8

Their sophomore year started and Matthew felt quite at ease with his busy schedule, though he doubted he could handle any more. Alfred still wasn't permitted to come home, but he received his first letter from him the day before school started.

Dear Matthew,

I hope this reaches you when you're feeling good. You know I don't have a way with words or anything, especially here. I can feel my brain cells falling out, it hurts, you know? Anyway, I want to say I'm real proud of you, and I love you little bro. Keep up your grades, and I hope you've finally decided to take that girl as your girlfriend. I think you probably did already. Anyway, you can always go into my bank account for more money…

It went on to describe how Matthew could improve his living conditions. Each word leaked the sense of "I ain't comin' home, son". It bothered Matthew more than it should have. He constantly had to remind himself that Alfred was being negative, but he couldn't help but believe that Alfred was never coming home.

The letter ended with:

Don't bite the dust too soon, Matthew.

-Yours truly,

Alfred

He hardly ever wrote his last name. Matthew grunted and swallowed hard, folding the paper and tucking it beneath his pillow. He wondered, briefly, if he had any sort of rights because of the whole mess.

He dreamed that he was sinking, with a weight on his chest. He didn't need a professor or psychologist to tell him that the weight was Alfred's absence. Nor did he need telling that the other weight, zipping through the water so fast and pushing him farther down, represented another issue, ready to come in, light speed.

Matthew woke heavily the next morning. He pulled on his glasses and stretched. He picked up his backpack, heavy with supplies generously gifted by the school board. He cooked himself up a fried egg and ate it wordlessly. Not that he could speak to anyone, anyway.

He drove for the first time to school, enjoying the freedom. The thought of ditching weaseled its way into his mind. He could do it. He could drive away.

But then he pictured Kat's face and went to school. With brand new schedules and lockers, he was delighted to find that his locker was closer to Kat, and he shared not only orchestra with her, but history class. It was perfect. He waited for her, history was their first class, to fish everything she needed, out of her locker. She explained that she had come in the previous week to organize her belongings.

"That's a good idea, I should do it next time."

She nodded. She kissed his cheek and shit the locker with her hip, letting him lead the way.

"I can't believe it, Summer's over."

"I know," Matthew said.

"How did you get your permit so early, though?" she realized he was hardly sixteen yet.

"I've got a brother in jail."

"I didn't know they could bend the rules so much."

Matthew shrugged, "I suppose."

At lunch break, they resumed their positions by their tree. Matthew's lunch was even more flimsy than before. Kat noticed and angrily stared at him.

"Mat,"

"What?"

"You know what."

"What am I going to do about it?"

"You are going to let me cook your meals."

"How will you do that?"

"I'll go to your house."

"I—ok." There was no point in arguing with Kat. She had her mind set and the fire in her eyes.

So she did. From that day on, she came home with him. When he went to work she would cook him something, and wait for him to return home and eat dinner with him. After that she went back home. Her parents knew about it and they, too, had a soft spot for such causes. They often sent Kat with ready-made food to Matthew's.

One night, in autumn, Matthew sat on the couch with Kat, eating pasta. He let his hand wander, touching her thigh. She looked at him, watching his fingers creep up. She held his hand, running her thumb along his calloused knuckles.

"Matthew, not now," She cooed.

"I'm sorry," he pulled away, ashamed of himself.

"It's okay, I know you have a lot of stress on your mind."

"Boy, don't I."

"Have you spoken with Alfred?"

"Spoken?"

"Replied to his letter, I mean."

"Oh, no, not yet. I doubt he'd get it. They'd probably go through it and edit out so much that it wouldn't make any sense anymore…"

She nodded, crossing her legs. Despite telling off Matthew, she often though about his hands on her. Less so than he did, though.

"I'm going home," she said, kissing his cheek. Matthew stood. They went out. Matthew stayed by so no one would dare attack her, though she was a strong woman herself and could probably beat anyone who dared lay a finger on her to a pulp. They reached the end of the street and he bade her good-by.

When he returned, just like every night, he was struck by an awful loneliness all over again.