from her face. Cat’s eyes were open and she looked confused, as though she’d been sleeping, which she probably had. Pen saw that she was crying without making a sound, tears falling sideways down her face and into the grass.
“Please don’t cry, Catsy. You knew we’d come to get you, didn’t you?”
Cat smiled. “I like it when you call me ‘Catsy.’”
She sat up and put her arms around Pen’s neck. “It happens sometimes,” she said, “after a seizure. Tears for no reason.”
Pen thought to herself that being left alone mid-make-out-session, mid-seizure in an empty field in the dead of Halloween night would be reason enough for anyone to cry, but she didn’t say this out loud. Over Cat’s shoulder, she saw Will coming toward them, Jason behind him, slumped and shadowy, and she put up her hand and said, “Don’t.”
Will stopped.
She pulled back and scanned Cat’s face. “You’re okay?”
“Tip-top.”
“Promise?”
“Yes.”
“See, man. Told you she was okay.” It was Jason.
Pen held her breath, thinking, You are dumber than krill .
“What happened next was like the moment in the movie when the grenade flies through the window and lands on the floor and everything stops. I swear to God, even the crickets stopped chirping. And then the grenade exploded, except that it was Will instead of a grenade, and the whole night blasted open, and everything got surreal and slow motion, and it was the wildest thing I ever, ever saw.”
Cat would say this over coffee the next afternoon to a group of students from her and Pen’s Twentieth-Century Women Writers class. It was how she would tell the story to other people in other places for years, and, even though Pen would be repulsed every time by the excitement gleaming in Cat’s eyes, she wouldn’t say a word because what had happened that night belonged as much to Cat as it did to Pen.
But what Pen knew was that it wasn’t like a grenade or a movie. It wasn’t surreal or exciting. It wasn’t like anything but what it was: one wholly human body slamming into another one, packed dirt and spit flying and animal grunts and sobbing and the sickening sound of a fist hitting skin and bone.
It was the first time Pen had ever seen Will lose his temper, although “lose his temper” never seemed like quite the right way of describing it. What got lost was everything else, all the things that made Will himself: empathy and patience and decency, his sense of humor, his sense of justice, everything fine and good deserting him in one ugly rush.
Before that night, she had only seen the fallout. After a visit from his parents (his father handing him a box of condoms, saying, in front of his mother, who was drunk, “Learn from my mistakes, Will. One slip-up and I’m stuck with this pathetic cow for life.”): broken hand, cracked windshield. After a phone call from his father (“Drop the creative writing bullshit. I’m not paying for any faggot courses.”): scabbed knuckles from punching a tree. Smashed dishes. Broken chair. A ragged hole in the plaster where he’d yanked out a light fixture with his hands.
He had told Pen and Cat about how he had been suspended twice in eighth grade and had been kicked out of one boarding school after six months for fighting. But Pen had never been able to reconcile that information with the Will she knew, and assumed he had been that person in the same way that Jamie had spent his seventh-grade year as a skate punk (bad haircut, an anarchy “A” inked onto the bottom of his sneakers).
For at least a whole minute, all Pen could do was watch. Jason was a big guy, broad-chested, with the meaty muscles of someone who spent a lot of time in the weight room. Will was over six feet tall and just this side of slight, no more than 175 pounds, but he was strong and had the advantage of being both sober and unhinged by rage.
As she watched, though, Pen saw that he was not wildly out of control. After they had rolled
“Please don’t cry, Catsy. You knew we’d come to get you, didn’t you?”
Cat smiled. “I like it when you call me ‘Catsy.’”
She sat up and put her arms around Pen’s neck. “It happens sometimes,” she said, “after a seizure. Tears for no reason.”
Pen thought to herself that being left alone mid-make-out-session, mid-seizure in an empty field in the dead of Halloween night would be reason enough for anyone to cry, but she didn’t say this out loud. Over Cat’s shoulder, she saw Will coming toward them, Jason behind him, slumped and shadowy, and she put up her hand and said, “Don’t.”
Will stopped.
She pulled back and scanned Cat’s face. “You’re okay?”
“Tip-top.”
“Promise?”
“Yes.”
“See, man. Told you she was okay.” It was Jason.
Pen held her breath, thinking, You are dumber than krill .
“What happened next was like the moment in the movie when the grenade flies through the window and lands on the floor and everything stops. I swear to God, even the crickets stopped chirping. And then the grenade exploded, except that it was Will instead of a grenade, and the whole night blasted open, and everything got surreal and slow motion, and it was the wildest thing I ever, ever saw.”
Cat would say this over coffee the next afternoon to a group of students from her and Pen’s Twentieth-Century Women Writers class. It was how she would tell the story to other people in other places for years, and, even though Pen would be repulsed every time by the excitement gleaming in Cat’s eyes, she wouldn’t say a word because what had happened that night belonged as much to Cat as it did to Pen.
But what Pen knew was that it wasn’t like a grenade or a movie. It wasn’t surreal or exciting. It wasn’t like anything but what it was: one wholly human body slamming into another one, packed dirt and spit flying and animal grunts and sobbing and the sickening sound of a fist hitting skin and bone.
It was the first time Pen had ever seen Will lose his temper, although “lose his temper” never seemed like quite the right way of describing it. What got lost was everything else, all the things that made Will himself: empathy and patience and decency, his sense of humor, his sense of justice, everything fine and good deserting him in one ugly rush.
Before that night, she had only seen the fallout. After a visit from his parents (his father handing him a box of condoms, saying, in front of his mother, who was drunk, “Learn from my mistakes, Will. One slip-up and I’m stuck with this pathetic cow for life.”): broken hand, cracked windshield. After a phone call from his father (“Drop the creative writing bullshit. I’m not paying for any faggot courses.”): scabbed knuckles from punching a tree. Smashed dishes. Broken chair. A ragged hole in the plaster where he’d yanked out a light fixture with his hands.
He had told Pen and Cat about how he had been suspended twice in eighth grade and had been kicked out of one boarding school after six months for fighting. But Pen had never been able to reconcile that information with the Will she knew, and assumed he had been that person in the same way that Jamie had spent his seventh-grade year as a skate punk (bad haircut, an anarchy “A” inked onto the bottom of his sneakers).
For at least a whole minute, all Pen could do was watch. Jason was a big guy, broad-chested, with the meaty muscles of someone who spent a lot of time in the weight room. Will was over six feet tall and just this side of slight, no more than 175 pounds, but he was strong and had the advantage of being both sober and unhinged by rage.
As she watched, though, Pen saw that he was not wildly out of control. After they had rolled
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