Maps (3 page)

“Hank, would you look at these lilies? Aren’t they just beautiful?” Maps’ mom said to his dad.

“Oh, yes,” he replied.

As his parents discussed the loveliness of practically every organism on the front lawn, Maps grew impatient. If he was being thrown to the wolves, he figured he might as well get it over with.

He walked up to the door, knocked frantically for a few seconds, then laced his fingers behind his back. It was the corn brother—Lane—who opened the door.

He was much taller than Maps had first noticed, and just as intimidating despite his almost-too-small white button-up shirt and trousers.

A smile caught Maps off guard.

“I think we might have gotten off on the wrong foot.” he said, holding out his hand for its desired shake. “I’m Lane.”

Taken aback by the mellow green color of Lane’s eyes and the boyish gap between his two front teeth, Maps shifted uneasily, buffing his nails on his shirt. “I quite like the foot we got off on.”

“You like the foot we . . .” Lane paused. A stupid smile stretched his lips.

Maps dug his nail in even deeper. Why was the guy smiling? “I’d get off on that foot again in a heartbeat.”

“What in the world has come over you?” Maps’ mother shrieked.

“What?” Maps looked from his mother’s horror-stricken expression, to his father’s barely contained laughter, to the smiley gap between Lane’s front teeth. “What? Nothing’s come over me.”

Thankfully, he was saved by Lane’s parents coming up behind Lane.

“Welcome! We’re so glad you could make it.” Lane’s parents and Maps’ parents shook hands, exchanging pleasantries about the flowers and the wine that they’d brought over for dinner. The Wilson family was welcomed inside and shown to the living room.

Maps stood in the center of the living room, looking around the house he knew so well. It was much the same as Maps’ own house—white, vintage furniture, with pale, pastel-colored walls. There were a few unopened cardboard boxes near the corners of the room, and no books or ornaments on any of the bookshelves, or on the fireplace mantle. Nothing too fancy, but everything was clean and precise, like they’d put a lot of thought into making their new house a home.

But it felt wrong. If a house could feel wrong, that one felt
so
wrong. There weren’t any of Benji’s smelly socks littered through the hallways, and there weren’t any of Benji’s video game systems in front of the TV. And there definitely weren’t any photographs on the walls of Benji and his family.

It felt different.

Maps definitely didn’t like different.

The parents all left to the kitchen, so Maps decided to take seat on one of the sofas. He didn’t particularly care to be out of his house—ever—but on the rare occasion social normality did dictate one had to leave one’s house in order to not be a
troll
, as Benji had called him.

“What was your name again?” Lane asked while he stood near the fireplace.

Maps stared up into those pear-colored eyes and lost himself for a moment.

“Uh,” Maps replied smartly. A line formed between Lane’s eyebrows, but Maps had no idea why. The guy was such a weirdo. “I’m supposed to say sorry to you.”

Lane instantly straightened his long spine and grimaced. “And that’s the best you can do?”

“Yes.”

Lane turned to look at the fire, but Maps could’ve sworn he saw the side of Lane’s lips pulling up. While he was facing away, Maps couldn’t help but let his eyes rolls down Lane’s body, starting at his wide shoulders, his narrow waist, and his much-squatted butt. Maps really should do more squats, he decided. Squatted butts seemed to be the thing to have these days. Or he should at least perform some sort of physical activity; he practically wheezed his way up two flights of stairs.

“Hello,” something evil whispered softly right into Maps’ ear. He jumped off the couch and screamed—likely the manliest scream to ever have been screamed, though.

Lane started laughing. “Did you just shriek?”

“Of course I didn’t! I’m surprised you even heard me.”

Maps’ father came into the room. “Holy cow, what’s happening in here? It sounded like someone was getting murdered.”

“It was him,” Maps said, pointing at Lane with a shaking finger. “He’s the wailer.”

His father, Lane, and Lane’s devil of a little sister all stared at Maps like he was a child that swore he didn’t eat the cake with crumbs all over his face. He folded his arms over his chest.

“What’s this?” Princess of the Underworld asked.

Maps looked over, but somehow couldn’t make out what she was looking at, what she was then holding in her hands and putting on her face. He must’ve lost his glasses when he jumped up from the couch.

“Stacie, those aren’t yours. Those are his glasses,” Lane said. “Can you give them back to him?”

She trotted over to the corner where Maps remained. “Can I wear your glasses?”

“Oh sure,” Maps said. “Why would I need to see anything? Highly overrated, since right now you look like a talking dog.”

Stacie giggled like a hyena and then suddenly, the blur that was her was gone.

“Where did she go with my glasses?”

“She’s five. She doesn’t exactly understand sarcasm yet,” Lane replied. He disappeared for a few minutes and Maps listened to the wailing noises of Stacie from another room.

When Lane returned he stood in front of Maps and carefully handed the glasses back to their rightful owner. When Maps slid them back onto his face, he noticed Lane was actually
grinning
at him.

This guy was so weird! He was smiling at Maps like Maps was a puppy in a zoo or something.

Lane sat down in one of the chairs across from the sofa, so Maps took a seat on the sofa. What he wanted to do was give Lane a dirty look and go back home to finish his experiment on the effects of soaping the ficus, but he doubted he’d ever hear the end of it from his mother if he did.

“I’m not sure I ever caught your name. Did I hear your mom call you Mattie?” Lane leaned back in his chair and asked.

“It’s Maps.”

“Your name is Maps?”

“Well, it’s a nickname. My real name is Matthew, but my parents call me Mattie. Everyone else just knows me as Maps.”

“Why?”

Maps ignored the question. “So, what do you like to do, Lynn?”

“It’s, uh, Lane.” He squirmed a bit, uncomfortably.

“Right.” Maps, of course remembered his name, but kept reverting back to his default setting of rudeness when he was in Lane’s presence.

“Well, we just moved here from Mississippi. It was kind of a bummer when we found out, since the school year has already started and I’m in my final year, but Dad got a career opportunity he couldn’t refuse. I played baseball back home at my High School. I’ll probably try to play baseball here too.”

Maps stopped paying attention to Lane, fiddling with a television remote. Lane just stared at him. After a few moments, Maps popped the remote in half, removed the back cover, exposing all the inner wirings. He held the exposed remote control up to eye level, bringing it close so it was almost touching his nose.

“What are you doing?” Lane asked.

“Looking at the inside of your remote.”

“Okay. Why?”

Maps shrugged. “I’ve always wanted to look at someone else’s to see if it was similar to mine. Benji would never let me take his apart, and I just saw yours sitting on the floor, ripe for the picking.”

Instead of clicking his tongue at Maps, like Maps had expected him to do, Lane came to sit down right next to Maps on the floor. He leaned in to look at the pieces of the remote that Maps had taken apart, seeming genuinely interested.

Maps’ face blanched.

“Do you take stuff apart to figure it out all the time?” Lane asked without looking at Maps. He held the rubber tray of buttons in his large palm.

“I guess so.”

“Why don’t you just go on the Internet and look it up?”

Maps just shrugged, unable to take his eyes off the gentle giant to his side. “It feels more rewarding to do it myself. Plus, sometimes I get ideas in my head and I just can’t get them out unless I do them myself. I like to take things apart, build things, test things. Lots of things.”

“Huh,” Lane said, leaning back and looking at Maps. Their shoulders accidentally brushed, and Maps would swear on Albert Einstein’s grave that his heart did not jump. “That’s actually pretty cool. Maybe you can show me how to take stuff apart and put it back together, sometime?”

Maybe he wouldn’t swear on Albert Einstein’s grave.

“Please?” Lane asked sheepishly.

Okay, Maps would for sure not be swearing on any graves about anything. Maybe ever.

Lane’s dad popped his head in the room. “Hey guys, it’s dinner time. Lane, will you go get your sister?”

Maps stood up, discarding the dismembered remote on the floor. He walked out of the room, leaving the mess behind.

When both of their families were properly seated in the dining room—with Stacie on Maps’ left and Lane sitting across from him—he finally thought that he’d have the opportunity to conduct some sort of experiment, so that his time there hadn’t been a total waste. He looked around at the settings on the table. There was a large bowl of mashed potatoes, skins and all, some brussel sprouts, carrots, ham, a salad, a container of peas.

Peas.

Perfect.

Maps had always been curious as to how quickly peas shriveled up and became as hard as pellets. His father still had a pellet gun somewhere, and Maps mapped out the plan in his mind. It was perfect. He’d steal some peas from this dinner, try to sneak out and commandeer his father’s pellet gun, and then see how long it would take for the peas to become the perfect hardness to be used a pellets.

While everyone began dishing out food onto their plates, Maps took special care with the peas, making sure almost half his plate was peas. His mom and dad chattered away with Lane’s mom and dad, none of them the wiser that Maps had something up his sleeve. He carefully began rolling peas off his plate and onto the napkin in his lap. One by one, his little green minions fell to their doom, later to be splattered all over an old piece of plywood in the backyard.

And then he came across
the
pea. He didn’t know what made it
the
pea instead of just
a
pea, but for some reason, he thought it was special. He stared at it for a few moments, trying to dissect it with his eyes.

From across the table, Lane laughed at something his father said. Maps looked up. Huh, the pea was the exact same shade of green as Lane’s eyes.

Maps glared at the stupid pea. Lane looked over at him and smiled. Maps skewered the pea as though his fork was a dagger, and then violently bit it off his fork. Lane had already looked in another direction, missing Maps’ entire intimidation tactic. What a waste.

Still, Maps was a little put off by the dumb pea and its dumb color and Lane’s dumb eyes and dumbness.

“Why do you keep staring at my brother?” Stacie asked Maps.

She was perched up on a little pink stool on her chair, eating away at her mashed potatoes with a plastic fork. There were smears of potato on her cheek, and if Maps hadn’t already known that she was some sort of lesser devil, he might’ve thought she was cute.

Everyone—because the universe hated Maps—stopped and stared at him.

“I what?” Maps stammered. He tried his best to be careful and not spill the pile of peas on his lap.

“You were staring at him,” Stacie said matter-of-factly. “I would know; I was staring at you staring at him.”

“I was not staring at him!”

“Were so!”

“Were not!”

“Were so!”

“Were not!”

“Mattie!” his mother called from the adjacent corner of the table. “Stop arguing with a five year old! You’re sixteen, for goodness sake!”

“Your boyfriend will be mad,” Stacie said in a singsong voice.

“Your
boyfriend
?” Maps’ father said from next to his mother.

“Yes,” Stacie replied for him. “Benji.”

“Benji!” Maps’ mother gasped.

“Oh my god,” Maps whined. He threw his hands over his face, exasperated.

“Son, you know we don’t care. We’re just surprised is all,” said Maps’ father. “And Benji, especially. Wow. We thought you two were just friends. But I guess you are old enough. Your mother and I told you about the birds and the bees at a young age.”

“I love birdies!” Stacie chimed in. “Tell me about the birdies!”

“When you’re older,” Lane added.

“But I want to know about them now!” Stacie howled. “Why do bees like them? I like their little wings!”

Maps’ mother cleared her throat and nudged her husband. “Maybe this isn’t the best time to have this discussion.”

“Benji is not my boyfriend!” Maps shrieked. He would even admit to shrieking that time.

“Oh, sorry, son,” his father said. “Do you prefer the term partner?”

“I prefer nothing because he’s not my boyfriend, just my friend!”

“He’s your boyfriend,” Stacie said, nodding at Maps, as if to assure him of something he was missing. “You talk to him on the phone lots.”

“What?” Maps said, big-eyes staring at Stacie.

“I was in Lane’s room listening to you talk to your boyfriend on the phone before you came over. You leave your window open. And you shout!” she giggled.

“You’ve got to be joking.”

“It’s okay,” Stacie added. “Lane was there too. We were both listening.”

Maps’ eyes darted across the table to Lane. Lane held up his hands defensively, the tips of his ears turning red. “Only once, earlier today. And, well, you do kind of shout.”

“This is turning into a circus,” Maps said. “I’m leaving!”

Maps shot out of his chair, meaning to take his napkin, shove it down onto the table, straighten his collar and leave with a very gentlemanly,
“Good day to you all!”
, but what happened in reality was a little different.

When Maps went to shove his napkin onto the table, a corner snagged on his belt buckle as he raised the other end of the napkin to throw it down. The effect was somewhat of a trampoline for the little peas that Maps had forgotten were in his lap.