Scarlett Fever by Maureen Johnson

his shirtfront, where he’d been struck.
    “Is he really throwing doughnuts at me?” he asked.
    “At us,” Scarlett said. “He got me, too.”
    “What?”
    Spencer stopped and changed position just enough to block Scarlett.
    “What the hell are you doing ?” he yelled at their attacker. “You hit my sister with a doughnut!”
    “Let’s just go,” Scarlett said, catching Spencer’s shirt and attempting to tug him along. But Spencer would not be moved. Another doughnut took flight. This time, it was jelly, and it made clear, perfect contact with the side of Spencer’s head—cutting a streak of powder across his dark hair and exploding into a thick raspberry mess along his ear and neck. Against the white shirt, it looked like blood.
    “Son of a bitch!” the man screamed again.
    By this point, all the passersby stopped to watch the display. Not all of them knew which particular son of a bitch Spencer was, but a few did. Those few were pointing and whispering the sacred name: Lavinski. The rest of the crowd was prepared to accept the spectacle in the spirit in which it was offered—just one of those things that New York occasionally threw in their path to shake things up.
    “He’s an actor!” Scarlett yelled back, stepping from behind Spencer. “And you’re a lunatic!”
    The man reached for another doughnut.
    “That box holds at least a dozen,” Scarlett said. “He’s got a lot more to go. Come on , Spencer!”
    Spencer just maneuvered her back behind him again and held his ground.
    “Seriously,” he said. “You do know it’s just a show, right? Right?”
    The cream doughnut that immediately followed didn’t rupture in quite the same way as the jelly had. It got him low on the torso, leaving a cream blotch on his hip. The next assault came from behind. A kid, maybe Scarlett’s age, decided to take advantage of the open food fight that seemed to be going on and lobbed half a granola bar in their general direction. It glanced off Scarlett’s elbow and landed on the sidewalk.
    “Okay,” Scarlett said, “that was just ineffective.”
    “A show ,” Spencer was saying, still trying to reason with their primary threat. “Not a real gun. Not a real murder. Not even my idea…”
    Scarlett saw a cab with its light on stopping to let someone out. She took Spencer by the arm and pulled him toward it. He allowed himself to be moved this time, narrowly missing what looked like a very unstable blueberry jelly doughnut, which exploded on the back of the car.
    “One Hundred Fourth and the park,” Scarlett said to the driver, who already looked very sad that they were his passengers. “The faster you go, the less messed up your car gets.”
    Spencer got the door closed right before the man threw his iced coffee at the window. The window was half rolled up, which provided some protection, but not enough. The coffee drenched Spencer, soaking his face and side and pooling in his lap.
    “Are you okay?” Spencer asked.
    Scarlett’s heart was thumping in her chest. She looked down at herself. Tiny spots of powder and jam covered her shirt.
    “I’m fine,” she said. “Just drop me at Dakota’s. I’ll borrow a shirt.”
    There was little point in asking Spencer the same question. The white clothes highlighted the damage. One side of his head and face was soaked with coffee-thinned jam. It dripped from his ear and down his shoulder. The majority of it was pooled in his lap. There were heavy impact marks of jam and cream on his chest and legs, which looked like someone had decided to make an abstract painting, using him as the canvas.
    Scarlett dug around in her bag. She had no tissues; paper would have to do. She ripped a few pages from a notebook. Spencer didn’t make a move. Figuring he was too stunned by the assault, Scarlett reached over to clean off his ear and cheek. As her hand drew near, he reached up to block her.
    “Leave it,” he said.
    “What?”
    “I have to make sure it stays this way