No Man's Land

by S. T. Underdahl

“’Night, Miranda.”

  I wonder what it is about talking to people that makes Scarlett so uneasy she’s compelled to bolt. I kind of do better on my own, was what she told me; what, does the new girl have some kind of social phobia?

  I can’t say why I care, exactly, but something about the look in Scarlett’s eyes when she said it makes me determined to find out.

  Seven

  (Fox News)—The U.S. Military reports two

  U.S. helicopters crashed Monday in northern Afghanistan, killing six American troops. The crash happened around 3:15 a.m. local time. Afghan officials, speaking on condition of anonymity, said the crash site was in eastern Afghanistan near Khost, a city about 150 kilometers south of Kabul. According to an Associated Press count, the deaths raise to 3,561 the number of U.S. service members who have died in Operation Enduring Freedom

  since it began in October of 2001.

  Despite everything, I sleep hard that night, awakening only to the sound of my blaring alarm. “Holy crap,” I croak, groping blindly for the off button.

  I let myself wake up for a minute, then sit up, blinking. I’d read until I fell asleep; someone turned off my light and put The Outsiders facedown on my bedside table, open to the page where I’d left off. Mom, I think. Not many other possibilities.

  In the bathroom, I see a man about a horse and splash some water on my face. I fell asleep in my clothes, so I decide to skip a shower and instead change into the argyle sweater I found on the vintage rack at the Salvation Army. It’s perfectly shrunken and fits me like a glove, especially over a black T-shirt. I pull on jeans and loop my belt with the grommets through the belt loops, grab my things, and prepare to head out.

  On my way through the kitchen, I grab a Coke out of the refrigerator and am nearly to the front door when I realize Mom is curled up on the sofa with a box of Kleenex. “Are you sick?” I ask. “Why aren’t you at work?”

  As the words come out of my mouth, I realize that Mom doesn’t look ill; instead, her face is tracked with the shiny trails of tears I’ve seen too often lately. Uh-oh, I think. Living with Mom these days is like riding a roller coaster I can’t get off. I glance at the clock, trying to be patient but not wanting to be late again.

  “Oh, Dov,” she quavers, shaking her head in despair, “I hardly slept at all last night. I was thinking about that story on the news last night … about the consulate or embassy or whatever it was. You don’t think Brian’s unit was there, do you? They said there were casualties, Dov. I’m just so afraid that Brian might be hurt, or that he might be … might even be … ” She trails off, unable to say the words.

  I let my backpack slide to the floor and make myself walk over to sit down next to her on the sofa. Setting my Coke on the floor, I pat her knee awkwardly. “Brian’s fine, Mom,” I tell her. “He sounded great when he called, remember?”

  Mom nods, but then her face crumbles. “Oh, God,” she wails, sobbing as if I just told her that I had it on good authority that Brian was reduced to a smoking pile of rubble. Watching too much war coverage on CNN has done this to her before, but she usually doesn’t get quite this hysterical. I start feeling nervous; maybe Mom is finally losing it. “Mom … Mom,” I say, trying to get her to listen to me. I wonder whether I should slap her or something, like in the movies. In the back of my mind is the worry that I really need to get going or I’m going to be late for first period again; after yesterday, I doubt Mertz will cut me any more breaks.

  I summon Brian into my mind; I’ve found that in crisis situations, it sometimes helps to imagine what he would do in my shoes. Brian takes Mom by the shoulders, forcing her to look at me. “Listen,” I order, my voice strong and calm. “Brian. Is. Fine. They would have called us if anything happened to him. No one called, so he’s fine.”

  Mom sags between my hands, her blue eyes, so much like my brother’s eyes, searching mine. “They would have called,” she echoes. “They would have called. Yes, you’re right, Dov … they would have called.”

  “You’re just worn out, Mom. You need to get some sleep. Brian is fine. He’ll call us as soon as he can. Brian is fine. He’s fine.” I repeat it calmly, like a mantra, until I see Mom’s face relax and I know it’s okay to loosen my grip on her. “You shouldn’t even watch the news coverage,” I scold, gently rubbing the spots where my fingers dug in to her arms. “It makes you too upset.”

  Mom nods. She reaches for a fresh Kleenex and draws a long, shuddering breath. “You’re probably right,” she sighs.

  I wait a beat longer, until I’m sure the storm has passed and clearer sky is on the horizon. “Listen,” I say in my Brian voice, “I’ve got to get to school, but I want you to go back to bed, okay?”

  “Okay,” Mom agrees meekly. “Back to bed.”

  “I’ll call at lunchtime and check to see you’re okay.” I grab up my Coke and my backpack and am nearly to the door when she calls after me.

  “Dov?”

  “Yeah?” I hold my breath, hoping she isn’t going to start up again.

  Mom sniffles. “I don’t want to hurt your feelings,” she says, “but that sweater … my God … maybe you could … ”

  I pull the door shut between us, cutting off her voice.

  The air outside is much colder than it was yesterday, and I wind up wishing I’d worn a jacket. The Gator’s defrost takes a while to kick in, so by the time I’ve gone a few blocks toward school the windshield has begun to fog over from the inside. I have no choice but to roll down the window and stick my head out to see where I’m going.

  With my head outside like that, it’s hard to miss Scarlett standing on a corner, her arms wrapped around herself to try and keep warm as she waits for the bus. Her warm breath plumes out into the cold morning air, and I can see she’s shivering even though she has a jacket on. The next thing I know, the Gator is pulling up to the curb in front of her.

  Scarlett’s first reaction is to scowl at whoever is blocking the bus stop, but when she realizes it’s me, she quickly pulls open the Gator’s passenger door and throws her backpack across the seat. “Thank God,” she gasps, scooting in after it. “It’s cold as hell out there.”

  “Probably not that much warmer in here,” I apologize. “But better than standing outside.”

  Scarlett rubs her hands together in the flow of lukewarm air issuing weakly forth from the nearest heat vent.

  “This is nothing,” I tell her nonchalantly. The ability to weather the frigid temperatures of Minnesota is a source of pride for those of us who live here. “Doesn’t it get cold where you come from?”

  “Not this time of year,” Scarlett says. “Why in the world do you have your window open?”

  The defrost is finally catching up and the windshield is clearing. “I like the fresh air.” I shrug. “But if it’s too chilly for you, I can roll it up.”

  Scarlett raises an eyebrow at me. “Thanks,” she says, half smiling. I suddenly remember her bottom lip, and I blush.

  We ride a couple blocks without saying much. “So,” Scarlett says suddenly, “what was that all about yesterday? When you got called to the office, I mean. You seemed kind of freaked out.”

  “It turned out to be nothing,” I answer honestly. “I wasn’t really freaked out, I just … I just didn’t expect it.” As well as Miranda asking, both Koby and Ali texted me after lunch to make sure everything was okay. I want to be friendly with Scarlett, but at this point I’m not sure we’ll ever be friends, and until we are, I don’t feel inclined to fill her in on the personal details of my life.

  Scarlett doesn’t press for more information, and I don’t offer any. We make small talk the rest of the way to school, where I spot a surprisingly good parking space in the front of the lot. “Score!” I say, pointing to it.

  “Winning,” Scarlett agrees.

  I pull into the spot, thinking that being patient with Mom has possibly brought me some good karma after all. Shutting off the Gator’s ignition, I pocket the key and prepare to make the cold das
h into school with time to spare when Scarlett speaks up.

  “Look,” she says, “there’s something I wanted to tell you.”

  I sit back against the seat, surprised. “Yeah?”

  “It’s just … I’m kind of … you know, sorry. About yesterday. You were trying to be nice to me, and I wasn’t very … ”

  “Nice?” I supply helpfully. “Cordial? The slightest bit pleasant?”

  Scarlett smiles in spite of herself.

  “Warm and sociable? Charming? Cheerful … ”

  “All right, Thesaurus Man,” she says. “I get it. I could have been a little friendlier.”

  “A little?”

  “Okay. A lot. I’m just … I’m dealing with some kind of intense stuff right now, Dov. Stuff with, uh, my family.”

  I laugh, more bitterly than I intended. “Hey,” I say with a shrug, “join the club.”

  Scarlett tilts her head, regarding me. “You’re right. It’s not an excuse. I’m sorry and I appreciate the ride.” She reaches for the door handle, about to get out of the car.

  “Look,” I say, “I’m just saying … I get it. Don’t worry about it.”

  Scarlett nods. “Thanks.”

  An awkward pause later, we both climb out of the Gator and run for the school, gasping at the cold air.

  “By the way,” she huffs, glancing sideways at me, “nice sweater.”

  I lift my chin in acknowledgment. “Thanks.”

  Maybe there’s hope for Scarlett after all.

  Eight

  Later that day, I’m hanging on the Commons, waiting for the bell to ring for Twohey’s class. Koby is preparing to do his rabid chipmunk impression for Miranda, a routine that primarily involves lacing his teeth with White Blast toothpaste. Somehow he always manages to have a miniature tube of the stuff handy whenever the occasion calls for it. Miranda is already giggling in anticipation; the Rabid Chipmunk never gets old for her. I, on the other hand, have seen Koby’s act too many times, and I’m kind of over it.

  “Aaarghuhuhuhuh,” Koby gargles, bucktoothed over foaming toothpaste. Above it all, his eyes roll and bulge crazily.

  “Hahahaha,” Miranda laughs, nearly falling over onto the table.

  Across the Commons, I can see into the main office, where Mr. Kerr is talking to Scarlett. She’s listening intently, her eyes focused on the floor, until suddenly she spins and begins walking quickly away. Seeming determined to finish whatever he was saying, Kerr follows her out onto the Commons. Even from a distance, I can see Scarlett’s face is red and she looks upset. Finally Kerr gives up and lets her go, but as he watches her walk away, I see his shoulders lift and then fall in a frustrated sigh. With a slight shake of his head, he turns and goes back into the office.

  “What’s with the drama queen?” Miranda asks. I turn to see that I haven’t been the only one watching Scarlett storm away from the school counselor.

  “Yeah,” says Koby, sponging toothpaste foam off his T-shirt with a napkin. “Pretty intense.”

  “Who knows.” I shrug. “I guess there’s something going on with her family. We all know what that’s like.”

  Both Koby and Miranda are silent, and I hope it means that they might view Scarlett with a little more compassion.

  I stand up and grab my books off the table. “Maybe I’ll go see if she’s okay,” I say, ignoring the looks exchanged by my friends.

  “Later, man,” Koby agrees, and Miranda shrugs.

  I start off in the direction Scarlett disappeared a few minutes earlier. The kids who don’t have first lunch are still in class, and most of the rest are on the Commons, so the halls are pretty empty. She isn’t down the first hallway, or the second; I feel certain I’ll find her in the library, but a quick scan reveals no evidence of Scarlett’s two-tone hairdo there either. I’m just about to give up when I catch the sound of her voice coming from the direction of the art wing. Perfect; that’s where I need to be for Twohey’s class anyway. At the last minute, I slow my pace to an amble, not wanting Scarlett to think I’m stalking her.

  I needn’t have worried; she doesn’t even see me coming around the corner. She’s leaning against the wall, her back to me as she speaks indignantly into her cell phone. “But Mom,” she’s saying, “that’s not fair. Why am I the one who has to stay away?” She listens for a minute. “Yeah, I mean, I get that. I just … ” Her voice breaks. “Does Dad blame me? Please, just tell me if he does.” She listens some more, her shoulders sagging at whatever the answer is. “I know,” she says finally. “I said I get it. Okay. Yeah. Love you too. Tell Luke I miss him. Bye.”

  She snaps her phone closed. For a minute she doesn’t move other than to lift a hand to wipe at her face with the cuff of her sweatshirt. When she turns and sees me standing there, her face registers first surprise, then embarrassment, and finally anger. “Eavesdrop much?!” she demands shrilly.

  “Uh … n-no,” I stammer, although in a way she’s right. “I’m sorry. I mean, I wasn’t trying to listen. I was just on my way to class … ” I gesture toward the art room. “And you were there, and … ”

  “So you thought you’d listen in?” she accuses angrily, her gray eyes flashing like lightning. “Maybe pick up a little dirt on the new kid so you and your friends can have something to gossip about?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Scarlett, that’s not what I was doing.”

  “Whatever.” Still furious, she tries to storm past me but I surprise us both by grabbing her arm.

  “Look,” I tell her, “what makes you think you’re the only one whose life sucks?”

  Scarlett’s eyes narrow. “Oh really?” she spits. “You’ve got problems too? Gee, Dov, I’m sorry you don’t have the funds to fill your gas tank,” she coos sarcastically. “I’m sorry you’re having a bad hair day. Your life is really tragic, I’m sure.”

  She tears her arm away from me and for a moment I’m so stunned by the fury of her words that I can’t move or think of anything nasty enough in response. I stare into her challenging face, and suddenly something in her eyes makes me stop trying to find the right words to burn her back. Instead, I take a deep breath. “Look,” I say evenly, “I get it. We all get it. You don’t want friends, you don’t need friends, and that’s fine.” Overhead, the bell rings for next period, and in an instant the hallway is teeming with kids. “I’m sorry I pretended to care.”

  I let myself be swept into the current swirling in the direction of Twohey’s class. “And for your information,” I call back, “I think I’m having a pretty good hair day.”

  I turn my back on Scarlett just as it hits me what I saw deep in her eyes; not anger, but something more familiar. Something that looks an awful lot like pain.

  stay tuned after these messages

  for another exciting episode of

  the Dov Howard Fail show!

  Nine

  For the next hour, I try to put the incident with Scarlett out of my mind and focus all my attention on the chalk drawing I’m working on. I’m so into it I barely even notice when Ms. Twohey bends in close for a look at my progress. “Interesting, Dov,” she says. “Give me some idea of what’s inspiring you here. Do you have a muse?”

  I set down my chalk and try to see my piece the way Ms. Twohey sees it. It takes a minute for me to realize that the changes I’ve made to my goth version of Alice in Wonderland make her look awfully familiar. A lot like Scarlett, in fact.

  “Uh, not really,” I tell her, hurriedly erasing a few lines with the side of my hand. Being in such close proximity to Ms. Twohey usually makes my hands start to shake and renders me unable to produce any of the witty-beyond-my-years remarks that spring to mind so easily when I’m lying in bed at night imagining this kind of situation.

  “Where do you see this piece going from here?” she prompts.

  “I don’t know,” I sigh. “I’m kind of distracted today, actually. Maybe I should just start over.”

  Ms. Twohey straightens up and gives me one of her dazzling smi
les; the kind that’s usually guaranteed to keep my heart thumping irregularly for the rest of class. “No,” she says, “it’s unexpected. Keep working on it.”

  She moves on down the aisle, trailing behind her the scent of expensive perfume.

  I lay my chalk down in the tray and indulge myself in a full fifteen seconds of watching her lovingly.

  Teen Challenges Supreme Court,

  Citing “Freedom to Love.”

  (AP) Sixteen-year-old Dov Howard of Longview, Minn., has taken his bid to be allowed to marry his art teacher, Ms. Denise Twohey, all the way to the country’s highest court, reports the Minnesota Free Press. “I have to say, I stand behind Mr. Howard on this one,” commented Justice Antonin Scalia. “Where does the constitution suggest we should stand in the way of destiny? When two people are meant to be together, we as a country should celebrate it, not …”

  Your life is really tragic, I’m sure. Scarlett’s sneering words interrupt my Twohey-focused reverie.

  I shake her voice out of my head and crane my neck to look. Miranda is two easels over, staring gloomily at her canvas with her chin in her hand. “Hey,” I call softly. “Miranda!”

  She lifts her head and turns to look at me; her chin is smudged with dark chalk, making her look like she’s sprouted a five o’clock shadow. “Hey, Dov.” She smiles.

  “How’s the angel coming?”

  Miranda sighs wearily. “It’s not.” She gets up and comes over to stand behind me so she can look at what I’m working on. Sheepish, I fight the urge to cover up my drawing; if Miranda sees any traces of Scarlett in what I’ve drawn, I’ll never hear the end of it.

  She says nothing for a minute, then finally, “Huh.”

  “Ms. Twohey thinks it’s ‘interesting.’ And by ‘interesting,’ I’m pretty sure she means ‘brilliant.’” The art world is a competitive place.

  Miranda picks up a piece of chalk from my tray and reaches over me. A few well-placed strokes later and my Alice looks much improved.

  “Wow,” I say, impressed.

  Miranda hands me the chalk. “Sometimes you just need another eye.”

  “Or another artist.”