The Book of Matthew (The Alex Chronicles Book 1) Read Free

college for parents’ sake. They’re the only ones who seem to care how many majors are available. Parents love knowing their kids have options.
    After an hour our tour was over and the guide walked us back to the administration building where we parked. This is when he told us about the town of Kilmore, the tiny suburb that depended on the university to keep its economy strong. There were several restaurants and a few banks and a grocery store or two, plus a car wash and a hardware store.
    “And there’s also a bowling alley, a movie theater and miniature golf!” he said enthusiastically.
    This all excited my parents, who up until this point were only casual observers walking behind me and the tour guide, allowing me to run the show, letting me ask all the questions. My mother stated that maybe I could get a part-time job downtown.
    As if I wouldn’t have enough on my plate.
    “I don’t have a car,” I reminded her, glaring at her to see if she’d cave to the pressure and finally take me to get my license.
    We were all quiet for a minute until the tour guide said, “Most freshmen don’t. But don’t worry. You’ll make lots of friends here. Friends with cars.”
    I shrugged and said, “Maybe.”
    The tour guide looked over his shoulder at my parents, and, sensing they were out of earshot whispered to me, “There are three bars within walking distance that are known to have a relaxed attitude towards underage drinking.” Then he winked, as if that was the icing on the cake, the biggest selling point he had to offer.
    Not that he needed it. I was already sold.
    I nodded. “Good to know, thanks.”
    The tour guide said goodbye and left us in the parking lot. I stretched an arm around my father’s neck and began fake sucker punching him in the gut as we walked the rest of the way to the car. He took his fake beating like a man, pretending to reel back with each blow that didn’t hit his stomach. I released him when my arms grew tired and when I thought he had had enough.
    “So, you like Kilmore?” my mother asked.
    “It’s pretty cool,” I said.
    She agreed. “Yes, I think it’s pretty cool too. Rad, even.”
    My mother always knew the language du jour of teenagers. It must’ve been the school nurse in her. She spent her days surrounded by teenagers, taping sprained ankles, wiping bloody noses, bandaging cuts and scraps and burns. So how could she not pick up a few words and phrases here and there from the students? Once in a while she’d try them out on me.
    As if.
    Whack.
    Bitchin’ .
    Now it was rad .
    So while she always knew the current teenager vernacular, she always sounded so uncool trying to speak it. She must’ve known how ridiculous she sounded this time, trying out rad for the first time, because she shrugged her shoulders as if to say she gave it a shot and knows she failed.
    My father laughed at her. “Nice try, dear,” he said, rubbing her back with a calloused hand.
    My father’s hands were always calloused, usually rough, his fingernails sometimes bruised. Comes with the territory when you’re a carpenter.
    My father liked to build wood shelves for my mom and hang them around the house so she could display her knick-knacks and figurine collections. He always seemed to get hurt in the process, though, and oftentimes came home from work with minor injuries—wood splinters, mostly, or sawdust in the eye, or a nicked finger from a close encounter with a table saw. Once he came home with a nail in his foot.
    My mom the nurse was always prepared to care for him, ready to dole out whatever line of first aid was needed. She treated him out of love, I’m sure, but when you get down to it, I think she was paying him back for all the shelves. Either way, their respective lines of work complimented their marriage perfectly.
    He made a birdhouse for me once, when I was perhaps five or six years old. It was the first thing I saw him build. Four simple pieces of wood, a few hand movements,