Thin Space (8 page)

The cafeteria is a rapt audience. Like someone turned off a switch. The usual roar fades out. Kids coming through the lunch line doorway freeze. At tables up and down the room, people snap their heads in our direction.

“Sam,” Maddie says, bowing her head. “We’re just eating.”

He hooks a finger around her tray and tugs it toward him. His eyes are on mine. “I told you this morning, you can sit with us.”

“Yeah, we want you to,” Brad says, smirking.

Sam glares at him before turning back to Maddie. “Come on,” he says, picking up the tray. “You’re not sitting with this . . . ”

“Freak,” Brad supplies helpfully.

“I can sit with whoever I want,” Maddie says in a quiet voice.

“We talked about this,” Sam hisses.

People are out of their chairs now, pushing closer, like fans rushing the stage at a concert. Too bad we don’t have microphones.

Brad’s somehow elbowed his way over to my side of the table. “Nice shoes,” he says.

I get a queasy flash of déjà vu, back to seventh grade when I once took a pop at Brad. That was the year he and my brother kept getting into it. Who knows why? Then somehow, I got dragged in. Another perk of being an identical twin. I’m minding my own business, cutting across the middle school baseball field and Brad comes hurtling out of nowhere, throws himself on my back. He’d mixed us up, is what happened. I defended myself. What the hell else could I do? Funny thing, Brad always thought it was my brother who gave him the split lip.

“What are you looking at?” Brad says. “Marsh,” he spits out the word.

My brother had cracked up about that.
Hey. You’re building up my reputation, little brother. The way you took him down. And I didn’t even have to break a sweat.

“That’s right, I’m talking to you.” Brad pokes a finger at my chest.

Just like last time, Brad’s mouth plops open like a dumb fish. Just like last time, I’m surprised at the pain in my knuckles.

A girl screams. At first, I think it’s Maddie, but there’s someone else digging her fingers into my arm. Great. When the hell did Logan show up?

“Marsh,” she wails. “Stop.”

The audience is on their feet. Some of them applaud. Brad’s sprawled out on his back, his fingers clutching his mouth. His lacrosse player buddies hover over him. Sam’s dragging Maddie through the crowd. Her face is drained, white.

“Marsh,” Logan says, “please, don’t.”

Don’t what? I look at my fist, and somehow it’s pulled back again.

“Hey, man, take it easy.” Now my old pal Chuck’s at my side, his mouth stretched into a grin. “Everyone wants to punch Brad, but maybe the cafeteria isn’t the best place.”

“It’s not funny,” Logan says. Her fingers are talons around my arm.

I yank away from her. I can’t find Maddie. Too many people are pushed against the table. Mr. O’Donnell’s bald head bobs through, and the crowd parts like the Red Sea.

For the second time today, I find myself sitting in Mrs. Golden’s office.

S
he seems more upset than I am.

“I don’t understand,” she says, shaking her head. “We had such a nice talk this morning.”

I’m plunked down in the same chair as before. I notice the dishpan turned over on another chair, the towel draped over it. I can feel Mrs. Golden staring at me and I force myself to turn my face in her direction. I notice her desk is overflowing with clutter. Besides a bunch of framed photos of her cuddled up with some smiling old guy, there’s vases stuffed with flowers. A tin of cookies. Box of candy. Stack of greeting cards. Like she’s the Welcome Wagon for the whole school.

“Marsh.”

I’ve got my hands on my lap and I can’t figure out why my right hand is throbbing. I look down at it—

“I know you’re upset. But fighting? Really? It’s not like you to—”

—notice the slice along my knuckle. Well, two marks really, now that I’m examining it. Nice. They’re indentations from Brad’s teeth.

“Of course, I called your parents. Your mother was extremely upset. She was ready to drive right down here. Your father too. And Mr. O’Donnell’s disturbed about this new development. The rules are very clear. Fighting equals a four-day suspension. But there are extenuating circumstances, and so we’re willing to let it slide this time. I understand that the other boy was provoking . . . Marsh. Are you listening to me?”

I try to look at her, but a freak ray of sunlight from the window glints off her glasses and I have to shut my eyes.

“Maybe we’ve been handling this the wrong way,” she says. “Maybe we’ve let you go on too long. I know you were seeing a therapist after the accident. It might be time to look into that again. Or you and I could set up regular appointments during school hours.” When I tilt my head back so she won’t catch me rolling my eyes, she clicks her tongue. “There’s no shame in talking to someone about what you’re going through.”

I stare at the ceiling. There’s a gray blotch up in the corner. Probably some kind of fungus.

“We might be able to help you work through this.”

“Yeah,” I say, like I’m considering it. Like I didn’t spend weeks slouched across a couch while some guy droned on about how I should open up, express myself, let it all out. Ha ha. Like talking about this crap is going to fix anything. But at least it got my parents to back off. Not that it mattered.
Since by that time I was working on my own solution to the problem.

“We could start today.” The sunlight’s gone now, and behind her glasses, Mrs. Golden’s eyes are like slits. She leans forward, smiles. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

Nope.

But I can see the best way out of here is to throw her a bone. “It’s sort of embarrassing,” I say, “but this girl . . . ”

Her face lights up. “A girl? This is about a girl?” I can guess what she’s thinking: Girl problems, now that’s an area she can deal with. Crazy guy walking around with bare feet, well, that’s another story.

I half listen as she lectures me. Teen relationships. Competition. Jealousy, blah blah blah. I keep fingering Brad’s teeth indentations on my knuckles. I’m not clear about why he was messing with me today. Well, okay, because he’s an ass. But that’s common knowledge. The real question is why I lost it like that. When Mrs. Golden finally sets me free, it’s still bugging me.

Missed the bus, but I don’t care. My clunky plastic shoes skim the slushy sidewalks. These aren’t the best footwear for snow. But they’re keeping my feet somewhat warm and dry. Anyway, I’m not sure if a thin space is accessible if it’s covered with snow. One more thing I don’t know the answer to.

When I reach the corner, instead of heading toward my house, I clomp off in the other direction. I’ve got a vague idea
where I’m going, but I try to put it out of my mind. Brad’s expression when I clipped his mouth keeps flashing in my head. I don’t know why he was surprised. He was in my face. He poked me. He had to expect that I’d react to that.

Or maybe not. I haven’t been reacting to much lately. The twisted thing is that it felt good. That minute of rage, my fist against his face.

But this isn’t me.
It’s not me.

My head knots up and I push my throbbing fist against it. The sky is white, just one big cloud, like a bowl flipped over the world. No sign at all of the sun when I cross the street. It’s not a busy intersection. That night it seemed dead too. I thought we were the only car sliding through.

I wasn’t paying attention. Only one part of me was gripping the wheel, watching the road. When the other car turned, the headlights whirled in an arc, blinding me. When I could see again, I was kicking the brake. But all the while, I was watching his face too. How bright it was in that light, how his mouth stretched open, how his eyes widened. He grabbed my arm. No sound for a second, and then the crunch of metal, and his body pushing forward, his face still turned. He was staring at me when his head struck the glass.

Drunk driver, I found out later. It was almost stereotypical how it played out. Guy on his third DUI, hurtling home from a bar, ran a stop sign. Turned left going fifty miles an hour. Of course, that guy stumbled away from the wreck. Don’t they always?

Too bad my brother wasn’t wearing his seatbelt.

See, Mrs. Golden, that part was my fault too. Get it? He unbuckled his seatbelt because of me.

I stop, suck in my breath, try to push my mind past it, but a little seeps through.
Look. When are you going to get over it? That’s the way it is. It’s how it’s always been. You know what? Just freaking stop the car and let me—

Out.

Somehow I’m leaning against a light pole at the intersection. The metal jabs into my back. My feet are sunken into slush. My socks are wet now, my feet icy. It was stupid to come here. If there were a thin space, it would probably be
inside
the car. Technically, that’s where he left the world.

According to the rules though, it wouldn’t be enough. He would’ve had to come through there too. We didn’t even own that stupid car until last spring. Big sixteenth-birthday present from our parents.

I am sick of these rules. It’s too hard to make a thin space. Too hard to find one. In the end, all roads lead back to Mrs. Hansel’s house, and there’s nothing to do—nothing—but get back in there and try—

“Marsh?”

I jerk my head around. Is that Kate?

She’s slumped against a big oak tree at the edge of someone’s front yard. I feel sorry for whoever lives there because after the accident, their lawn became the unofficial memorial site for my brother. Even now I see a few reminders sticking out of the snow. A frozen chunk of brown flowers. A half-deflated football. My mother comes down here, collects the stuff every few days. She doesn’t want it to get
rained on, she says. And now she’s got it stacked up in my bedroom.

I used to come down here a lot at first too. But it wasn’t to look at the memorial junk. Still had my leg brace on then, but I managed to drag my bare feet over the whole area. The stones on the street. The curb. It was a long shot. I knew that even then.

“I’ve never seen you here before,” Kate says. She doesn’t look at me, I notice.

“I’ve never seen you here either.” I try to help her out by keeping my face turned to the side.

“I come here a lot.”

Jeez, Kate. Give it a damn rest.

“It’s really . . . hard for me.” She keeps her eyes lowered like she’s analyzing her boots. “I know it’s . . . it must be hard . . . for you too.”

You don’t know the half of it.

“So if, well, I just wanted you to know that I wasn’t trying to avoid . . . well, I’m just having a hard time . . . seeing—”

“I know,” I say. Funny thing about Kate—once upon a time she was a cool girlfriend. Logan too. We were pretty lucky to have hooked up with them, really—twin brothers getting to date best friends. Or maybe Kate and Logan aren’t friends anymore. I don’t know about now, after everything. I get a sick image of us, outside the movie theater, and I have to shove my hands in my pockets to keep from pounding the light pole. Stupid, that Logan once called us a love square. Her chirpy phrase for the four of us, instead of a love triangle. Which she and Kate both thought was so
clever and hilarious. Like, we were all friends and brothers and boyfriend/girlfriend and had so much in common. Even though we really didn’t.

My brother and me, maybe we looked alike, but we weren’t alike in other ways. He was the risk-taker, breaking the lock on the basement door. While I was content to sit out in the cold. He was more laid-back about stuff, except when it came to his room, which he kept anally neat. And I was the anxious slob. He . . .

But whatever. I could go on about all the differences. In the end it doesn’t matter. People saw us how they wanted. To them, we were alike in the ways that count. Looks. Athletics. Academics.

Kate and Logan, maybe it’s like that for them too. Both pretty, perky, popular. But I know Kate. Or I used to. She has this insecure streak that other people don’t see. Had to ask a million times before we went out if she looked okay. Constantly fiddling with her hair, sneaking looks at herself in the mirror. One word and you could crush her. It made me like her more though, that vulnerable part.