AS SHE PAINFULLY BUTTONED A CLEAN SHIRT, CASEY looked away from her mother and kept her eyes on the green wall of the Emergency Room cubicle. She hurt in about a hundred places, but her embarrassment was worse than the stings and throbs.
"Put the icepack on your eye," Mom said. "The doctor said to keep it on for twenty minutes."
"I know," Casey said.
The icepack sat like a blue island on the white paper of the examining table. Casey sat next to it, and every time she shifted a little, the paper crinkled. Mom sat on a wooden chair, her fingertips brushing a shopping bag stuffed with Casey's bloody clothes.
"How's the hand?" Mom asked.
"Okay." Casey picked up her left hand and flexed it. She marveled at how swollen it was. They'd just finished X-raying her hand, and her chest, because she felt like she was breathing over iron spikes. She couldn't figure out how her hand had gotten messed up. She must have tried to fight him off, but she couldn't remember.
"Did you eat anything at the dance?" Mom asked.
"No. I just had some Coke."
"I'll heat up supper for you."
"I don't want any."
"Do you want me to stop and get you a hamburger?"
Casey looked at her. "Yeah," she said. "That'd be okay."
Mom stretched her lips. She looked like she was suffering. Well, too bad. Casey was suffering, too. Why she had to faint on the track, anyway .... She sniffled, and that made her whole head burst into fireworks. She forgot there was packing in her nose.
There was a flurry of efficient footsteps and Dr. Cohen pulled aside the curtain that closed off the cubicle. He was a good-looking guy with iron-gray hair and a rugged face, but he wore dopey ties, like the yellow and purple one he had on now.
"Hi, Casey," he said. "Sorry I couldn't get here sooner. I was in Huntington."
Mom said, "Thank you for coming, doctor. It's not that I don't trust the staff here, but I wanted you to check her out."
"I understand," he said. He took an explorer from his jacket pocket and with his thumb lifted Casey's eyelids and shone the light into her eyes. She blinked. His thumb hurt her face. "What happened?" he said.
"Ask her," Mom said. "I can't get a straight story."
He looked at the packing in her nose and scrutinized the stitches they'd taken over her left eye and just below her lip. Casey shivered. It was cold in here. "What happened, Casey?"
She said, "I got into a stupid argument and I ran out and decided to do laps in the dark. I kept falling down, but I kept going. I don't know why. I was a jerk."
"Uh-huh." He felt under her chin and pressed her neck and her shoulders. He looked at her midsection. "They taped your ribs?"
She nodded.
The coldness snuck inside Casey and chilled her. She wished Dr. Cohen would leave. He knew she was lying. Now he'd have a conference with Mom. You had to faint, she berated herself. Just two minutes. That's all she'd needed, to get out of there. But by the time she'd opened her eyes and realized she was laid out on the track, Faye and Eddie and Heather had found her, and a couple of teachers. Then she had to lie there like a jerk while they put coats under her head and told her to keep calm, and the stupid ambulance had to pull right up on the stupid field, and she had to go to the stupid hospital where Mom was waiting in total panic.
She shuddered as she remembered it. Dr. Cohen was looking at her with knowing eyes. She turned her head and marbles rattled in her skull.
"I spoke with Dr. Rau," he said. "It doesn't look like there's any serious damage. No internal bleeding that they can see. You probably have a cracked rib, and if you do, then count on sitting still for about six or eight weeks."
"Forget it," Casey said. "I have important meets—"
"Not with a cracked rib," he said. "Nothing else looks broken, except maybe your hand. You have lacerations and contusions on your face and body, and a couple of loose teeth. You'll have to see your dentist about those. Casey, you couldn't have sustained these injuries from falling, not on a cinder track."
"So what are you saying?" she asked. "That I'm lying?"
"Yes," Mom said emotionally. "Of course you're lying. You truly believe we're all stupid?"
"Get off my back," Casey said.
"And you get off your high horse!" Mom stood up. "How dare you come back at me? You've been insane lately. You've been doing things that I'd expect from a tramp."
"Shut up," Casey snapped.
Dr. Cohen looked embarrassed. "Casey, you should know that you were hurt badly. The gash over your eye was very close. If you lose an eye, you can't get it back."
"I'm not going to lose an eye."
"Well, as long as you're sure."
He tried a smile, but she stared him down. A white-coated guy with permed hair came in and gave Dr. Cohen a big envelope. Casey remembered that he had been in the X-ray room. The two men talked for a minute, in that low voice that doctors always used when it was bad news. Then the X-ray technician left.
"Let's see these," Dr. Cohen said. He took the X-rays out of the envelope and clipped one onto a light board that was attached to the wall. He flipped on the light and Casey looked with fascination at the eerie gray and white masses that represented her insides.
Mom came over to look, too. Mom had this medical book at home that listed symptoms for every disease, and she always read the science articles in the Times.
"There's the rib fracture," he said, pointing to the X-ray. "Hairline. She's lucky." He stood back from the X-ray, squinting at it. "A lot of bruising, too." He took down the X-ray; it made a whooshing sound. He clipped up the other X-ray, and Casey thought she saw finger bones.
"This is her hand," Dr. Cohen said. "I can't tell from this whether there's a fracture. There's too much swelling. I think we'll immobilize the hand for now, and then see if we need to cast it."
"It doesn't feel that bad," Casey said.
"Be quiet," Mom said severely. To Dr. Cohen, she said, "Your honest opinion, doctor. What do you think caused all this?"
He looked pained. "It could be a lot of things. These injuries could happen in a car accident, or a fight. I really can't say for certain."
"What's your best guess?"
"Why don't you torture him for information?" Casey said.
Mom deliberately kept looking at Dr. Cohen. "Doctor?"
He shook his head. "I can't commit myself to an answer, Mrs. Gordon. I wasn't with her." He put both X-rays back into the envelope. He took out a prescription pad and a pen and began to scribble. "I'm giving Casey Vicodin for her pain, and an antibiotic in case of infection. I'll tell Dr. Rau to splint her hand, and I want to see her Monday afternoon. By then, the swelling should be down and we can decide what to do."
Mom took the slips of paper. "Thank you, doctor. I'm sorry you had to be taken away from your social engagement."
"No problem," he said, but he sounded annoyed. "You have major medical, so just fill out the forms they give you. Casey, get some rest. You've been banged up pretty badly. I'll see you Monday."
"Okay," she said sullenly.
Dr. Cohen took the envelope with the X-rays and left. Casey listened to the clash of gurneys, the crying of children, and the babble of voices. The light in here was garish and made her skin look green. She wanted to go to sleep.
"Come on," Mom said tiredly. "Let's find out where they want to put on the splint."
Casey slid from the examining table and stood shakily on the antistatic black floor. Mom stared at her, and she looked ready to cry. "Casey, I'm going to find out what happened tonight."
"Go ahead."
"I can't believe you won't talk to me. Who are you protecting?"
"The Mafia."
"Stop it." Mom was on the edge and Casey knew it was lousy to keep prodding her. "I have no strength left. Somebody has to penetrate that wall you've built around yourself. If you're getting into fights, I want to know why. And if somebody's hurting you, I want to know who it is. This wouldn't by any chance be Paul VanHorn, would it?"
"Give me a break."
"Was he at the dance?"
Casey was cracking inside. "I don't know."
"You don't know? Were you with him?"
"Call him up and ask him."
"Why won't you give me a straight answer?" Mom swayed a little. Casey wouldn't lock eyes with her. "I'm trying to make sense of what's happened to you. Your father is oblivious, but I can't look the other way. You're fulfilling every prediction I made about you. Somebody's got to get through. I can't."
Casey stood mutely through the speech, stung by the cold, accusing words. She vividly relived the moment Paul crashed the dance. Every twinge and needle of pain reminded her of the beating, and she was so frightened of him now. But scared or not, she wanted to be with him. Nobody else could protect her from the world the way he did.
"Don't you have anything to say?" Mom asked.
"No."
"Fine. Tough it out. You're still a little girl, Casey. You think you're strong, but you're not strong. And if you spit on the people who are willing to help you, then there won't be anybody."
She blinked and her eyes grew blurry. She could still taste blood in her mouth.
"Come on," Mom said. "I'm sick of you. I want to take a bath and relax. JoAnne's got a temperature of a hundred and one. Did you know that?"
"No."
"I didn't think so."
Casey wished JoAnne would go into a coma. She followed Mom out of the cubicle and through the maze of corridors to the nurse's station. She began to plan when she could see Paul again. He'd keep away, like he always did after he got crazy. But she'd find him, and she'd stay with him this time and never cheat on him again. She'd learned her lesson.
Owen leaned on the chain link fence that separated the football field from the stands. A swift, cold wind rippled the sleeves of his windbreaker. The boys on the football team were running a scrimmage, and their deep yells were torn by the wind.
The school building glowed in golden afternoon light. Owen loved this kind of weather. He used to take Robbie to the Bronx Zoo each fall. They'd picnic, and he'd tell Robbie that the apartment buildings in the distance were window mountains. The memories stuck in Owen's throat.
He looked back and saw that the scrimmage had ended. He especially watched Glenn Lindstrom. The tall, husky halfback wasn't going to win any Heisman trophies—kids from Westfield High usually didn't—but he had determination and spirit.
"Hey, Glenn," he called. Glenn looked for the voice and saw Owen. He jogged toward the fence. Another kid slapped Glenn and said, "See you later." Glenn waved the kid off.
Owen idly watched the guys trot toward the bench where they'd stowed their stuff. Jack Fischer, the football coach, wore his usual red jacket and cap as he talked to a kid at the far goalpost.
Glenn reached the fence. Twin streams of sweat darkened his temples and his blonde hair was pasted to his forehead. He breathed heavily and smelled of hard play. "Hi, Mr. Young."
"Hi, Glenn. Glad to see your knee's back in shape. Can I talk to you for a minute?"
"Sure." Glenn unlatched the gate and came through. Owen walked to the stands and sat down in the first row. The sun lowered just enough to flare from the treetops. Glenn stripped off his team jersey and undid his shoulder pads.
Owen said, "I want to know about the dance."
Glenn dropped the shoulder pads onto the long green bleacher. "So does everybody else."
"Well, I'm not the police," Owen said. "I don't care who started the fight."
"I started it," Glenn said. "I just couldn't finish it." Owen glanced up at him. "You didn't have much of a chance, from what I heard."
"He took me out," Glenn said. "I didn't think he'd whale on me so fast. He's got pretty good moves."
Owen laughed. "That's sportsmanship."
Glenn shrugged and put his jersey back on. He shivered a little in the wind. "Next time I'll know."
"You're going after him?"
"Well, I can't go after him or I'll get bounced off the team. But I can wait him out. He's going down. Doesn't matter when."
Owen could feel Glenn's restrained fury. He wished he could use physical violence as an answer. He remembered how good that felt, how cleansing. "I'm asking about it because of Casey Gordon."
"What about her?" Glenn asked. He leaned against the fence.
Owen rubbed his dry, cold hands together and chose his words carefully. "I'm not Sherlock Holmes, but I've been considering some pieces of evidence."
"Yeah?"
"Changes in her behavior, things like not doing homework and coming in late—I mean, every kid does that now and then, but it's the way she's doing it. I see this stuff happen when a girl gets crazy for a guy."
He could actually hear Glenn tighten up. "So? You know she's going out with VanHorn."
"Yeah, I know. And I was all ready to live with her craziness. I have an all-girl team and I've been through it before. But I think it's more than just lovesickness."
"Like what?"
He moistened his lips and exhaled. He knew it was dangerous to share these thoughts with a student, but only through the students would he get confirmation. "Casey missed practice, and a meet. She has a cracked rib and more bangs and bruises than a tackling dummy. She says it happened after the dance, when she was running laps."
Glenn's fists were clenched against the fence and he was fighting to keep his face impassive. "I know."
"She said she felt so embarrassed about Paul crashing the dance that she had to run it out."
"So?"
The sun blazed at the horizon. "I'm not an M.D., Glenn, but I deal with sports and injuries. She didn't get those bruises falling on the cinder track!'
Glenn said nothing. He just stood against the fence, helpless in his strength.
"I think this guy's hitting her. I think he beat her up that night. I think he's beaten her up before last night. I want to know what you know about it."
Again, silence. It was the kind of silence that said, oh, man, are you right. But Owen couldn't do anything with silence, even if it agreed with him.
He stood up and approached Glenn. "I know all about the teen code. You guys are worse than the Black Hand. But if I'm right, you're protecting slime."
Glenn turned his head, and kept it lowered. He mumbled, "I'm not going to protect anybody."
"What do you know?"
Glenn was struggling to remain composed. He was almost crying, or maybe he was crying already. Owen folded a reassuring hand over Glenn's muscled shoulder. He felt the boy shake.
"I want to do something about it, Glenn. Besides beating the crap out of Paul VanHorn. You can take care of that; I can't. Casey's more important than he is."
Glenn bit his lip and then looked up. His eyes glistened defiantly. He fought to keep his voice steady. "Everyone knows he's hitting her. The whole school knows."
"Great," Owen said sardonically. "Any proof?"
Glenn shook his head. "It's like you just know it's happening."
"Anybody talk to Casey?"
Glenn gave a little, bitter laugh. "Yeah. Everyone's talked to her. She doesn't want to hear it. She thinks he's an okay guy."
"Why?"
"How the hell do I know why? He cursed her out at the dance like she was some kind of whore, and she went after him. She wants to die. She's always been like that. She was always so deep inside herself. I don't know. I never understood her mind."
Owen smiled. "Neither do I. You're pretty crazy about her, aren't you?"
He smiled back. "Good guess."
"It doesn't take much talent to see it." He wrestled with the rage and frustration seething in his heart. Everything made sense. He could see how this intense, too-serious girl who didn't like her looks could keep going back to a boy who beat her. Somehow, Paul VanHorn must have offered Casey the feeling of being pretty and important and worthwhile that she needed so desperately.
But that was glib psychology, and it really didn't explain very much. And Casey sure wouldn't listen to it. He couldn't save her by having a heart-to-heart. He'd have to go through other channels and risk losing her respect and affection. That was going to be the toughest thing.
"So what are you going to do?" Glenn asked.
"I'm going to talk to the school psychologist."
"Forget it," Glenn said. "You think Guidance is going to do anything?"
"Ease up," Owen said. "I'm not saying they're going to wave a magic wand and fix the problem, but they have access to other agencies, to the law, to things I don't know about. If VanHorn is abusing Casey, it's a legal matter and a psychological problem."
Glenn looked off toward the parking lot. "She's going to freak."
"You might be right," Owen said. "But what's the alternative?"
"I'll cripple him," Glenn said coldly. "He won't touch her again."
"Then another guy will." Glenn whipped around and his eyes glared. "Don't get sore at me, Glenn. You know it's true. VanHorn isn't the problem. We've got to get to Casey. Make her know she's worth it. Show her who really cares about her."
Glenn thought about that for a while. Cars roared into life as other team members started for home. The sun sank another notch, and black branches made patterns across its glaring light. "I don't understand her."
"Well, most people worth loving aren't easy to know."
Glenn looked with admiration at Owen, and seemed to let out some breath and some tension. "Anything you want," he said.
"I'll try to keep you out of it," Owen said. "I just needed to know I wasn't up the wrong tree."
"No. You were right."
Owen slapped Glenn's shoulder and jammed both of his hands into his jacket pockets. As the sun dipped, the air turned sharply colder. Definitely a taco night. Tacos and a cold beer. And some compositions to grade. Couldn't beat the single life for adventure.
"Go home," Owen said. "Don't go nuts over the fight. Going after him made you a man. Getting hit just made you stupid."
Glenn laughed out loud. Owen gave him a last friendly tap and started to walk away. Glenn called, "Mr. Young."
He turned. "Yeah?"
"Help her. She's the greatest lady I know."
Smiling at Glenn, he said, "Don't worry." He turned again and breathed in sharply as he walked. Dusk shadows folded over the stands.