The Line Between

The very large dog standing behind her stayed outside. He looked about the size of a Winnebago, and plainly had already made up his mind about Angie. She said, «Nice doggie," and he growled. When she tried out «Hey, sweet thing," which was what her father said to all animals, the dog showed his front teeth, and the hair stood up around his shoulders, and he lay down to keep an eye on things himself. Angie said sadly, «I'm usually really good with dogs.»

When Melissa arrived, she said, «Well, you shoved it under the door, so it can't be that far inside. Maybe if we got something like a stick or a wire clotheshanger to hook it back with.» But whenever they looked toward the neighboring house, they saw a curtain swaying, and finally they walked away, trying to decide what else to do. But there was nothing; and after a while Angle's throat was too swollen with not crying for her to talk without pain. She walked Melissa back to the bus stop, and they hugged goodbye as though they might never meet again.

Melissa said, «You know, my mother says nothing's ever as bad as you thought it was going to be. I mean, it can't be, because nothing beats all the horrible stuff you can imagine. So maybe … you know…» but she broke down before she could finish. She hugged Angie again and went home.

Alone in her own house, Angie sat quite still in the kitchen and went on not crying. Her entire face hurt with it, and her eyes felt unbearably heavy. Her mind was not moving at all, and she was vaguely grateful for that. She sat there until Marvyn walked in from playing basketball with his friends. Shorter than everyone else, he generally got stepped on a lot, and always came home scraped and bruised. Angie had rather expected him to try making himself taller, or able to jump higher, but he hadn't done anything of the sort so far. He looked at her now, bounced and shot an invisible basketball, and asked quietly, «What's the matter?»

It may have been the unexpected froggy gentleness of his voice, or simply the sudden fact of his having asked the question at all. Whatever the reason, Angie abruptly burst into furious tears, the rage directed entirely at herself, both for writing the letter to Jake Petrakis in the first place, and for crying about it now. She gestured

to Marvyn to go away, but — amazing her further — he stood stolidly waiting for her to grow quiet. When at last she did, he repeated the question. «Angie. What's wrong?»

Angie told him. She was about to add a disclaimer — «You laugh even once, Ex–Lax — " when she realized that it wouldn't be necessary. Marvyn was scratching his head, scrunching up his brow until the eyepatch danced; then abruptly jamming both hands in his pockets and tilting his head back: the poster boy for careless insouciance. He said, almost absently, «I could get it back.»

«Oh, right.» Angie did not even look up. «Right.»

«I could so!» Marvyn was instantly his normal self again: so much for casualness and dispassion. «There's all kinds of things I could do.»

Angie dampened a paper towel and tried to do something with her hot, tear–streaked face. «Name two.»

«Okay, I will! You remember which mailbox you put it in?»

«Under the door," Angle mumbled. «I put it under the door.»

Marvyn snickered then. " Aww, like a Valentine.» Angie hadn't the energy to hit him, but she made a grab at him anyway, for appearance's sake. «Well, I could make it walk right back out the door, that's one way. Or I bet I could just open the door, if nobody's home. Easiest trick in the world, for us witches.»

«They're gone till Sunday night," Angie said. «But there's this lady next door, she's watching the place like a hawk. And even when she's not, she's got this immense dog. I don't care if you're the hottest witch in the world, you do not want to mess with this werewolf.»

Marvyn, who — as Angie knew — was wary of big dogs, went back to scratching his head. «Too easy, anyway. No fun, forget it.» He sat down next to her, completely absorbed in the problem. «How about I … no, that's kid stuff, anybody could do it. But there's a spell … I could make the letter self–destruct, right there in the house, like in that old tv show. It'd just be a little fluffy pile of ashes — they'd vacuum it up and never know. How about that?» Before Angie could express an opinion, he was already shaking his head. «Still too easy. A baby spell, for beginners. I hate those.»

«Easy is good," Angie told him earnestly. «I like easy. And you are a beginner.»

Marvyn was immediately outraged, his normal bass–baritone rumble going up to a wounded squeak. «I am not! No way in the world I'm a beginner!» He was up and stamping his feet, as he had not done since he was two. «I tell you what — just for that, I'm going to get your letter back for you, but I'm not going to tell you how. You'll see, that's all. You just wait and see.»

He was stalking away toward his room when Angie called after him, with the first