You're a Mean One, Matthew Prince by Timothy Janovsky

Author:Timothy Janovsky
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sourcebooks, Inc.
Published: 2022-08-02T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 20

Grandma wasn’t kidding about the tree-trimming party. As soon as we return from our full day of planning, we’re adorned with jangly felt reindeer antlers and slugged with barf-worthy polyester blends. My grandparents stand before us in matching crewnecks. My eyes are almost burning from the repeating bright colors and mismatched patterns.

“Don’t fight us on this, Matthew. Everything’s more festive in an ugly Christmas sweater,” Gramps says.

I ruined a cashmere cardigan today, so with the fashion overlords already angered, I heed his advice. I slip out of my jacket and slide the monstrosity over my head, hair going all staticky.

I check myself out in the mirror without cringing. I think I wear such expensive designer pieces because if I can cover myself in beautiful clothes, maybe I’ll start seeing what’s underneath as beautiful too. Even the imperfect parts.

Hector’s seen through the armor since day one, calling it exactly what it was—a way to keep people out. I think I might be ready to let people see me in all my messy glory.

In many ways, I already have.

“Gramps set aside all the little ornaments you made for us back in the day,” Grandma says.

“You kept those?” I ask. The silly pipe-cleaner and Popsicle-stick creations fill me with nostalgia. I had teachers at New York’s most prestigious preschool who emphasized the homemade gift as a tiny piece of the heart. Mom and Dad were not the types to appreciate a portrait done entirely in eco-friendly crayon and plant-based glue. Grandma and Gramps, on the other hand, would display any Daliesque product of my imagination. So, come Thanksgiving every year, I’d pack up all my crafts in a box and I’d trek them to Massachusetts.

I place my boots on the shoe rack and come over to the couch. Gramps has made a neat collection on the coffee table. There are snowflakes and mini sleds, pom-pom snowmen and a clay reindeer that looks more like the poop emoji than an animal capable of guiding Santa’s sleigh.

“Matthew was quite the artist when he was a kid,” Grandma says to Hector, who hangs back.

I can’t tell for sure why he’s hesitating. Maybe it’s because he’s not sure if joining in is overstepping. Or maybe it’s because we haven’t spoken candidly about our kiss yet.

Either way, I can tell he’s missing his own family, his own Christmas tree, and his own traditions that don’t involve his professor, his professor’s wife, and the rich boy he’s tolerating—and tonguing—for the time being.

I hand him the clay reindeer turd as a peace offering.

“Not my finest work, but deserves a special spot anyway,” I say, imbuing my voice with a saccharine quality. He takes it with a slight, squished smile.

He inspects the open branches like a scout on the hunt for a perfect camping spot. His commitment to getting everything right is immeasurable. I’m starting to see how it benefits him.

Baz worked hard when inspiration struck. He’d spend whole days holed up in his studio with his instruments and innumerable energy drinks fueling his creativity.

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