Goodbye Stranger (17 page)

Vinny was lying. Either that or she had once made poor Zoe eat a ChapStick.

“Look, are you playing or not?” Vinny said. “You can leave any time you want.”

Gina’s face. She looked at you again.

“Really? Eating ChapStick?” you asked Vinny. “Did you think of that yourself?”

“She wouldn’t do the truth,” Vinny said. “She gets the dare.”

“Okay, but what you’re asking her to do is actually”—you deliberately dropped your voice—
“disgusting.”

Disgusting was, to Vinny, the lowest of the low. The idea that she herself might be disgusting had clearly never entered her mind.

“Excuse me?”

“Think about it,” you say. “It’s kind of a disgusting idea.” You turned to Zoe. “Did you come up with it?”

“No!” Zoe squealed, and then looked guiltily at Vinny.

Vinny stood up. “Game over,” she said, and walked away. After a pause, Zoe jumped up and scrambled after her, snatching her purse from the back of her chair—it was dark red, just like Vinny’s.

“Wow,” Gina said when they were gone. She smiled, but her face was sad all over. “She hates me a lot, huh?”

“She’ll get over it,” you said.

“It’s because we’re friends,” Gina said. “You and me.”

“Vinny has a lot of friends,” you tell her.

“Yeah.” Gina opened the ChapStick and used it on her lips. “But we’re the kind who would never hurt each other.”

—

The next day, Vinny and Zoe looked right through you. After lunch, you found a little pink envelope in your locker with your name on it. Inside was one of those invitations for a little-kid party, with a cute parade of animals in party hats on the front. You opened it and saw it was the preprinted kind, with “You Are Invited” at the top and blank lines underneath where you’re supposed to write in the details. Someone had filled them in with a black marker:

You Are
Invited!

What:
Vinny’s Halloween Bash

Where:
Zoe’s place

When:
Halloween. Duh.

Why:
Think about it.

Glad you won’t be there!

Uninvited. If “umpteen” is the best word in the world, maybe “uninvited” is the worst. It shouldn’t even be a word. It shouldn’t be anything.

TECH CREW

The full tech crew had been called for a Wednesday meeting, and they were all squeezed together backstage. Bridge was close enough to smell Sherm’s bread smell. Mr. Partridge had ordered pizza again. Now he stood in front of a whiteboard he’d propped up against an old piece of scenery. From her spot on the floor, Bridge could make out some blue sky and the back end of a large pink pig.

Mr. Partridge glanced at his watch. “Quickly, people. We don’t have much more time.” He tapped the board, where he’d written their list of Talentine show themes in purple block letters:

ITALIAN RESTAURANT

NORTH POLE (PENGUINS)

APOLLO 11 MOON LANDING

ROMAN BATH

THE SIXTIES/HIPPIES

RAIN FOREST

“I don’t think there are penguins at the North Pole,” Bridge whispered to Sherm. “They’re all in Antarctica.”

“Good point,” Sherm said. “Why’d you nominate the moon landing?”

“Because. I thought we could try it out.”

He gave her a questioning look.

“A fake moon landing,” she said. “We’ll make one of those landing-pod things, and we’ll get a flag, and—I don’t know, rocks? Come on, just vote for it.”

The sixties was a strong contender. “Four votes!” Mr. Partridge said, making a note on the board. “There may be some tie-dyeing in our future. Okay, who’s for the moon landing?”

Hands went up. Sherm hesitated. One arm waving wildly, Bridge reached out with the other, grabbed Sherm’s wrist, and held it up.

Mr. Partridge smiled. “Bridge, please release Sherman.”

Everyone laughed. She let go.

Sherm’s arm dropped, but a second later he put it up again.

“Okay, folks, we have a winner.” Mr. Partridge drew a circle around the words “Apollo 11.” “We’re going to the moon.”

A few kids cheered. Bridge did a mini-fist-pump.

“Remember,” Mr. Partridge said. “This is a secret. Anyone who spills the beans has to pay double for their T-shirt. Understood?”

—

When the meeting was over, Bridge waited for Mr. Partridge by the auditorium doors.

“Question, Bridge?” He was still coming up the aisle toward her. It occurred to Bridge that Mr. Partridge was on the older side.

“You were a judge, right? For the auditions?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t Emily make it? I was there. She was one of the best.”

Mr. Partridge stopped. “Let me ask you a couple of questions. How many judges were there?” he asked.

“Three.”

“And how many people am I?”

“One.”

“Exactly.”

Bridge only hesitated for a second. “So she
was
banned?”

He shook his head. “Nothing that formal. But unofficially, yes.”

“But that’s completely unfair!”

“And,” he said, looking at her, “it’s exactly how most unfair things happen.”

“Did you even say anything? Fight for her?”

He blinked. “Bridget, I know how to pick my battles. This conversation is over.”

—

Bridge and her parents were on the couch, watching the annual network broadcast of
Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,
when they heard the front door slam and the now-familiar sound of Jamie’s enormous steps.

“How was practice?” Bridge’s mom called.

“Fine,” Jamie called back.

“It’s Rudolph!” Bridge yelled. “Hurry up! We’re almost up to Hermey’s big moment.”

“No thanks.” And his door closed.

Bridge looked at her parents. “Did he just say ‘No thanks’?”

They told her to give him a few minutes alone. Her mom handed her a candy cane.

—

After the movie, Bridge knocked on Jamie’s door. “You wrecked Rudolph night!” she yelled. Without waiting, she opened the door. “Rudolph is no fun without you.”

“Sure, come right in,” Jamie said. “That’s what I meant to say when I closed my door.”

He was still in his track clothes, lying on the bed with his computer resting on his chest. On the floor next to the bed was an empty bowl stained with red sauce.

“You ate
all
the meatballs?” Bridge said.

“Running makes me hungry,” Jamie said. He swiveled his laptop around to face her and said, “Check this out.”

Bridge leaned forward. It was an eBay listing for a Rolling Stones T-shirt: the 1981 North American Tour. The same shirt he’d lost to Alex almost a year ago. “A hundred dollars? Wow.”

“Yeah. Can you believe I bought it for seven bucks? When’s that gonna happen again?”

“You know Grandma and Grandpa would buy you another one. For Christmas. Or Mom and Dad—they have all that celebrity-wedding money coming in.”

Their mom’s second fancy wedding had been a bigger hit than her first. She’d just booked two more jobs.

Jamie shook his head. “No way. I told you, I’m winning it back.” He shut the laptop. “Only a loser would pay a hundred bucks for a T-shirt. It’s not even cool anymore if you pay that much for it.”

Bridge took Hermey the elf from Jamie’s bookshelf. “So what are you going to ask for? For Christmas?”

“Maybe a new best friend.”

“That’s a good idea.”

“Get me an ice cream sandwich from the freezer?” Jamie asked. “I barely have enough juice left to go brush my teeth.”

“Sure. For two bucks.”

He grinned. “How about a nickel?”

“Fifty cents,” she said. “I’m saving for my Tech Crew T-shirt. I need to have it in time for the Talentine show.”

“A quarter?” Jamie countered.

Bridge felt kind of sorry for him. She tossed him Hermey and said, “It’s a deal.”

—

Bridge was sleeping that night when a door slammed, waking her up. She looked at her clock: 12:01.

A minute later, she heard the bathroom door open, steps coming down the hall, and then Jamie’s door, closing quietly.

—

“Hey, was that you slamming doors in the middle of the night?” she asked him in the kitchen the next morning.

“Sorry.” He looked embarrassed. “I was waiting for midnight. I closed the bathroom door too hard.”

“Waiting for midnight?”

“Yeah. I always get into bed on step ten thousand, right? So then if, you know,
nature calls,
I have to wait until it’s officially the next day.”

“Jamie,” Bridge said, shaking a cereal box to see how much was left. “You really do need a new best friend.”

SLEEVES

On the first day back after every vacation, school lunch came with a cupcake, so Bridge left her bag lunch at home. From across the cafeteria, she spotted Em walking toward their corner table, wearing a baggy green sweatshirt and carrying her tray. Tab wasn’t coming; the Human Rights Club met on Tuesdays at lunch, and even a cupcake couldn’t persuade her to miss quality time with the Berperson.

“Aren’t you hot in that thing?” Bridge asked, catching up to Emily. “I feel like we’re in a furnace.” It was always like that, once the school turned on the heat.

“Yeah,” Em started, “I’m—” and then she burst into tears. She just stood there with her tray and let them come.

“Hold on.” Bridge held her tray in one hand and took Em’s with the other. She slid both trays—sandwich, milk, cupcake—onto the table, and then she grabbed Em’s hand and led her out of the cafeteria.

In the bathroom, Em was nearly choking on tears and snot. “They said…I have to wear this stupid sweatshirt. It’s from the lost and found. They said”—she wiped her face with a fist—“my shirt was too revealing!”

“Revealing?” Bridge ducked into a stall and came out with some balled-up toilet paper.

“Spaghetti straps!” Emily sobbed out the words.

“What?” Bridge said. “Breathe, okay? I can’t understand you. It sounded like you said ‘spaghetti.’ ”

Em shook her head. “Spaghetti straps. They aren’t
sleeves,
they said.”

“Oh.”

Em took a breath, calmed down. “You can wear cat ears all day, but I can’t wear my own shirt.”

“Hey!”

“Sorry.” Em blew her nose, folded the toilet paper, and wiped her eyes. “I’m sorry. That was jerky.”

“It’s okay,” Bridge said. “I get it.”

Em sniffed, exhaled.

“Tab and I agree with you, you know. About the Talentine show. It’s not fair.”

“Yeah, well, whatever. I’m not really in the mood to sing anyway.”

“Because of this?” Bridge pointed to the sweatshirt.

“Did you know that David Marcel calls me a skank every time he sees me?”

“He
what
?”

“Yeah. So I get to hear that at least six times a day.”

“Emily, tell someone. Tell Mr. Ramos!”

“Sure, my new friend Mr. Ramos.”

“So tell Mr. P.”

She shook her head. “Mr. P already went to bat for me. He’s pretty much the reason I didn’t get suspended for sending the picture to Patrick in the first place.”

“He is?”

Em nodded. “That’s what my mom says. Anyway, telling will just make things worse. Patrick says David Marcel is still pissed about getting suspended. And his parents took away his phone. Can you believe he hasn’t had a phone since November?” She smiled the smallest of smiles.

“You’re still talking to Patrick, huh?” Bridge tried to keep her face neutral.

Em’s smile got bigger. “Of course. Still just friends. Did I tell you? He came to a Banana Splits meeting.”

Bridge said nothing.

“He’s a good guy, Bridge. Really.”

“A good guy whose phone was grabbed by a mystery person who texted your picture to David Marcel, who sent it to half the class.”

“I know you don’t believe him. But Patrick says he never even
showed
that picture to David Marcel. He wouldn’t.”

“So why won’t he tell you who
did
?”

“I don’t know.” Em closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the wall.

“Sorry,” Bridge said. “I’ll shut up.”