by Jody Casella
“And last night I could hardly sleep, and then whenever I did fall asleep, I’d have these awful dreams and—”
I see that I’m going to have to get right to the point with this girl. “The front room,” I say. “In your house. The one that slants—have you unpacked in there yet?”
“Oh,” she says, startled. “We did get some stuff done last night. No thanks to Sam. He was just dumping stuff out of boxes and throwing it anywhere and I was trying to find a place for everything and I’m really not trying to be OCD about it, but you have to give some thought to arrangement—I mean feng shui, right?”
“Feng shui?” Why does she keep leading me off track?
“You know, like the placement of things in your house? Like how you’re not supposed to have a bathroom in the center? Of course, upstairs we have that one pink-tiled bathroom in the middle, shooting out bad spirits everywhere.”
I’m lost again and when the bell rings I heave out a sigh.
“Well, see you later?” she says.
A thought hits me. Something only halfway sneaky, but it might get me back into Mrs. Hansel’s house and, with any luck, into the front room. “Hey”—I clear my throat—“maybe after school today, I could help you out with your unpacking.”
6
I’m In, Part Two
I’m riding high the rest of the school day. My feet skim the halls, hardly feeling the dusty floors. Forget this stupid school, I’m thinking. No more searching around here for a thin space. No more searching anywhere. In a few hours, I’m out of here.
Flip open my locker, shove all my books in. No homework where I’m going. Ha ha. I slam the locker door and turn fast, thudding right into Logan of all people. She makes a little gasping sound.
“Marsh.”
“Excuse me,” I tell her, keeping my eyes fixed on my dirty toes.
“Wow. I didn’t see you.”
“Sorry.” The word hangs there. I clamp a hand against my stomach then whirl away from her, turn the corner.
“Marsh!” I hear her high voice over my shoulder. What, is she stalking me now? “You can’t keep blowing me off, you know. You—”
I turn the corner, elbow through a group of cackling girls.
“Just listen, Marsh. Please. I need to talk—”
I speed up even though a part of me wants to turn back, shake her, tell her it’s time to get over it. Which is probably ironic coming from me. Plus, it’s not really fair. How much of this crap is Logan’s fault?
But forget her. Not my problem. I’m practically out of here. My whole body’s vibrating when I climb on the bus. So close now I can’t take it. My feet tap the grimy bus floor. Almost there. Almost there. The words pound in my head like a mantra.
Maddie sways in the aisle. She hesitates and then sits down next to me. “Sam’s got some lacrosse meeting after school,” she says, and I let her chatter drift over my head.
I’m thinking about logistics, how it’s going to work when I get inside Mrs. Hansel’s house.
“And my mother’s working until—”
If the room’s still full of boxes, I’ll have to push stuff out of the way. Because I’m not going to fool around this time. No small talk or snacking on pie. This time I’m not blowing my chance. Step in. Get out. That’s the plan. And whatever this new girl thinks about it, I don’t care.
“Yeah, so there’s a lot to do and it’s really nice of you—”
I wonder what her face will look like when she sees me disappear. When I hit the thin space, and my feet press against the floor and—
“Marsh?”
Now I’m the one zoning out at our bus stop. Lindsay and Heather hover by our seat, waiting, it seems, for Maddie and me to stand up. Their heads bump against one another’s and they whisper something that makes Maddie’s cheeks burn. Who cares? Lindsay and Heather aren’t bugging me today. Nothing is.
“Bye, Marsh,” Lindsay calls over her shoulder. “Bye, Maddie.”
“Bye, y’all,” Maddie says.
A manic laugh heaves out of me. Almost there. Almost there. My feet thwack the sidewalk. Some part of me knows this is probably painful. A bigger part doesn’t care.
Maddie is rummaging in her backpack while I rock back and forth on the front steps. She sighs, unzips one of the pockets, sighs again. “Shoot. Where’s my key?”
I can’t take this. Come on. I peer over her shoulder, try to get a peek of the front room from the window. But the glass is black and all I can see is my face. Eyes squinting. Jaw clenched. Take away the longish hair and, really, I look nothing like him.
“Oh, here it is.” She flashes the key, jiggles it in the lock.
The familiar smell—medicine, powdery Mrs. Hansel—jolts me back to the last time I saw her. Her body shrunken and pale. Her hair just white wisps on her head. How different she looked. I gasped out loud, and there was Mrs. Golden, her sharp voice saying, Look, Rosie, Marsh Windsor’s come to visit you.
And Mrs. Hansel, propped up in the bed by the fireplace, narrowed her eyes.
You remember him, right, Rosie? The boy from down the street who helped you around the house. The boy with the twin brother who—
Mrs. Hansel shook her head. It didn’t seem like she remembered me.
Maddie drops her backpack on the floor. “Your, uh, feet are a little wet,” she says. “You want a towel or something?”
I stare over her head toward the fireplace, and it’s like the bed’s still there. Mrs. Hansel’s in the pillows like a shrunken up doll. That day, that last time I saw her, with Mrs. Golden hovering over her, telling me it was time to go home, that I was tiring Mrs. Hansel out—suddenly Mrs. Hansel didn’t seem so tired. She lifted one pale hand. She said—
“They must be cold, your feet,” Maddie is saying. “I’ll go get a towel.”
“Okay,” I hear myself say. I am stepping into the room. The way across isn’t blocked today. The pieces of furniture—the couches, coffee table, end tables—are arranged now and not just left wherever the moving men dropped them. Boxes line the walls, but I don’t look at them. My eyes are on the floorboards, which run across the room toward the fireplace. Like roads, I think, leading me to where I need to go.
To end this. To fix this.
Somewhere, Maddie is laughing. “Now where did she put the towels?”
I feel the room slope down as I move. The space in front of the fireplace doesn’t look special. The wooden floorboards are the same as all the other boards. Yellowish brown. Scuff-marked. My leg trembles when I lift it. I don’t know what I expect to happen. Now that I am actually about to step in—
“I found a hand towel. That should work.”
I press down. Watch my foot as it touches the wood. I imagine the floor will spring up to meet my sole, will give like a sponge.
Instead, nothing. The floor’s as hard and cold as the area around it.
“Marsh?”
Holding my breath, I slide my foot to the side. And a slide in the other direction. Still holding my breath. Waiting.
“Marsh?”
I imagine my body being jerked from the room. My stomach tightens, anticipating the tug. Here goes. I have been planning this moment for two months. Since I stood over Mrs. Hansel’s bed, my leg in a brace, my forehead itching with scars, the bruises on my nose barely healed.
I’ll make a thin space, she whispered.
But where is it?
I suck in another breath. Shuffle back. Shuffle forward. Take two steps now.
Three.
Four.
Maybe I’m over too far? The bed was in front of the fireplace. I know that. So why am I still standing here? Mrs. Hansel said this was where she came through. And I know it’s where she left the world. I saw her in the bed. Right here.
I whirl around, dragging my feet, drawing overlapping circles, moving out farther into the room. Maybe the bed wasn’t directly in front of the fireplace. Maybe it was off more to the side? Is the space smaller than what I’ve been imag
ining?
I’m still here.
“You should sit down.” Fingers brush my arm. “You look like you’re going to pass out.”
Why the hell am I still here?
Maddie’s face hovers over me. Somehow I am on the couch, leaned back, blinking up at her. “Marsh?” she says. “Are you sick?”
I close my eyes. What if Mrs. Hansel was wrong? What if her soul didn’t come through in front of the fireplace? How could she even know something like that?
Or worse. What if she was wrong about everything? What if she really was crazy? What if there are no thin spaces? What if I can’t go—
“You’re scaring me.” The voice is soft.
I realize I’m shivering. My stomach tightens. Jeez, am I crying? Somehow there’s a blanket over me. A warm hand flutters over my forehead.
“Walking around barefoot,” she says, “you’ll catch your death of cold.”
What a joke. Death. If it were only that easy.
“What’s so funny?”
I open my eyes. Maddie’s face is very pale. Even her cheeks. “Nothing’s funny,” I tell her. And isn’t that the truth? I claw the blanket away. Heave out a sigh. Even though I just told her nothing was funny, I laugh. The alternative is to sob. Rip this long hair out of my skull by the roots. Because here’s what I’m thinking: What if I’m stuck here?
Forever?
“Is there anything I can do?” she says. “To help you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What?” she says, because I’m laughing again.
“Not unless you know something about ancient Celtic beliefs.”
“Celtic beliefs?” she repeats.
“Right. Didn’t think so.”
“Are you making fun of me?”
“Nope.” I grip the edge of the couch. Oh God. Now what? What do I do here? Am I back to shuffling around barefoot? Back to hoping I’ll stumble into some random—
“Mom,” Maddie says. She springs up from the couch. A tall woman strides into the room, her high heels clicking across the floor.
“Oh,” the woman says in a singsong voice. “I didn’t see you had company.”
Maddie’s face fires up. “Why’re you home so early? It’s only four o’clock.”
“I have to meet the maintenance man. I told you that. He should be here any minute.” She starts to shake off her long coat, and then changes her mind. “This is ridiculous. It’s freezing in here. Sweetie, aren’t you going to introduce me to your new friend?”
“This is Marsh,” Maddie says.
“Well, how nice to meet you. Madison, is that my good hand towel?”
“Oh,” Maddie says. “I was—” Her eyes flicker at me. “The floor was wet by the door and I—”
“That’s not the towel for that,” her mother says.
“But I couldn’t find—”
“Well, never mind. I hope you remembered your manners.” She flips her head so her blond hair swings over one shoulder. It’s the same color as Maddie’s. “Have you offered your friend something to drink?”
I clear my throat. “Uh, thanks, no. I need to be going. Nice to meet you too.” I stand, stare at the floor in front of the fireplace. My stomach’s still churning just thinking about it.
I did what I was supposed to do. I slid over the whole area. Why didn’t it work? I can’t let myself think what the implications are of—
“Are you sure, sweetie? Because it’s no trouble. Madison, why don’t you go on and—”
“Mom.” Maddie tugs my sleeve. “Marsh said he had to go.”
I’m surprised when she follows me out, closing the door behind us. “Sorry,” she says.
I don’t know what she’s talking about.
She rolls her eyes. “My mother.” She’s got my sleeve clutched in her fingers. “Um, Marsh, I saw you in the room. When I was coming back in with the towel. You were . . . looking for something.”
I raise my hand, ready to wave it at her, ready to wave her away, but I stop. My hand’s frozen in midair, and beyond that is Maddie’s face and the white sky. Snowflakes drift down, dotting her cheeks and her hair.
“What?” she says, her forehead wrinkling up.
Flakes land on the top of my feet. Each one melts, burns. I don’t know if I can do this anymore. I feel something rising up out of my throat. A laugh again, I hope, because what will happen if I let myself cry?
My brother died in August.
Mrs. Hansel died in September.
Now, we are slouching through November.
A shudder rolls up through my legs, my stomach, my arms. I fist my hands, try to keep myself from losing it right here on the sidewalk. In front of Mrs. Hansel’s house. Where, pathetically, I have broken down before. How long can I—
“Marsh.”
That snaps me out of it. I feel the snow on my skin again. I see Maddie’s face. It’s heart-shaped. Like Kate’s. Not like Logan’s. My stomach twists up.
I start to turn, but she’s still holding my sleeve. “I’ve got to go.” I shake her off, move fast, slap my feet down on the cold sidewalk. I live only three houses away, but when I get home, I feel nothing from my ankles down.
In the morning, my mother’s ranting. I hear her in the kitchen. “He’s not going outside like that. He’ll get frostbite.”
And my father’s low voice. “What do you want me to do? You want me to hold him down? You want me to force him to put on shoes?”
I don’t wait to hear the answer. I head outside. Not much snow on the ground, maybe an inch or so, but as soon as my feet hit the sidewalk, the cold slices my skin. I flinch, watch my breath puff out, pull my coat up around my chin. I keep right on walking past Mrs. Hansel’s house, my feet thudding against the concrete. Each step shoots pain up my legs. The bus’ll come soon. I can make it.
What choice do I have? All last night I went over it again and again. Right before she died Mrs. Hansel practically gave me a blueprint. Take off your shoes. Step in. I mean, how complicated is that? She did everything but rope the spot off for me. It was supposed to be where her damn bed was.
Assuming she knew what she was talking about, my options are the same as before. Get back into that house or run across some other thin space.
If Mrs. Hansel was wrong . . .
But I’m not thinking about option three.
No. It has to be an issue of technique. That’s what I’ve got to focus on. Maybe I didn’t cover the entire space. I could’ve missed a board. I could’ve lifted a foot up at the wrong moment. I was in a hurry. That was the problem.
At the bus stop, I march in place. The snow melts where I’m standing. I don’t know how, though; my feet can’t be warm enough to melt anything.
Lindsay and Heather come bopping up, take one look at me and at my feet and then step away to whisper at each other. One word scrolls across their faces: crazy.
7
Welcoming Committee
When the bus screeches up to the school, there’s Mrs. Golden, of all people, waiting at the curb, waving something. It’s not a pie.
She boards and nods at the bus driver, swivels her head around until she finds me. “Marsh Windsor,” she says. What she’s got are socks and a pair of blue plastic clogs in her hands. “Put these on.”
My feet and face burn as I clutch my backpack straps, stand, hobble toward her.
“Put them on,” Mrs. Golden says again. “Now, Marsh, or no one is getting off this bus.”
Behind me someone starts clapping. “Don’t!” And my fellow bus riders pick up the chant: “Don’t! Don’t! Don’t!”
It grows wild as I take the socks, bend down to tug them on. The material scratches my toes. I shove my feet into the clogs and wince as they bite into my feet. I thud down the bus steps, half tripping over a mucky snowdrift at the curb.
Someone yells out the bus windows. “Now he puts shoes on.” And the former chanters laugh.
“Well, come on,” Mrs. Golden says wearily.
&n
bsp; I follow her into her office. She closes the door, yanks a chair out for me. “Sit down. Take those off.”
I open my mouth and then notice she’s got a dishpan of water on the floor.
“That’s lukewarm water,” she says. “Dunk your feet in it before you destroy your skin. Do you want to do that? Is that what you’re trying to do? Frostbite is serious, Marsh. So is hypothermia.”
I stifle a gasp. My feet smolder in the water like I’ve stepped in fire.
“Keep them in there.” Mrs. Golden drapes a blanket around my shoulders. She moves behind her desk, sits, faces me. “Okay. Let’s have it. What’s going on?”
I try to scrunch my toes, but I can’t make them move. Flames lick around my ankles, up my calves.
“You know, your mother called me this morning. Frantic. Crying. Do you hear what I’m saying?”
I shift my feet and more pain shoots up my legs until I swear I can feel it in my teeth.
“I’m not saying you should be over this. It’s not something you can be over. It’s something that’s going to hurt less . . . with time. I understand that, Marsh.” She clasps her hands together. “I’ve lost someone important to me too, so I know what you’re going through. I truly do. Losing Austin—”
I wince when she says the name, and the movement brings with it another stab of pain in my feet.
“—was horrible. He was a good person and he didn’t deserve to die when he did, and the guilt you feel . . . ” She frowns. “You know it was an accident, right? Somewhere inside, you know that. But if you don’t, I’m going to tell you: It was an accident. Okay? There, I said it. Now you say it.”
I keep my feet still, watch the water shimmering over them.
“I’m waiting. You’re not leaving this room until you say it: It was an accident.”
Mrs. Golden’s hair is very yellow. Maybe she’s trying to look like her name. If that’s her goal, she’s failing. Her hair’s the color of lemons. Most of the ladies in Andover color their hair. I don’t know why that is. Except Mrs. Hansel. She let hers go white. Once she told me it used to be red. Which was hard to picture. My natural color, she said. Irish girl like me.