Tuesday & Max

26

EXCUSE ME FOR A WHILE

WHILE I'M WIDE-EYED

AND I'M SO DAMN CAUGHT IN THE MIDDLE

The following two months are long and difficult. Julia mopes, which includes a lot of snacks. Harry frets over the costumes. Tuesday attends many drama meetings, and many more evenings out with Jack and his friends. Their Valentine's Day involves a lot of trying hard, and she's exhausted by the end of it.

Max, it turns out, is surprisingly easy to avoid. She gets the odd shift at The Bean during a few Media lessons, signs out of Lost World permanently, and replies to his messages in a cool, detached tone. The less she sees him, the easier it becomes not to miss him, she tells herself.

Candice comes over one evening in March. Tuesday, working on one of the dresses for Alexis as Liesl, wordlessly hands her the console remote. She continues, mostly oblivious to Candice's position curled up on the bed watching whatever.

It isn't until the credits roll noisily, half an hour later, that Tuesday realises she hasn't said a word the entire time. Standing and stretching, Tuesday considers her quietly, then kicks aside the stool she'd been sitting on at the foot of the mannequin and joins her on the bed.

"What's up?"

Candice doesn't answer. Tuesday can see the Netflix home screen reflected in her glassy eyes.

"Hey." Tuesday prods her lightly.

Wordlessly, Candice holds out her left arm.

Down it, like ink splotches in water, are bruises. They're finger-shaped, so stark against her pale skin that Tuesday wonders, if she squinted, she'd be able to make out fingerprints.

A wordless confession comes from Candice, through eyes that are dim and tired: Kyle.

"Are you kidding me?" Tuesday's voice is laced with the rage that courses through her, hot and acidic.

"It's not that bad. Not as bad as it looks."

"What—what—when—"

Candice interrupts her spluttering, sitting up straighter. "We had another argument."

"What about?"

"Honestly, I don't even know how it started. Just stupid stuff again. I tried to go home and he got really apologetic, like frantic. Yanked me back from the door." Candice inspects her bruises, as if it's the first time she's seen them. "It's weird. It didn't really feel like he pulled that hard." Her watch, jostled loose from the movement, slips down and half obscures one of the bruises.

Tuesday is jolted hard by a memory.

Halloween. Candice popping in from the first time, fresh out of her witch costume. She still had paint around her hairline. Tuesday thought she spotted a greenish smear beneath her watchstrap.

"For God's sake. Has he left marks on you before?"

"I told you," Candice says, looking guilty, which makes Tuesday feel even sicker. "He's grabby."

"You can't put up with this." It feels awkward to be speaking to her so authoritatively, so Tuesday just lets it all come out before she can stop herself. "You can't. How did you leave it? Is it over?"