Thin Space (17 page)

My parents have to accompany me to school the next morning, the first day after my suspension. Really, only one of them has to come with me to sign me back in, but it’s a
serious situation, they tell me, so they’ve both decided to go. We drive past the bus stop and I catch a glimpse of Lindsay and Heather, hitched to each other like a two-headed girl, and Maddie, swaying a little off to the side. Still not dressed for this weather, I notice, in that flimsy jacket.

Mrs. Golden’s waiting for us in her office. I only half listen to her spiel. “Hope you had time to think . . . completed your assignments . . . accept responsibility . . . get along with your fellow . . . ”

Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever. I’m just glad it’s Friday.

My parents fill out some forms. My mother gives me an awkward hug. My father chucks me on the shoulder, not looking at my face. When they finally leave, I take a step toward the door, but Mrs. Golden stops me.

“Marsh,” she says. “There’s something else I want to talk to you about if you don’t mind.” She motions toward my usual chair and I sink down in it.

She sits down at her desk. One hand’s over the other on the desk blotter, and she’s fiddling with her diamond ring.

I tilt my head back and check out the status of the ceiling fungus. It’s inching across five tiles today and looking a little furry. When is the school going to take care of that?

“I’ve noticed something interesting,” she says. “You know the family who moved into Rosie Hansel’s house?”

I keep my head back, my eyes focused on the mold blotch.

“Madison Rogers, she’s a sophomore here. I think you might know her.”

“Yeah, I do.” My mind’s reeling. Where’s she going with this? Something about Brad and the fight? Is she thinking
it had to do with Maddie? Or did she overhear Sam griping about me and his sister?

“Interesting,” Mrs. Golden says again.

I force myself to lean forward, look at Mrs. Golden’s face. Her eyes are hidden behind the glare of her glasses.

“Did you know that the PE teacher caught Madison Rogers walking around barefoot?”

Uh-oh. I shift around in my chair.

“Outside,” she continues. “The other day that girl took her boots off and ran around barefoot on the football field.”

What am I supposed to say here?

“Marsh”—Mrs. Golden stands up, walks around her desk, sways over me—“do you have any idea why she would do something like that?”

There truly is no answer to this question that will satisfy Mrs. Golden.

“Is this a weird . . . club you’re starting? Some kind of polar bear thing?”

I blink at her. “Polar bear?”

“Listen to me. I’ve talked to Mr. O’Donnell and to your parents too. We’ve made a decision. No more. We’re not going to tolerate it—the bare feet. Do you understand?”

“Uh, okay, I—”

She cuts me off. “And we sympathize. We do. I do. I’ve told you before that we—the teachers, Mr. O’Donnell, and I—are sorry for your loss and we want to help you in any way we can as you work through your grief. But there are some things that we just can’t condone.” She bobs her yellow head. “You are going to wear your shoes in this building
and on school grounds from now on.” She pauses, looks down at my boots, then back up at my face. “And whatever is going on between you and Madison Rogers, you can pass this information on to her too. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

I don’t see Maddie until the end of the day. No lunch together, we decided, to make it easier on Sam. It’s not me, Maddie keeps saying, he’d be that way with any boy, but I have my doubts. I don’t want to push the guy. I don’t need more complications in my life right now. And protective older brothers clearly fall into that category.

“I’ve got a weird message to give you,” I say as we head toward the bus. “From Mrs. Golden.”

“Now what?” She rolls her eyes.

“What do you mean?”

“Every time we turn around, she’s, like, there. She’s been to our house every day practically since we moved in. Just wants to see how we’re settling in, she keeps saying. Yesterday, she gave us a plant, a giant fern that probably won’t last two seconds in the meat locker we call home.” She laughs.

I laugh too. Then stop because it’s sort of pathetic. “Maybe she’s lonely. I don’t know. She probably misses Mrs. Hansel.” I shake my head. “They were pretty close.”

I give her the quick rundown of Mrs. Golden’s warning.

“Polar bear club,” she says. “That’s funny. But who cares? We’re done with the school, right? No thin spaces there.” She
presses a folded up piece of paper into my hands. “My list”—she lowers her voice—“of possible thin spaces.”

We sit down in the back of the bus, and I flip open the paper. It’s a chart listing the places Maddie told me about the day before: convalescent home, bus station, hospital. Across the top, she’s written
Plan B
. The first entry, tennis court, has an
x
marked next to it.

“This should keep us busy,” I say.

The bus jerks forward, knocking her into me. She grabs my arm and her face flushes. “Sorry,” she mumbles, letting go quickly.

“So”—I clear my throat—“where should we start?”

The coast is clear for both of us that afternoon—all parents working late and Sam off with his lacrosse buddies—so we walk downtown to the bus station. This time we’re more prepared for the weather. I insist that Maddie wear my coat again. I’ve found another coat—actually it’s mine—tucked away in the closet of my room. I’ve also dug up an extra hat and gloves because I know Maddie doesn’t own much winter gear.

We’re bundled up good when we set out, and of course we’re both wearing boots.

“I was an idiot before,” I tell Maddie, “walking around barefoot, thinking I’d find some thin space by accident. No wonder everyone thinks I’m crazy.”

“Not crazy,” she says. “Just kind of . . . messed up. But who isn’t, right? I mean, look at me.”

“You’re not messed up,” I say.

She smiles. “You don’t know me, though, do you?”

We clomp on. Most people haven’t shoveled their sidewalks, so we veer into the street. It’s slushy there, from the salt trucks, and muddy. Even though we’re dressed better, it’s still unbelievably cold.

We reach the bus station and Maddie marches up to one of the glass doors, yanks it open. “I want to warm up first,” she says.

The place is dead. Maybe it’s always like this on Friday nights. Only a few people sit scattered around the room. We head toward an empty row of chairs, sink down across from each other, and stamp the muck off our boots.

“What do you think it will be like?” Maddie says.

“Mrs. Hansel talked about how misty it was. I always picture winter in Andover.” I let out a laugh. “How gray it is here.”

“It is gray,” Maddie says. “Kind of depressing.”

“I bet you miss Nashville.”

“Not really.” She tugs off her boots, wiggles her toes. “But I meant, what do you think it will be like when you see him—your brother?”

“Oh.” His face floats in front of me like a balloon. Funny thing, this is the first time I’ve thought of him today.

“You think it’s going to help you?” The hat I’ve lent her swallows up her head so I can’t see her hair.

I stand up, nod. Hell yeah, it’s going to help me. I’m counting on it. But all I say is, “Come on. Let’s do this, fast.”

Carrying our boots, we push through the glass doors, pace up and down the snowy sidewalk. I don’t think I’ll ever get
used to the cold, the stab of the icy concrete against my skin. We don’t talk, just walk a line back and forth, trying to cover the whole area as fast as we can. A few people heading into the bus station stare and shake their heads at us, but nobody says anything.

I stomp along, shuddering, imagining that homeless guy clutching his heart, falling out on the sidewalk. What a crappy way to leave the world—in front of the grimy windows of a bus station.

But he didn’t come through here. We know that after only a few minutes. Another space to cross off the list.

I’m okay about it, though, when we head home. I know we’ve got more places left to try.

It’s not until later, when I’m sprawled out on my brother’s bed, staring at his rocket poster, that I remember Maddie’s question again.

Here’s something that hits me. Who does she want to find in the thin space? And what help is she hoping for?

O
n Saturday we decide to try the convalescent home. Maddie found out that the place was built in the 1960s. Before that it was farmland. Andover’s the type of town where people live their whole lives. Generations of the same families lived and died here. Some of these people’s souls might’ve come through and gone out in the same space.

Still, I’m not feeling too optimistic about our chances of finding that space at the Green Lawn Convalescent Home.

“I’m not sure about this,” I say when I meet Maddie outside her house in the morning. “I keep picturing the thin space as something you have to step into. If there’s a building on the space where there didn’t use to be one, maybe it won’t work right.”

Maddie arches an eyebrow. “But you don’t know that.”

True, I have to admit.

She starts hurling questions at me. “How wide is a thin space? How tall? Does it have mass? Volume?”

“I don’t know,” I answer her over and over.
I don’t know.

We’re trekking down the center of the road again, toward downtown and the bus station. There’s a complicated bus route that’ll get us out to Green Lawn—Maddie’s got the whole trip planned—it involves three bus changes and at least an hour, and that’s just getting out to the place.

It would be easier to drive, of course, but I flip that thought right out of my head. No. Not doing it. And I’m grateful that Maddie hasn’t even suggested it.

It’s colder today, if that’s possible, but for some reason the sun flickers at us between clumps of gray clouds. It shocks me every time it happens. Sun in Andover, in November? What? Is this the end of the world?

Maddie’s not finished with her interrogation. “Is a thin space like an elevator? Will we step on it and get whisked up or down? And why do you have to be barefoot? That part doesn’t make sense.” She stops, frowns. “What’s so funny?”