I also know this: he believes in me. Not once has he suggested that I back down and put the Beast and my dreams out to pasture the way I was ready to.
Cassie texted me, too. So sorry I couldn’t make it today. Let me know how you do!
Burritos? I replied, because that seems like the easiest icebreaker.
Now I’m crossing the late-afternoon shadows on Main Street, waiting for Cassie. My wet hair swings across my eyes, and I ignore the wind. I like this chill. It keeps the lightness buoyant.
Nothing happens in Ponquogue on a Sunday afternoon. Middle school boys on bicycles loiter outside of Anthony’s Pizza. A cheer spills out from Sitting Duck–touchdown for the Jets.
A hand lifts in the window of Tastes by Tabitha. Cassie. Her eyes squint against the sun as she walks out to meet me. Her beaded necklace takes flight and then settles onto her chest.
“You’re going to get sick with that wet hair,” she greets me.
“Now you’re the responsible one?”
She pushes my hair out of my face. “You should let me dye it. I think you’d look great with copper highlights. How’d the meet go?”
“I did the all-around and qualified for States,” I say proudly as we approach Pav’s. The chili pepper lights wink under the fa?ade, and my stomach grumbles in anticipation of the spicy deliciousness.
“Wow.” For the first time in a long while, her voice perks up at something gymnastics-related. “Do you think you’ll make it to Regionals?”
“What the fuck!” a voice calls from behind Pav’s.
In the middle of putting her arm around me, Cassie freezes. The little boys on bicycles look at us then look at each other, not daring to move.
The voice continues, “Look, I don’t know what you want.”
I know that voice. I tug Cassie’s hand.
“I don’t–shit!”
Bones slam against bones, so much louder than the hallway scuffle. There’s a scream and a guy in a black sweatshirt and jeans sprints up the alley, his sneakers slapping against the pavement. He passes so close I can hear his urgent breath. Our eyes meet. Crystalline blue eyes. Then he bolts the other way, a limp in his run. Blood on his back.
“What the hell?” says Cassie. I can hardly hear her over the pounding of my heart. It can’t be Marcos, it can’t–
We round the corner to find a facedown, unmoving boy in a lime-green Pav’s Place shirt, and I almost throw up.
Cassie starts crying, fast and sudden as a downpour, a hand on my shoulder to brace herself.
“What?” I say. Annoyed at her. Dizzy. I can’t stop looking at the blood and concrete. Can’t stop thinking out of control thoughts, like what if somebody walks by and implicates us in this?
She looks at me and that look slices straight through the thoughts. “Savannah, it’s Marcos.”
A punch to the chest. I knew the voice, but confirmed by Cassie, it’s so much worse. That God-awful shirt. Pav’s Place, where the fiesta never ends! on lime-green, a seductive woman holding a tray with a single beer.
The back door of Pav’s swings open. Two guys and Juliana rush out. “We heard screaming–” Juliana halts. “Crap, crap, crap.” Her face pales, her hands shake, and she kneels on the concrete. “We gotta roll him over.”
“What if he has a neck injury?” I join her, my head woozy.
“What if he can’t breathe?” she retorts. So together we gingerly roll him over, probably breaking every rule of basic first aid.
As soon as he’s on his back, I swallow back the nausea. The gash in his forehead leaks blood down his cheeks. I hastily yank off the brand-new sweatshirt I bought after the meet and wrap it around his forehead to staunch the flow.
He groans. I feel a flutter of relief–he’s breathing. Who knows what kind of damage has been done to his head? And the way his arm twists…I’ve seen enough gymnasts trip off the low bar, fall to the mat, and start screaming to know what a dislocation looks like.
One of the guys swears. He drops his phone twice before calling 911.
We sit in silence, waiting for the ambulance. I can’t form words. I can’t think. I just grab the moist hand of the boy who’s still breathing but not moving. Juliana keeps blinking rapidly. Cassie sits between us, face ashen. “Where’s the ambulance?” I say. “Where are the police? What about whoever did this?” My voice reaches a panicked pitch.
“Chill, Savs, we’re doing all we can.” Cassie’s voice wobbles. I wait for I told you so, but it doesn’t come.
Blood dribbles from under the sweatshirt onto the concrete. I don’t care who provoked whom or if his hero complex got the best of him. He doesn’t deserve this.
An eternity later, red and blue lights spill over the pavement. Juliana strides over to the police officers. The EMTs check Marcos’s heart rate and blood pressure as I strain to hear what she’s saying. “All I know is he went to take out the trash and then we heard screaming.”
“Do you think he knows who was involved?” one officer asks.
“If someone was waiting for him, I wouldn’t be surprised.” She glances toward me. “It’s not the first time people have stirred up shit here.”
“That’s for sure,” Cassie mutters.
Marcos groans again. I squeeze his hand and for a moment, his grip tightens.
Eventually the police have collected their answers–I keep describing the guy I saw although they ask me only once, and the officer keeps saying, “I understand, miss.” Marcos’s arm has been braced, and I’m forced to pull away when he’s hoisted onto the stretcher, stumbling against Cass as we watch him get lifted into the ambulance. The door shuts. I squeeze my eyes shut against the beating lights, and we stand there as the siren reverberates down Main Street and slowly fades.
“What do we do now?” My throat is dry and my heart aches.
“You have Victor’s number?” Juliana says. I shake my head. “I’ll tell him to go to the hospital.”
“What about you?”
Her lips press together. She nods to her coworkers, who linger by the door. “We gotta go back inside and do damage control.”
“And the police are going after that guy,” I say.
Juliana’s ponytail shakes. “He’s probably long gone.”