The Moment Before

Chapter Four

            Martha wants to help me, she lets me know. To fix what’s broken. To help me cope with all the stuff you’ve been through. She’s good at it, too. One of those people with a natural gift for compassionate response.

            Outside on the sidewalk, in a line filled with hipsters, she spits on her hand and smooths my green hair down. She steps back and takes me in, says I look amazing in Sabine’s dress. Like a whole new person. I want to tell her about hearing my sister’s voice, but something stops me. She says the doughnuts are her treat. Duh, I want to say.

            “So, when did you know? About the Cupworth thingy.”

            Martha fiddles with her leather bracelet. “Yesterday,” she admits. “That’s why I was trying to get you to come have lunch at Norm’s.”

            A breeze kicks up, and a crumpled Subway paper cup rolls down the middle of the road like a tumbleweed. “I can’t believe nobody thought to contact my parents.”

            “Yeah, it’s a raw deal. But, really, Brady, you can’t let your life go down the toilet.”

            Her eyebrows are amazing when she says that. They form this studied, concerned V that I thought you needed a therapy degree to pull off. “The toilet?”

            “Of course you’re grieving and upset, but even before Sabine, you were spiraling and antisocial. People were talking.”

            “And by people you mean …”

            “You’re so smart, Brady. So talented. I’d give anything to be able to draw like you. I just hate to see you slip down that slope. Y’know, like Connor and his ilk.”

            My back teeth clamp down, my hands curve into fists. Connor. How could she even mention that name around me? The image of his red eyes, the muscles rippling under his shirt slap up against the snotty way Martha just said ilk. As if Connor Christopher were a zombie or some evil being instead of a teenaged stoner who everyone suddenly hates. It’s true that he’s a total loser, but it bugs me the way Martha can be holier-than-thou sometimes.

            “They gave me that award because you’re flunking out, Brady. You’re not turning in work, not showing up to class. You can point the finger at whomever you wish, but really, you need to take a good, long look in the mirror.”

            Martha’s Forever 21 faux leather tunic-jacket feels like a cold snake on my skin. My feet, all squished into Sabine’s sandals, are throbbing. In line, we’re inching closer to the Voodoo Doughnut door, where the promise of sugar and whimsy await. There’s a band playing here tonight. A drum and electric guitar fighting for attention bursts into the cooling night air every time the door opens. Into the noise of it all I say, “They gave you the award, Martha, because they didn’t want it to appear like they were trying to coerce my parents out of a lawsuit.”

            My best friend’s forehead wrinkles in confusion.

            “And besides,” I add, before I can stop myself. “You shouldn’t judge people. Connor included. What do you even know about him, anyway?”

            “The boy who killed your sister? You’re defending him?”

            I sense the entire line of doughnut patrons stopping mid-text at this statement.

            “I’m not defending him,” I half-whisper.

            “Connor was baked. You know that. He missed his cue, and Sabine’s neck broke because of it.”

            Ms. Bowerman and the company line statement pops up in my brain. Yes, that’s what we all bought into—Connor was high and he fucked up. But something about Martha’s snippy tone tonight, and the way this whole Cupworth thing went down, and how I’m not so sure about anything anymore, I’m wondering what I’m doing out here, in the doughnut line, with this person. I’m about to ask her to loan me bus fare, when she says, “And, Brady, there’s something else I need to tell you.”

            “What, are you like the new Portland Public Superintendent or School Board President or something?”

            “This won’t be easy.”

            I just glare at her, this self-appointed therapist so-called friend of mine.

            “It’s Nick.”

            “Nick?”

            “Nick and I,” says Martha. “We’re seeing each other.”

            A piece of garbage blows up against my bare leg thanks to a cold, gusty wind that’s now turned the weather back to Portland in the spring. I shiver in Sabine’s dress, and wrap Martha’s jacket tighter around me.

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