the skateboard over and looked at the artwork on the bottom. It was a series of goofy cartoon characters doing skateboard tricks, neon-bright on a black background: a shaggy-maned lion with his jaws open as though he was laughing, a green alien shooting off a ray gun towards a girl with purple hair and metal spikes for eyebrows, a clown tagging the ramp he rode on as he hung in the air, a white-haired zombie gnawing on the trucks of a skateboard, a vampire curled up asleep around a bottle of vodka.
"Did--" Matt hesitated, but the zombie gave him certainty. It looked so much like the pin he had bought at the concert. "Did Quinn do this?"
Logan grinned hugely at him and nudged him in the shoulder. "Yeah, dude. I asked him to. Greatest best friend ever, right?"
Matt couldn't stop staring, picking out more tiny details every time he looked at a new part of it.
"Yeah," he said quietly, his voice laden with meaning. "I love it."