by Jody Casella
“Oh, it’s nice,” Maddie says.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Logan flashing her white teeth. “That’s really cute. Your accent. Nice.” She draws out the word, trying to say it like Maddie does.
I stare out the window at the gray sky and the mud spattered snow clumps on the side of the road while Logan keeps up her interrogation.
“You’re Sam’s little sister. He’s in a few of my classes. Seems like a cool guy.”
“Yeah,” Maddie says.
“So, why’d you move here? Any special reason?”
I hear Maddie shifting around behind me. “My mother’s job.”
Logan’s turned onto our street, thank God. “The gray house,” I tell her. “Where Mrs. Hansel used to live.”
“The old lady?” Logan says. She slides around, barely missing a snowdrift at the end of the driveway. “The lady you used to help every Saturday?”
“Yeah.” I heave myself out of the car, knock the seat forward so Maddie can get out.
“Thanks for the ride,” she says. She shakes out of my coat, hands it to me without looking. “Bye, y’all.”
I watch her trudge up the walk, her shoulders hunched over, her ponytail drooping against her neck.
“Cute girl,” Logan says. “That little accent of hers. If you like that kind of thing.”
The wind lashes my face.
“Hey, didn’t that old lady die?”
“Yeah. September.” I climb back into the car, slam the door.
“Wasn’t she kind of crazy? I remember you saying—”
“I never said that.” My voice is loud in this cramped space. “Can you drop me off now?”
A minute later, we’re in front of my house.
“Marsh,” she says. “Look. I’m sorry I pushed you again. I shouldn’t have—”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Maybe later, when you’re ready, we can . . . ?” She’s struggling with the question and I’m struggling with the answer.
I clear my throat but my words still come out thick. “I can’t do this, Logan.” And I’m out of the car without looking back.
I head upstairs and dump my books onto the bed, grab the book closest to me—trig—and dig in. Convoluted equations are easier to deal with than anything else.
I can’t think about my other issues. Maddie tromping around the supermarket parking lot barefoot. What just happened with Logan. I might as well throw Kate in here for the hell of it. Three girls I’ve managed to hurt recently—and I’m not even sure how it happened. Okay, Logan’s deluded, but she has good reasons, which do essentially lead back to me. And Maddie, the mistake there was opening my big mouth, telling her about thin spaces, not realizing she’d believe me. Kate, I don’t want to get into. Anyway, if I’m trying to face reality, I’ve got a more pressing concern. Homework.
I don’t even notice my mother until she sinks down at the bottom of the bed. “Dinner will be ready in about thirty minutes,” she says.
“Okay.” I tug my English book out of the pile, flip open to the story we’re supposed to read.
“I fixed spare ribs,” my mother says. She’s looking like she wants to say something else.
What kinds of conversations did I use to have with her? We must have talked before. I must have done more than grunt out one-word answers. I try to remember something, anything. But all I can pull up are times when my brother was there too.
“You like those, right? Spare ribs?”
“Yeah. Sounds great.”
“Marsh.” My mother squeezes my leg. “I was thinking maybe it’s time to pack up some of those . . . mementos and maybe some of his other . . . things too.” She tilts her head back, squints at the ceiling. I look up too and for a few seconds I guess we’re both lost in my brother’s rocket ship poster.
I turn back to my book. Watch the sentences stretch across the page until they’re just black lines.
“Would you be okay with that? If your father and I went through some of that stuff?”
“That stuff?” I drag a finger over one of the lines. I can’t see words anymore.
“I’m not saying we’d pack up everything. You could see if there’s anything you’d like to keep.”
“I don’t know,” I hear myself say. My English notebook is on my lap. It’s open to a mostly blank page, except for one word scrawled across it: Truth. It’s like it’s mocking me.
“Only if you’re ready. There’s no rush.”
I don’t know what my face looks like, but she hugs me. “It’s okay, Marsh. We can talk about it later.”
After she leaves, I slump against the wall, blink up at the rocket ship poster again. Then for a change of pace, I study his bookshelf. The books are in alphabetical order, something I never noticed until I started sleeping in here. I don’t know why it would surprise me. He was very organized. All of his clothes hang neatly in the closet. No stray papers on his desk, just his computer, phone charger, an alarm clock. Nothing shoved under the bed except a pair of slippers.
For three months, I have worn his clothes. I set his alarm clock. I make his bed. I don’t like to think about why the hell I’m doing this. It’s a way to be closer to him is what I tell myself. But the truth is it reminds me what I’ve done, forces me to remember how much of a complete and total mess-up I am.
On that happy note, I return to my English book. The story doesn’t make sense, but somehow I manage to answer all the questions at the end of the section.
When my father calls me down for dinner, I stop on the landing, poke my head into my old room. It’s frozen too, stuck the way I left it in August. In the dark I can make out the piles on my desk and the dresser—the mementos my mother wants to pack away. Half-deflated balloons, dead flowers, mud spattered stuffed animals. A blown-up picture and the word Austin looping around the face. A glance at my clothes draped over the desk chair, a balled up sock, the rumpled bedcovers.
I can almost see my old self now, stepping out, ready for the double date with Kate and Logan. I was so smiley, so sure.
I wish I could go back in time. I wish I could smack that stupid grin right off my face.
13
Trouble
Another morning. I don’t even know what day it is. Friday? When I pass Mrs. Hansel’s house, I get the familiar urge to smash a window, but it’s a thought that’s easy to push away. Even when I believed in thin spaces, I was too much of a coward to ever do something like that.
At the bus stop, Lindsay and Heather are deep in conversation.
“I bumped into him in the hall. And he looked at me.”
“Get out.”
“No, I’m serious. He totally knows who I am.”
“Oh, hey Marsh.”
I offer the girls a polite nod. This is easy too. The version of myself that existed in August never did much more than that with Lindsay and Heather.
School. I pass Mrs. Golden, who squints at me through her office window. She’s probably wondering what’s on my agenda for today. Fights? Frostbite? I feel like I should salute her, kick up my legs so she’ll be sure to notice my boots. Hey, Mrs. Golden, I want to yell. Reality. I get it now.
First period. I copy hieroglyphic-like equations off the whiteboard.
Second period. Class discussion about a battle. I can’t figure out which war we’re on, but I nod along at what I hope are the appropriate moments.
Third: pop quiz. I fill in all the blanks. Write Marsh Windsor next to the word Name on the top of the paper and am surprised to feel only a twinge of self-disgust.
Lunch, I clomp toward my usual seat. I’m really not looking for Maddie, but when I pass the lacrosse table, I catch a glimpse of her drooping over her lunch tray. Sam’s hovering close, his face just a muted red today. I glance back to see if Maddie’s wearing shoes. She is, her designer boots. So that’s good. Brad’s at the other end of the table, his bottom lip almost back to normal. I get the feeling that any minute he’s going to come charging across the r
oom at me.
I sit with my back toward him, face the wall, eat my tuna on whole wheat and try not to think about it. If it happens, what am I going to do? Try to get in a good punch, I guess, or just zone out and let him go at me.
Someone drifts through the lunch line doorway, and I brace myself for Logan. But lucky guy that I am today, it’s Kate. She’s wearing an oversized black hoodie that hangs on her like a garbage bag. We lock eyes for half a second then she whips her head to the side.
Hey, Kate, I hear you. I don’t want to look at you either.
“Marsh,” she whispers. Her knuckles are white against her tray. “I’m sorry about—I need to stop doing—I need to get—” She looks like she might keel over.
Against my better judgment, I stand, lift the tray out of her hands. She’s got only three items on it: a little plastic container of fruit cocktail, a spoon, and a cup of ice. She crumples into the seat across from me. We look past each other for a few minutes. I try to swallow some sandwich.
Then she bursts into tears.
Oh, for God’s sake.
“I know,” she says. Whatever that means. She keeps sniveling, dragging the sleeve of her baggy sweatshirt across her face.
A part of me wants to shake her, scream in her face. A bigger part just wants to disappear. But manners and common decency seem to require something else. “Hey,” I say, pushing my napkin toward her.
She crushes it in her hand, blinks at me for a second, and then falls back to crying.
I’ve done my share of crying. Once, in the hospital as I watched my father sign my discharge papers. Once, here at school, my first day back after the accident, the first time I ran into Kate over by the lockers. Of course Logan was right there too. Because back then the two of them were practically joined at the hip.
I twitch around in my seat, catch Logan’s eye over at the football groupie table. Heave out a sigh then force myself to look at Kate.
She’s fiddling with her fruit cup. She doesn’t eat, just twirls her plastic spoon around, pulling up fruit chunks and dropping them back into the syrupy gloop.
I’ve lost my appetite too. Now that I’m face to face with her, only a foot away, I feel my stomach lurching, my head pounding. This is worse than drinking scalding coffee while Logan babbles on about the good old days.
“You know the other day.” Kate bunches the napkin against her nose. “At the corner. When we talked?”
“Yeah,” I say. But I don’t think I can handle whatever she’s going to say next.
“When I saw you . . . walking across the street, with your hands in your pockets . . . your head was back and your hair was off your forehead.” She sniffles out a sobby snort. “You looked like him.”
Nice, Kate. Thanks! We looked alike. We were freaking interchangeable. I get it.
She’s crying like we’re the only two people in the cafeteria. We’re tucked away at this corner table, but I can sense the audience behind me, stretching, shifting, gearing up for the next scene in the crazy saga of the remaining Windsor brother.
“I know I’m being stupid.” She lifts her head and her face is so blotchy and pathetic-looking I can’t help wincing. “Because you’re not him. I know that. And I have to get over it.”
“Kate,” I say. I can feel my teeth grinding together.
“But he was the love—”
Please don’t say it.
“—of my life.”
And now I remember why I hate her. Don’t lose it, I tell myself. She’s no worse than anyone else.
But that’s the problem. She’s not anyone else.
First day back at school, when I came limping around the corner, brace on my leg, gruesome scars tracking across my forehead, I don’t know what I’d hoped she’d do. Run toward me. Wrap her arms around me. It was a one-second fantasy. That she’d lift her head. That she’d look at me.
Instead, she and Logan blubbered with each other against the locker. Crying Austin over and over. I was an idiot to imagine any other scenario. What happened with her and my brother—that erased everything after. I’d dated Kate for a long time. I thought I loved her. She thought she loved me.
Funny thing. We were both wrong. End of story. Reality 101.
I stuff my half-eaten tuna sandwich into my lunch bag. Kate’s back to stirring her fruit lumps. Her cup of ice is mostly melted.
“I saw you in Mrs. Golden’s office,” she says. “She’s been calling me down there a lot too.”
Probably a good idea since she’s obviously got some grieving issues. “Yeah, well,” I say.
“I guess we have a lot in common. We both lost—” The sentence breaks apart.
And somehow I’m falling backward.
I can’t breathe. I push my hands out reflexively, try to grab something but catch only air. My legs kick out too, my booted feet thudding against the underside of the table. Something’s squeezing my neck. It releases for a second, and I gasp, “What the—?” before my throat closes up again.
Kate’s a smudge of black, and then I don’t see her anymore. I’m on my back, but not on the floor. Someone’s under me. I throw my hands out, clutch at the arm against my neck. Jab my elbow backward again and again.
I hear a grunt. The arm releases and I suck in a deep breath. I squirm away, twist around, and swing. It’s Brad. We roll together. My face hits something wet. Fruit cocktail, I’m guessing, and then I taste blood. It must be mine because pain is shooting through my nose. I’ve felt that pain before. When my face hit the steering wheel.
Now Brad’s got me pinned down with his knee. His fist blurs as it slams into my chin. I’ve got one hand gripping his shoulder and then I let go. I let him hit me. Good, I think. Smash it. I can’t stand looking at my face anymore.
There’s a rush of air. Hands pull him up, off me. I see Chuck, Kate, the cafeteria ceiling. And then I’m surprised to see Maddie leaning over me. Her ponytail is loose and hair’s falling over one shoulder. Her face is pale. She disappears when other hands seize my shoulders, heaving me to my feet.
Mrs. Golden’s office is now my home away from home. I’m parked in my usual chair, in front of her cluttered desk. There’s the folded up towel. She must be holding on to it in case I decide to tromp around barefoot again. There’s the picture of her and the smiling old guy. Probably her husband. Now that I think about it, he’s dead. So I guess we do have something in common. I look up, check the ceiling, searching out the fungus blotch. It’s bigger today, spreading onto the surrounding tiles. Pipe leak, maybe, or snow buildup on the roof.
Brad’s kicked out next to me. He’s got an icepack on his eye. So I must’ve landed a couple of decent punches after all. I’ve got my own icepack. My nose throbs from the cold but I keep pressing it down, ignoring the icy burn.
It’s just the two of us in here at the moment. Mrs. Golden left to round up Mr. O’Donnell and our parents. When we got hauled in, she shook her head at me, muttered “Oh, Marsh,” a couple of times, and pulled the icepacks out of the little refrigerator she’s got behind her desk.
I should be stressed, but for some reason I’m relieved. My conversation with Kate is effectively over. Brad most likely got whatever he needed to out of his system. And I’ve got a rearranged face for a few days. If I get sent home from school, that’s just an added bonus.
I hear Brad shifting around. “I hate you,” he says in a grunty voice. “I’ve hated you since seventh grade.”
Against my better judgment, I look at him. “Why?”
He lifts the icepack away from his face. His eye’s swollen shut, bluing around the edges. His lips have that fish-mouth thing going on again. “You don’t know?”
I shrug and pain shoots through my shoulder. “I guess not.”
“You’re an asshole,” he says.
“That’s my line.” I try to laugh but my nose feels like it’s going to split open.
“You knew I liked her and you went after her.”
“Her?”
“Cour
tney.”
“Courtney?” I don’t know who the hell we’re talking about.
“Courtney Johnson. Football cheerleader. Remember, she moved away summer before eighth grade?” Brad’s swollen eyeball is so disgusting that I jerk away from him, sending a fresh surge of pain through my shoulder.
“You’re mad at me because of some crap that happened in middle school?”
“You knew,” he says.
“Come on. This is about Courtney?”
“Man, you’re doing the same thing with Logan, stringing her along.” He shifts his head to glare at me, which truly must hurt him, because he moans. “Cut her loose. Stop torturing her.”
I sigh. “You’ve got it all wrong.” Why am I having this conversation?
Brad clutches his icepack, shakes it at me, comes narrowly close to clipping me on the chin with it. “You think you get a free pass, Marsh?” he says.
I clear my throat, ignoring the spasm in my nasal cavity. “What?”
“Because you lost someone, you think you get to do whatever the hell you want?”
“Look. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He puffs out his bloated lips. “You get to shit all over people. You get to—”
But I never get to hear what else I get to do because the door opens, and Mrs. Golden strolls in to start the suspension meeting.
She pushes some chairs around in a circle and everyone has a seat except Mr. O’Donnell. He stands with his hands on his hips and gets the ball rolling with a lecture on the school fighting policy. Brad and I have the same idea with our ice packs—we keep them over our faces so we don’t have to look at anyone. The glimpse I do get of my parents makes me want to crawl under Mrs. Golden’s desk.
“The rules are very clear—”
What the hell was I thinking before? About relief?
“Previous physical altercation Wednesday—”
My mother’s hands shake in her lap. My father clutches his tie.
“The four-day suspension will—”
My brother’s gone. I’ve destroyed my parents. And jeez, Brad, do you really think I’m getting a freaking free pass here?