People have often told me that I need to think before I act, but who had time to think? What on earth was I supposed to think of? What idea could I possibly have had, if I'd stopped for a moment? Someone was getting hurt! Badly hurt! And no one was there to see, but me.

While I walked home, I puzzled over the diary-writer's identity. Who could she possibly be?

The obvious choice was Mallory, because she was big and boy-like. She ate like a boy: she shoved food in her mouth. She was gross like a boy: she laughed at farts. And she did have a big, boy-like head. She didn't look comfortable in a skirt... in fact, the school uniform made her look more like a boy...

... but it didn't add up. Mallory had only been at school two days, and that phrase "Marcie Donner and her friends" — friends, plural — had to mean me, Susan, and Maisie. But Mallory had never seen Maisie. Mallory would have said Marcie and her friend or Marcie and Susan.

And despite her physical appearance, there wasn't any reason to think that Mallory had ever been a boy. Some girls are big boned, and there isn't any law that says a girl can't laugh at farts. And — though I don't like to admit it — I shovel food into my mouth, too. I try to stop, and Mom is constantly on my case about it, but still...

In any case, it can't be Mallory.

By the same reasoning, it can't be Blair, either. Blair is unusual, even a little weird, but she had a very definite feminine chic all her own. Blair had a exotic, foreign aspect: she looked like a skinny, short-haired French girl. Theo, the artist, had commented on it. Maybe she was uncomfortable with the way she looked, but Blair was definitely a girl.

There was another thing: the way the diary-writer referred to us as "freshman" — I don't think another freshman would talk that way. The more I thought about it, the more I was convinced that Miss Overmore only called her a "classmate" to throw me off the scent.

That's when it hit me: What if it was Mara?

What was Mara doing in that part of school, anyway? The reason *I* was there was to get away from the seniors, especially the baseketball players, and Mara was both those things. She should have been in the gym, playing ball. But if the diary was hers, she'd have to be there: she must have realized that she'd lost it, and she'd come to get it. Unfortunately for her, someone was already there. In fact, I was sitting in the very stall where she left it. It had to be nerve-wracking for her to wait for me to come out... and she waited a long time! The diary was so fascinating that I'd lost track of time.

She probably heard me turning the pages! It must have driven her crazy!

And that would explain why she fought with me so fiercely: she wanted her diary back and she was angry that I'd read it.

When Miss Overmore saw the book in my hands she understood the situation immediately. She sent me to the office so she could talk to Mara without my overhearing. Mara would want her diary back immediately, of course, but Miss Overmore had to convince her to wait and get it later — tomorrow, even. Otherwise, it would have been clear to me that Mara was the author and that she was a t-girl, just like me.

That had to be it! I was pretty pleased with myself for figuring it out.
 

Then I stopped walking and stood stock still. I looked around me, puzzled. For some reason I hadn't taken my usual way home. Instead, I'd gone out of my way, on a much longer and unfamiliar route. I huffed impatiently at myself. Why on earth did I go this way? (There was a good reason, as you'll see, but I was lost in thought over the diary; the effort of trying to figure it out drove everything else from my mind.)

So I shrugged to myself and turned toward home, down a street I'd never walked before. After I'd passed a few houses, I began to hear noises. At first, I couldn't tell what they were. It sounded like a small animal... and then, not an animal, but a person... was it a person? No, it was two people... two people who were fighting! There was an empty lot a few houses up on the left, and by the time I reached it, it was all very clear: two boys were fighting. Then, no... it was worse than that: one boy, the bigger of the two, was beating up a smaller, skinnier kid.

"Stop! Please, stop!" he was screaming in-between sobs and cries. My stomach turned as I heard the punches connect with his bony little body. Without a thought, I threw my bags on the ground and started running toward them. "Hey!" I shouted. "HEY! Stop that! STOP THAT NOW!"

To my glad surprise, the bigger boy *did* stop. He turned and looked at me, regarding me for a moment. I stopped and stared at him. He looked like a lout. In fact, his face scared me. His head was square and blockish, and his hair was like clumps of straw. But he stopped! Then, silently and very dramatically, he let the smaller boy go, lifting his hands slowly and showing me his empty palms. He smiled, and — nervously — I smiled back.

The other boy clambered uncertainly to his feet and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. I relaxed and suddenly realized I'd been holding my breath. The sniffling boy stumbled back a step, then turned to run.

As soon as he did, the bigger boy grabbed him, turned him in the air, and threw him to the ground hard. Oh, God! It must have hurt! He turned his back to me, and squeezed the boy on the ground until he screamed.

I opened my mouth to shout, but no sound came out. I was horrified, shocked, and, above all, angry. My hands were trembling. I had to do something... so I ran directly at them.

People have often told me that I need to think before I act, but who had time to think? What on earth was I supposed to think of? What idea could I possibly have had, if I'd stopped for a moment? Someone was getting hurt! Badly hurt! And no one was there to see, but me. I suppose I thought I'd jump on the bigger kid and start clawing and hitting. Or maybe I was going to attack his big fat head. I don't know. I probably would have gotten hurt in any case, but at least I could helped the little guy escape.

I'll never know what I would have done... because what really happened is this: As I ran up, just before I put my hands on him, the bigger kid jerked his arm back so he could punch the boy on the ground. I walked right into his elbow as it came back. And oh, did it come back hard! It caught me full in the face. It didn't feel like I walked into a wall — it felt like I drove into it, face first, at full speed.

I saw stars. I've heard people use that phrase... I thought it was only words, but I really saw them: tiny balls of flame swimming in the air around me, swirling and curving in every direction. There was a noise, too, like a jet going and coming, going and coming, like the swirling spots. The world stopped for a moment: there was no sound, no motion, just BAM! followed by a white flash of blinding, overwhelming pain and a shock that went beyond words.

The blow knocked me backward, flat on my butt. Somehow I could see myself, sitting on the ground like a doll, arms and legs stiff and outstretched, mouth open, eyes staring, unblinking. I didn't make a sound or even breathe.

Then the world came rushing in, all at once: My nose started bleeding like a faucet. A woman appeared on my right, out of nowhere, shouting, "I saw you! I saw you, Robert! YOU HIT A GIRL! You ought to be ashamed! You hit a girl!" And then, as if far away, I saw the larger boy turn to look at me. His face contorted into a mask of horrow and shame, and he began to wail — a high-pitched screaming sound of desperation. It made absolutely no sense at all.

The woman talked nonstop, scolding the boy, swabbing my face, and telling another woman (who I couldn't see) to call an ambulance. Then she said the strangest thing to me: "I saw you coming into the lot. I thought I recognized you, and now I'm sure. You're that girl was on television, aren't you?"

I looked at her in disbelief. I couldn't talk. I could only gasp for air.

"She was on TV?" wailed the boy who had hit me. "I hit a girl from TV? Oh no! Oh no!" He jumped to his feet and ran off holding his head.

What an idiot, I thought. Everyone in this neighborhood must be out of their mind.
 

Later, I was sitting quietly in a chair with my eyes closed, moaning softly to myself while my mother held my hand. There were bandages on my face and my nose was packed with... stuff... medical stuff. Having all those things in my nose was worse than getting hit. I didn't want to think about it. On the plus side, the pain medication was finally kicking in, and I felt myself begin to float... my head felt as big as a house and every movement of my head seemed like a major shift. The pain was still there, but I didn't care. "Oooh, Momb," I said.

"What is it, honey?" she asked, and put her hand on her belly.

"Oh those damb twints," I said quietly, without rancor. It wasn't what I meant to say; I wanted to tell her that I was floating.

"What?" she asked. I could tell she wasn't sure she understood me, but she was primed to be offended.

"Nuth-thig," I told her. "I diddint meend to say dat. Da drug made me froat."

"Froat?" she repeated. "Maybe you shouldn't be talking, Marcie."

I waved my hand in contradiction and took her arm in both hands. I lowered my head, meaning to rest it on her shoulder. Instead, a white knife of pain shot through my skull, so I straightened up and it went away.

"Momb," I said.

"What honey?"

"Ahhm sorry, Momb."

Even in my drug-addled state I knew that she was supposed to say It's alright, but that isn't what she said. She pressed her lips together, considering for a moment.

"You're always getting into some... physical situation, Marcie. It worries me. A lot."

"Ummm," I agreed. "Doan worry, Momb. Evvythingk wull be fined."

"Eventually everything will be fine," she corrected, "but as soon as it is, something else will start up."

I turned my head toward her. It was a major effort. I tried to give her a reassuring smile. She didn't smile back, so I gave her a thumbs-up. She gave me the strangest look and I wondered whether she was about to cry.

But she didn't. She took my hand and folded my thumb down. She squeezed my hand with both of hers, and then she very gently and carefully hugged me. After all that, and a heavy sigh, she said, "Marcie, this thought keeps going through my head, and it's probably not the best time to voice it, but I have to say it.

"Oh, Marcie. I think that having your nose broken might not be such a bad thing."

"Nod a bad thingk?" I asked, puzzled. I tried to penetrate the cottonwool that filled my brain, but didn't make any headway. How? How? I asked myself. A good thing? Getting my nose broken?

"Gmmph, Momb. I don't... what do you mean?"

"Well, of course it's a bad thing; it's terrible. That horrible boy shouldn't go around hitting girls— punching girls in the face—"

I interrupted: "He shudden be hidding ANY-one!" I gestured vaguely for emphasis.

Mom huffed at my interruption and continued, "What I'm saying is that having your nose broken might just slow you down for a bit. It might make you think twice about sticking your nose into places where it doesn't belong."

"Oh, Momb, my nodes?"

"Yes, your nose. It's almost symbolic, don't you think?"

"No," I said. "It wud justtan accident."

"The woman who called the ambulance saw the whole thing, Marcie. She saw you throw your bags on the ground and run at that boy. Why did you do that? Why on earth did you do that? Who do you think you are?"

"I thod I was the only person to see, Momb. If that lady saw... why diddund that lady do somethink?"

Mom sighed and squeezed my hand. "Oh, Marcie! You don't have to fix everything. The world isn't waiting for you. It's just like at the tea shop: sometimes you have to say, 'It's not my table.'"

I chuckled to myself as a thought drifted lazily into my head. "Hey, Momb. Just thingk: I bedchew the twints will nebber get their nodesez broken. Ha." I could only laugh a slow "Ha. Ha. Ha," with a healthy pause between each "Ha." Then I had to stop because it made my head hurt.

Oh! I desperately wanted to sniff, to blow my nose! Instead I had to sit there with my mouth hanging open. Now I was a mouth-breather. I must have looked quite a sight. I wondered how I'd take a shower tonight, and how...

"Oh no!" I moaned, "Oh no, oh no!"

"What is it, Marcie?" Mom asked, full of alarm and concern. "What's wrong? What is it?"

"Ummph!" I groaned, "Da tea shobp! I was subbost to go do work today!"

© 2011 by Kaleigh Way

[OTHER STORIES]