over a few times, they ended up not ten feet away from Pen, with Will on top, his left hand against Jason’s chest, the right angle of his right elbow jutting out again and again. Not wildly out of control, Pen thought, controlled out of control, which was somehow much worse.
Pen watched that methodical punching, heard Jason yell, almost scream, “Stop!” and was herself walloped so hard by a sense of wrongness that she felt dizzy. It didn’t matter how much Pen loved Will, how much they both loved Cat, didn’t matter that Jason had put Cat in danger and had forgotten about her like she was nothing. The why of what was happening was weightless compared to the what: a person on top, hitting, a person on the bottom, not fighting back, defeated.
Pen stood up and threw her full weight against the side of Will’s rib cage, knocking him off Jason. For a second or two, she lay sprawled on top of Will, before she scrambled up and pinned him to the ground by sitting on his chest. There was no way he was getting back to Jason. She expected him to struggle, to try to get up, but he lay still, except for the sharp, fast rise and fall of his ribs.
She could feel the bones and muscles of Will’s chest, could feel his heart beating under her hands, but she didn’t look at him. Instead, she watched Jason painfully clamber to his feet, openly sobbing, spitting what Pen knew must be blood and hoped did not include teeth. “Thank God,” she said hoarsely, so relieved that he could stand, that he wasn’t unconscious or worse.
Jason walked unsteadily backward, wiping his face with one hand and pointing at Will with the other, yelling, “You’re a fucking maniac. I didn’t do shit to her. I put the goddamned blanket over her, you fucking maniac. I will kill you. I will bring my buddies back and kill your ass. I didn’t hurt her. I put the blanket over her. I will sue your ass from here to fucking eternity, I swear to God.”
He turned around and ran up the hill, out of the Crater, and away.
“Are you okay, Will?” asked Cat in a tremulous voice. She was still sitting where Pen had left her, the blanket bunched around her shoulders and coming up over the back of her head like a hood.
Will didn’t answer. Suddenly, Pen didn’t want to be touching him. She slid off his chest onto the sparse grass and realized how cold she was. In the name of costume authenticity and foolhardy vanity, and because they’d assumed they’d only be walking to and from the party, not sitting around for what seemed like hours inside the Crater while Will pounded a fellow human being into the ground, she and Cat had eschewed outerwear. Pen’s bones felt brittle. She tucked in her knees and pulled the skirt of her dress as far over her bare legs as it would go.
“Will?” asked Cat, again. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”
“Did he hurt him?” Pen said bitterly. “Is Will hurt ?”
“Stop it,” said Cat.
“I don’t think Will’s hurt, Cat, but I’ll tell you what; he is definitely not okay.”
“ Stop it!”
“I’m sorry,” said Will. Even though she could hear the misery in his voice, Pen didn’t look at him.
“Don’t be sorry!” cried Cat. “The guy was an asshole. You were right to do it!”
Pen pressed her palms to her eyes and shook her head.
“I didn’t mean to,” said Will.
Pen looked down at his face, which was white against the grass. Pen saw that his lip was bleeding and that his face was familiar again. Will’s face was his face, his voice was his voice, and it would have been so easy for Pen to warm to him, to tell him not to worry, that she understood. But she couldn’t, and she didn’t really think he would want her to anyway, not that what he wanted mattered to Pen just then.
“What does that mean: you didn’t mean to?” she said, struggling to keep her voice low and even. “You did it. I tried to get you to leave him alone, back there at the party, and you wouldn’t stop. How could you not
Pen watched that methodical punching, heard Jason yell, almost scream, “Stop!” and was herself walloped so hard by a sense of wrongness that she felt dizzy. It didn’t matter how much Pen loved Will, how much they both loved Cat, didn’t matter that Jason had put Cat in danger and had forgotten about her like she was nothing. The why of what was happening was weightless compared to the what: a person on top, hitting, a person on the bottom, not fighting back, defeated.
Pen stood up and threw her full weight against the side of Will’s rib cage, knocking him off Jason. For a second or two, she lay sprawled on top of Will, before she scrambled up and pinned him to the ground by sitting on his chest. There was no way he was getting back to Jason. She expected him to struggle, to try to get up, but he lay still, except for the sharp, fast rise and fall of his ribs.
She could feel the bones and muscles of Will’s chest, could feel his heart beating under her hands, but she didn’t look at him. Instead, she watched Jason painfully clamber to his feet, openly sobbing, spitting what Pen knew must be blood and hoped did not include teeth. “Thank God,” she said hoarsely, so relieved that he could stand, that he wasn’t unconscious or worse.
Jason walked unsteadily backward, wiping his face with one hand and pointing at Will with the other, yelling, “You’re a fucking maniac. I didn’t do shit to her. I put the goddamned blanket over her, you fucking maniac. I will kill you. I will bring my buddies back and kill your ass. I didn’t hurt her. I put the blanket over her. I will sue your ass from here to fucking eternity, I swear to God.”
He turned around and ran up the hill, out of the Crater, and away.
“Are you okay, Will?” asked Cat in a tremulous voice. She was still sitting where Pen had left her, the blanket bunched around her shoulders and coming up over the back of her head like a hood.
Will didn’t answer. Suddenly, Pen didn’t want to be touching him. She slid off his chest onto the sparse grass and realized how cold she was. In the name of costume authenticity and foolhardy vanity, and because they’d assumed they’d only be walking to and from the party, not sitting around for what seemed like hours inside the Crater while Will pounded a fellow human being into the ground, she and Cat had eschewed outerwear. Pen’s bones felt brittle. She tucked in her knees and pulled the skirt of her dress as far over her bare legs as it would go.
“Will?” asked Cat, again. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”
“Did he hurt him?” Pen said bitterly. “Is Will hurt ?”
“Stop it,” said Cat.
“I don’t think Will’s hurt, Cat, but I’ll tell you what; he is definitely not okay.”
“ Stop it!”
“I’m sorry,” said Will. Even though she could hear the misery in his voice, Pen didn’t look at him.
“Don’t be sorry!” cried Cat. “The guy was an asshole. You were right to do it!”
Pen pressed her palms to her eyes and shook her head.
“I didn’t mean to,” said Will.
Pen looked down at his face, which was white against the grass. Pen saw that his lip was bleeding and that his face was familiar again. Will’s face was his face, his voice was his voice, and it would have been so easy for Pen to warm to him, to tell him not to worry, that she understood. But she couldn’t, and she didn’t really think he would want her to anyway, not that what he wanted mattered to Pen just then.
“What does that mean: you didn’t mean to?” she said, struggling to keep her voice low and even. “You did it. I tried to get you to leave him alone, back there at the party, and you wouldn’t stop. How could you not
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