Thin Space (7 page)

“Marsh.”

That snaps me out of it. I feel the snow on my skin again. I see Maddie’s face. It’s heart-shaped. Like Kate’s. Not like Logan’s. My stomach twists up.

I start to turn, but she’s still holding my sleeve. “I’ve got to go.” I shake her off, move fast, slap my feet down on the cold sidewalk. I live only three houses away, but when I get home, I feel nothing from my ankles down.

In the morning, my mother’s ranting. I hear her in the kitchen. “He’s not going outside like that. He’ll get frostbite.”

And my father’s low voice. “What do you want me to do? You want me to hold him down? You want me to force him to put on shoes?”

I don’t wait to hear the answer. I head outside. Not much snow on the ground, maybe an inch or so, but as soon as my feet hit the sidewalk, the cold slices my skin. I flinch, watch my breath puff out, pull my coat up around my chin. I keep
right on walking past Mrs. Hansel’s house, my feet thudding against the concrete. Each step shoots pain up my legs. The bus’ll come soon. I can make it.

What choice do I have? All last night I went over it again and again. Right before she died Mrs. Hansel practically gave me a blueprint. Take off your shoes. Step in. I mean, how complicated is that? She did everything but rope the spot off for me. It was supposed to be where her damn bed was.

Assuming she knew what she was talking about, my options are the same as before. Get back into that house or run across some other thin space.

If Mrs. Hansel was wrong . . .

But I’m not thinking about option three.

No. It has to be an issue of technique. That’s what I’ve got to focus on. Maybe I didn’t cover the entire space. I could’ve missed a board. I could’ve lifted a foot up at the wrong moment. I was in a hurry. That was the problem.

At the bus stop, I march in place. The snow melts where I’m standing. I don’t know how, though; my feet can’t be warm enough to melt anything.

Lindsay and Heather come bopping up, take one look at me and at my feet and then step away to whisper at each other. One word scrolls across their faces:
crazy.

W
hen the bus screeches up to the school, there’s Mrs. Golden, of all people, waiting at the curb, waving something. It’s not a pie.

She boards and nods at the bus driver, swivels her head around until she finds me. “Marsh Windsor,” she says. What she’s got are socks and a pair of blue plastic clogs in her hands. “Put these on.”

My feet and face burn as I clutch my backpack straps, stand, hobble toward her.

“Put them on,” Mrs. Golden says again. “Now, Marsh, or no one is getting off this bus.”

Behind me someone starts clapping. “Don’t!” And my fellow bus riders pick up the chant: “Don’t! Don’t! Don’t!”

It grows wild as I take the socks, bend down to tug them on. The material scratches my toes. I shove my feet into the clogs and wince as they bite into my feet. I thud
down the bus steps, half tripping over a mucky snowdrift at the curb.

Someone yells out the bus windows. “
Now
he puts shoes on.” And the former chanters laugh.

“Well, come on,” Mrs. Golden says wearily.

I follow her into her office. She closes the door, yanks a chair out for me. “Sit down. Take those off.”

I open my mouth and then notice she’s got a dishpan of water on the floor.

“That’s lukewarm water,” she says. “Dunk your feet in it before you destroy your skin. Do you want to do that? Is that what you’re trying to do? Frostbite is serious, Marsh. So is hypothermia.”

I stifle a gasp. My feet smolder in the water like I’ve stepped in fire.

“Keep them in there.” Mrs. Golden drapes a blanket around my shoulders. She moves behind her desk, sits, faces me. “Okay. Let’s have it. What’s going on?”

I try to scrunch my toes, but I can’t make them move. Flames lick around my ankles, up my calves.

“You know, your mother called me this morning. Frantic. Crying. Do you hear what I’m saying?”

I shift my feet and more pain shoots up my legs until I swear I can feel it in my teeth.

“I’m not saying you should be over this. It’s not something you
can
be over. It’s something that’s going to hurt less . . . with time. I understand that, Marsh.” She clasps her hands together. “I’ve lost someone important to me too, so I know what you’re going through. I truly do. Losing Austin—”

I wince when she says the name, and the movement brings with it another stab of pain in my feet.

“—was horrible. He was a good person and he didn’t deserve to die when he did, and the guilt you feel . . . ” She frowns. “You know it was an accident, right? Somewhere inside, you know that. But if you don’t, I’m going to tell you: It was an accident. Okay? There, I said it. Now you say it.”

I keep my feet still, watch the water shimmering over them.

“I’m waiting. You’re not leaving this room until you say it: It was an accident.”

Mrs. Golden’s hair is very yellow. Maybe she’s trying to look like her name. If that’s her goal, she’s failing. Her hair’s the color of lemons. Most of the ladies in Andover color their hair. I don’t know why that is. Except Mrs. Hansel. She let hers go white. Once she told me it used to be red. Which was hard to picture.
My natural color,
she said.
Irish girl like me
.

“Marsh.”

I flinch. She’s probably serious about holding me prisoner in her office. She’s leaned back in her chair, her hands clasped behind her big yellow head like she’s got all the time in the world. “I want to hear you say it.” Her voice is very soft. “It was an accident.”

She’s trying to break me down. I almost laugh. Like guilt is my only problem here.

“Marsh.”

I swear, I think my head will explode if she says that again. I clear my throat, and just that little movement
twitches my feet. I suck a breath through my teeth. Focus somewhere over Mrs. Golden’s lemony head. “It was an accident,” I say.

She smiles, pleased with herself. She’s made a breakthrough with the school head case. “You know we all care about you. We really do. Your parents, the school. That’s why we’ve been indulging this barefoot . . . fixation of yours.” She smiles again. “I want you to know something. That first day you came back to school, Mr. O’Donnell was saying it was a dress code issue, that the school could be liable if you hurt your feet. And he worried that you’d be a distraction to your classmates. But I explained what you were going through. And see how he’s given you space? A few weeks ago, I heard him defending you to the superintendent. So we’re thinking about you, Marsh. We’re on your side.” She stands up. There’s a folded up towel on her desk and she walks it over to me. “Why don’t you dry off now?”

I take the towel, pat the red skin, trying not to press too hard. I can’t feel my toes. Everything else is on fire.

Mrs. Golden beams. “See, all better.” She picks up the balled up socks and the plastic clogs. “Let’s put these back on, okay? Let’s try wearing shoes for a while. At least now, because of the weather.”

I feel like a doofball in these blue clogs. My feet are still tingling, like ants are crawling around under the skin. I probably did get frostbitten, which I have to admit is not a good
thing. If I freeze my feet off, there’s no way I’ll ever make it into a thin space.

But clomping around in shoes feels like admitting defeat.

At lunch, I park it at the same back-corner table. It takes me a minute to realize I forgot my lunch at home. I shove a hand in my back pocket. Maybe there’s some money tucked away in my wallet. I dig past the license, the photos, a couple of old receipts. It’s weird seeing this stuff. A little painful slap from the past.

Take the driver’s license. Why the hell am I still carrying it around? I should get rid of it. Shove it in a drawer somewhere. I can’t imagine ever driving again. And I can’t stand looking at the picture.

Here’s a weird thing about being an identical twin—something maybe other people don’t realize—we didn’t see ourselves that way. Identical, I mean. Like one time we stood next to each other in front of the bathroom mirror and I was thinking,
Do people really think we look the same?
Because I didn’t think we did. Other people, though, they mixed us up all the time. I know that’s what makes it so hard for them. We were MarshandAustin, the twins. And seeing me now forces them to remember him. Like I’m his ghost.

“Hi, Marsh.” Maddie sits fast, slumping low in her seat. “Do you see Sam?”

I scuff my clogged feet back and forth across the floor. “Sam?”

“Yeah. Over there.” She whispers so I have to lean closer to hear what she’s saying. “That table where the lacrosse team sits. Is he looking at us?”

I glance over her shoulder. The lacrosse guys have their sticks out like they’re about to set up a game in the cafeteria. I catch a glimpse of Sam’s square jaw. “He’s not looking.”

She lets out a sigh. “Good. I don’t want him to see me.” She nudges her tray toward me. “Want some fries?”

“No, thanks.”

“Have some, really,” she says. “I’m too upset to eat.”

I know I’m supposed to ask her why. But I don’t have the energy. I do take a handful of fries though, and she smiles.

“This morning, you know how I wasn’t on the bus?”

That’s news to me, but I nod.

“Those lacrosse guys Sam carpools with, he wanted me to ride with them today. He doesn’t want me to—He doesn’t like that I’m—” She turns her head, squints over her shoulder. “See, he thinks you’re—”

I’m only halfway paying attention, but I know where she’s going with this. Without really thinking about it, I find myself wanting to help her out. “Hey, don’t worry about it. I know what people say about me.”

“You do?”

I twirl my finger around my ear, the universal sign for “I’m a lunatic.”

Maddie exhales a weak laugh.

“Really. Don’t worry about it.” I flex my feet. The plastic shoes dig into my skin. But I have to admit, it’s kind of nice having warm feet for a change.

“They were talking about you this morning.” She slumps down lower. “And your brother.”

I flick my eyes toward the lacrosse table again. There’s Brad Silverman sprawled out, looking cheerful, chucking a ball back and forth in his hands.

“Telling these stories . . . ”

“Stories?” My heart speeds up. I can’t figure out why. It’s not like I care about these people or what they say about me. I lock eyes with Brad Silverman.

Maddie’s chin is drooped so low it’s practically on her lunch tray. “About how you and your brother looked so much alike.”

“Well, we were identical.” I try to say it with a laugh but it comes out weak and shaky. I watch Brad stand, walk toward the other end of his table.

“That must be kind of weird, having a twin. Were you the type that dressed alike?”

“Nah. We tried to be different.” I snort. “Except during football season when he cut his hair.” I notice Brad’s pushing past the other sports tables, still lobbing the lacrosse ball. Sam’s behind him, not looking very cheerful. I’m half out of my seat, my feet pressing into the clunky shoes, as both guys stride toward us.

“Madison,” Sam says. “What the hell?”