Thin Space (21 page)

Funny thing though, beginning of every season when my brother cut his hair, Chuck was just like everyone else—
Marsh, I mean Austin, ha ha, whatever
—until we tackled each other on the field. Then he’d always know for sure it was me.

“Well?” he says. It’s amazing that he’s still talking to me, still acting like nothing happened. Like we’re still friends.

“Uh, thanks for asking,” I say. “But I’m going to pass on that tonight.”

He nods. I get the feeling he wasn’t expecting me to say yes anyway. I have this weird thought, to bend down, to lock eyes with him, say,
Hell yeah, I’ll get together with you guys, and hey, Chuck, watch this
, as I stoop down and charge at him.

Lucky for him, I don’t have time to mess around. Anyway, my football career’s long over. I give him a little wave, then squeeze Maddie’s hand so we can make a break for it.

We’re almost at the door when I hear someone calling.

“Marsh.” The voice is high and grating. It only takes me a second to place it. Logan, of course. I don’t know why I’m surprised.

I
pretend I don’t hear her. Maddie and I are only a few feet away from the exit.
We can make it,
I think.
We can make it.

But Logan’s calling again, closer now. Against my better judgment, I turn, and there she is, elbowing her way through the mob. I almost groan out loud. Nothing good can come from this.

“Marsh,” she says.

“Uh. Hey,” I say.

Logan flashes her perfect teeth, glances at Maddie, and then shifts her eyes like it’s just the two of us talking. “I didn’t see you here,” she says. “What’s up?”

“
Pulse Referendum
,” I say.

“Yeah, I know. It was awesome.” She sneaks another look at Maddie. “So, what are you doing here? Wow, when’s the last time you were at a movie?”

My jaw drops. Is she freaking kidding?

More flashing of teeth. More breathy high voice. “Everyone’s going over to Cup o’cino’s now. Are you coming?”

The top of my throat starts burning just thinking about it. “Not today,” I say, “but, hey, thanks for asking.”

Logan smiles a pursed-lip smile. I’m thinking,
Whew, that’s over,
but the next thing I know she’s in my face. “So this is it? We’re really over?”

“Uh . . . uh,” I say, because the crowd’s pushing at us from every angle. Strands of conversations flick at me—people reliving the great moments of the movie or calling out who’s driving whoever to Cup o’cino’s. When I catch Brad charging out of the restroom, I squeeze Maddie’s hand without thinking about it.

“I can’t believe this,” Logan cries. “You’re
with
her?” Her voice shrills out above the surrounding chatter. “Are you with her?”

Jeez. Are we going to do this now? I start to formulate possible answers—yes, no, I don’t freaking know, and anyway, who are you to talk, Logan? Aren’t you here with Brad?—but I can’t settle on one; so instead, I just stutter like an idiot for a minute until Maddie drops my hand. She edges away from me, crosses her arms in front of her chest.

“We’re just friends,” she drawls, which somehow enrages Logan more.

“What do
you
know?” she screeches. “You just moved here. What, like, two weeks ago? You don’t know Marsh. So just shut the hell up. Okay? Y’ALL.”

I don’t think it’s the correct usage of the term, and I feel like pointing it out to Logan and while I’m at it, telling her to
quit mocking Maddie about her accent too. “Look,” I start to say, but damn it all to hell if the crowd’s not parting so Brad can plow through.

“What’s going on?” he demands. His bulbous lips flop out, all blotched gray and blue. And I notice one of his eyes is still marked up in matching gruesome colors.

I figure Brad’s primed to defend Logan—his movie date, apparently—but he surprises me by pointing a stubby finger at Maddie. “Oh, man, Marsh,” he says. “You must have a death wish.” He jerks his head around. “Sam,” he bellows. “Get over here.”

I feel like I’m acting a part in a demented drama when Sam makes his entrance, stage left, his face throbbing tomato-red.

I curl my hands into fists.
Here we go again
, I think, but for some reason I’m not too freaked out about it. Maybe because I’ve acted in this play before. I know the script, my lines, and the stage directions. Scene Three: They fight. I can handle that role.

Sam pushes into our little circle, wedges himself between Maddie and me. She and Logan both shrink back, their faces frozen with the same expression. Fear, it looks like—for me and for whatever Sam’s about to do, with Brad as his willing accomplice, no doubt.

Sam’s arm is in slow motion when it whirls in an arc through the air. I raise my fists just as his arm hooks around my shoulder, tugging me closer.

“Let’s talk,” he spits in my ear, and I feel myself drifting away from Maddie and Logan and into the throng of people
who press toward us, eager to see probable bloodshed in the middle of the theater lobby.

He backs me against a wall, his arm weighing me down. He’s got one vein on his forehead that looks like it wants to punch out of his skin. “Maybe I haven’t been clear,” is how he starts off. “I don’t know what you think you know about my sister, what you’ve heard about her,” he says, “but whatever it is, you need to back off.”

Okay. No idea what the hell the guy’s talking about. I grab his arm, heave it off, and say my line: “No.
You
need to back off.”

Sam takes a step backward. “I don’t want to fight you.”

The truth is I don’t want to fight him either, but somehow I find myself leaning closer. The next thing I know, I’m crouched down like I’m on the football field. What I used to do during those one-on-ones with Chuck is swing my head to the left, so it looked like I was going to spring out that way, but then I’d pull back at the last second and drive forward right.

Without even thinking about it, I feel my head dipping, and as I do that, I’m flashed back to those football plays, where the field freezes at the whistle. But this time it’s the theater lobby that’s slowing down. I can scan the whole place at once—Sam facing me, tensing for my attack. Brad beside him, his multicolored lips puckered out.

And now I see Chuck too, shoving himself onto our stage. He’s seen me, and his body bends, mirroring my own.

I suck in my breath, start my charge in the other direction, but before I can complete the hit, I see Maddie. She’s
wide-eyed, squeezing her way through the crowd so she emerges at Sam’s side, right where I’m gearing up to slam into him.

“Marsh,” she says, and just like that, I’m pulled back to myself, anchored into the moment—a moment, I’m not too happy to inhabit, truth be told. What the hell am I doing? I don’t want to fight her brother.

I drop my hands, straighten up, try to breathe out some of my adrenaline.

“Madison,” Sam says, “stay out of this. It has nothing to do with you.”

Which strikes me as funny. I can’t help it; I start laughing. They both shoot me a puzzled look before turning back to glare at each other.

“This is stupid,” Maddie says, her voice shaking. “You can’t keep doing this. It’s not your job.”

Sam rocks back and forth, his fisted hands digging into his sides like’s he’s fighting with himself too. “Someone has to, Madison, or you’re going to be right back where you started.”

Maddie flinches like he’s slapped her.

I have to tense my shoulders, hold myself against the wall to keep from dropping into my attack position again. “Hey,” I say, “why do you keep calling her that?”

He looks at me like he’s forgotten I’m here. “What?”

“Madison. She doesn’t like it. She wants people to call her Maddie.”

Sam’s eyes narrow into slits. “This is none of your business.
Madison
is none of your business. Get it?”

“Sam,” Maddie says, “I told you. I can make my own decisions. I can hang around with anyone I want to hang around with.”

“No. I’m telling you. This guy, this guy—you don’t know what he thinks about you—how he sees—”

“Sam, please,” Maddie says. She’s crying. Crying. And the sound of it freaking tears at me.

“Leave her alone.” The words heave out when I lean forward, drop my head to the left, drive toward Sam.

He grunts and topples backward. He’s got his mouth open as I pound my fist into his jaw. Only one part of me catches Maddie whirling away, escaping into the crowd. But that thought—that Maddie’s hurt, that she’s still crying, that she’s running away alone—that thought flits away when I turn back to beat her brother’s face.

The scene plays out according to a script I haven’t read, but somehow it all seems familiar. The theater security guys swoop toward us, barking out warnings that we need to exit the building. I feel fingers digging into my arm. It’s Chuck pulling me off Sam, towing me through the lobby. He’s gripping me hard, but I don’t bother to shrug him off. I know he doesn’t know his own strength sometimes. Anyway, I just want to get the hell out of here, and he’s going to make sure that happens.

He hauls me out onto the sidewalk, jerks me past the theater, away from the surging audience. “Holy shit,” he says, panting. “What just happened in there?” He loosens his hold but keeps a grip on my shoulder as he drags me farther away. “Marsh, man. What’s with you?”

There truly is no good answer to this question. Nothing’s going to come out of my mouth anyway. I can’t catch my breath. We’re halfway down Main Street and I have to stop, hunch over, brace myself. When I clutch my knees, pain surges through my knuckles.

I hurt Sam. Half of me wants to barge back into the theater and go at him again.

Chuck whacks my shoulder. He bends down across from me and we lock eyes like we’re gearing up for a play. His face is white, glowing under the streetlights. He’s staring at me like he’s never seen me before.

And isn’t that the truth? Anger courses through me. I could do it. I could slam into Chuck right now. Just like old times. Bash into his chest, lift his feet off the ground, hurl him backward. What would his face look like then, when I pin him to the sidewalk?

“Marsh?” Chuck says. He’s still eyeing me, shaking his head. “Come on, man. I know we haven’t been . . . uh . . . hanging out lately, but you want to give me a clue what’s going on?”

My head’s throbbing with what I want to say. But when the words surge into my throat, I feel like I’m choking on them. “No,” is all I can gasp out.

Chuck jabs my arm. I feel his eyes still scanning me.

I look past him at the sky. It’s darkening up, gray going to purple like the bruises on Brad’s face. And soon, Sam’s. And where’s Maddie? I double over and Chuck whacks my back.

“Maddie,” I croak out, and Chuck gives me another smack.

“Don’t worry. I saw her taking off with those sophomore girls, Heather and Someone? Man.” He barks out a laugh. “You trying to start some football-lacrosse war or something?”

I laugh too, even though it hurts my chest. We shuffle together toward Chuck’s car, still heaving laughs.

It’s not until Chuck turns down my street and we roll past Mrs. Hansel’s house that I remember Maddie again, crying after the crap Sam said, whatever the hell he was talking about. Then I’m back to being pissed off and wishing he were here next to me, in Chuck’s car, so I could punch him in the mouth again.

M
y mother’s clanking around in the kitchen. “Is that you, Marsh?” she says.

I grunt, race upstairs, and lock myself in the bathroom. I grip the sink when I take a look at my face in the mirror. It’s not a pretty sight: fresh bruising around one eye; my nose, basically intact for a change but blood streaking out of my nostrils.

I’m panting again. My mind’s still clogged up with the fight. I can’t push it away.

I liked it. Hitting Sam. I don’t know why. It’s not me. I’m not a fighter. Times my brother and I used to go at it, it was never more than play fighting, fooling around. A release of energy. Something to do when you’re bored. Like we’d be sitting in the den watching TV and one of us would jump up, start punching. But we were kids. You grow up. You learn that you’re supposed to let your aggression out in sports. Not on someone’s face.