Goodbye Stranger (20 page)

Bridge sat up. “Jamie! It isn’t midnight yet. What about the bet?”

“Whatever. I’m so sick of that bet. You just gave me an excuse to be done with it.”

“But—you mean that’s it? Really? You lost? Because of me?”

“Yeah, I lost. Not because of you. Because of me.”

“But now you—” She had been about to say “Now you have to sing to Adrienne in your underwear!” Instead, she said, “Now you’ll never get your T-shirt back.”

“Yeah. I should probably just buy the one on eBay. I’ll save up.”

“But you said only losers buy cool stuff on eBay.”

He smiled. “So I’m a loser. Who cares?”

“I feel so bad. You could have stayed in bed—I would have been okay. I
am
okay.”

“What does Mom do, when she comes in after the nightmare?”

“Just stays. But you don’t have to. I’m fine.”

“I can stay,” Jamie said.

Bridge was quiet. She looked out the window, where a bright half-moon hovered above the buildings across the street. It was like a frosted cake, cut exactly down the middle. Sherm said that there was no such thing as moonlight, that what she saw was just reflected light from the sun. But that seemed impossible.

“Jamie.” Bridge could just make out his profile.

“Yeah?”

“After the accident. Do you think I lived for a reason?”

“Like one particular reason?”

“The nurse said that I must have lived for a reason.”

He was quiet for a few seconds. “I think you’re here for a lot of reasons, Bridge. But not that kind of reason.”

“Oh.”

“You know what Mom says: we’re all just here to make music.”

Bridge snorted. “Mom says everything is about music.”

“But it’s not actual music. She means like—we’re here to be here. To live. That’s why you lived, Bridge. You lived to live. Just like everyone else.”

Just like everyone else.
“You don’t think I’m…different?”

Jamie laughed quietly. “You’re definitely different.”

“I
feel
different.” Bridge had never put it into words before, but she wanted to, and the dark helped. “I feel like—like there’s this part of me that nobody knows. And I don’t know how it got there.”

“Yeah,” Jamie said. “We all have that.”

Bridge was quiet. Everyone had that? “No, this came from the accident.”

“What do you mean, it came from the accident?”

“I mean it showed up after that.”

“Bridge, that was a long year. You spent a lot of time in bed. Maybe it was the first time you stopped moving long enough to notice, but that voice in your head is called an inner life, and everybody has one. Except maybe Alex.”

Bridge looked at the moon, and it seemed to look right back. “You think that’s it?”

“Yeah. Everyone feels different on the inside. It doesn’t mean you have a secret mission.”

That made Bridge laugh.

“You really want to know why you lived?” Jamie said. “You lived because the doctors restarted your heart three times.”

“Three times?”

“Yeah.”

“No one ever told me that.”

“Well, Mom and Dad probably didn’t want to freak you out. Want me to open the window? The heat is really cranking.”

“Okay,” Bridge said, closing her eyes. “That’d be great.” And a few moments later there was a wonderful rush of cold air, a smooth ribbon running along her cheek.

Jamie turned on her desk lamp and settled back into the chair with his book. “I’ll read in here for a while. Okay, Rudolph? We’ll be independent together.”

She felt sleep tug at her. “You wouldn’t mind my red nose?”

“Not if you don’t mind me being a dentist.”

Sleepily, she smiled. “It’s a deal.”

VALENTINE’S DAY

You’re sitting by the window watching a guy with a bucket of roses set up shop near the subway station. Each flower is individually wrapped in cellophane and tied with a red ribbon, and he’s got a sign that says
$3
that he props up against the bucket.

By now, everyone at school has clocked everyone else’s carnations—how many, which colors, et cetera. Vinny probably has at least six. Zoe the Loyal has at least one white one, from Vinny. Gina has the three white flowers you sent her and wonders where you were at lunch and doesn’t yet know that Marco will avoid her after school, or why.

If your mom were here, she would tell you that none of this is so terrible. She’d say that she remembers being young. That high school is complicated. That friends are complicated. That none of it is as important as it feels. That’s why you aren’t calling her. Because if she truly remembered, she’d know that everything is exactly as terrible as it feels. She’d sit down right next to you and say, “It’s bad.”

She’d probably also say that mental-health days require a parent signature. She’d say you put her and your father through a hell full of worry. You did. You are.

You turn around and call to Adrienne, who’s practicing her footwork while she refills the milk canisters next to the coffee lids. Somehow she doesn’t spill a drop. “Hey,” you say. “Where is Mr. Barsamian, anyway?”

“He had to go—family emergency, he said.”

“Family emergency?” You stand up. “What happened?”

“Oh, not his family,” Adrienne says. “But someone’s kid is missing, a friend of the family.” She glances up, sees your face. “No,” she says. “No way.”

—

Ten minutes later, you’ve talked Adrienne down. Her original plan was to turn you in immediately, but you’ve promised to go straight home. Your last lie, you tell yourself.

You pull your hoodie on. “I hate to ask this,” you tell Adrienne. “But can I borrow three dollars?”

BLACK LINES

Backstage, playing spit, Bridge looked at Sherm and thought about his bread smell and how it was a little bit sweet. Lately it reminded Bridge of the cold, frothy antibiotics she took as a little kid. She’d had so many throat infections that the smell of it—“pink drink,” her father called it—became part of her childhood, like music she barely noticed during a scene in a movie. Sherm’s bread smell was the same, except that it was always at the front of her brain, something she urgently did and did not want to talk about. None of it exactly made sense.

Tab’s head appeared through the opening in the curtain. “Em’s officially off the hook. Mr. Ramos says she didn’t do it.”

“Woot!” Bridge high-fived Tab, then Sherm.

“I’m skipping Hindi Club to celebrate,” Tab said, sinking to the floor next to Bridge. “Can I hide out here with you guys?”

“Sure.” Sherm stuffed his sandwich wrapper into his bag. “You can keep Bridge company until the bell rings.”

“You’re leaving?” Bridge said.

He nodded. “I got a note. I have to talk to Mr. Ramos in five minutes.”

“Now
you’re
a suspect?” Tab said.

He shrugged. “Or maybe they think I’m the official school narc.”

“You’re not a narc,” Tab said seriously. “You’re just a dork. The good kind.”

“Yeah.” He smiled. “I know.”

—

Watching him disappear into the red curtain, Bridge was struck by the knowledge that Sherm was the main thing she looked forward to every day. How had that happened?

Bridge had once believed that state borders were something you could see, actual black lines that you could walk along if you wanted to, one foot in front of the other. Then, when she was seven, she’d demanded the window seat on a plane trip to see her grandparents in California, telling Jamie that she wanted to see
exactly when
they crossed from one state to the next.

“But how will you know?” Jamie had asked, looking actually interested.

“The black lines!” she told him.

And he had laughed, of course.

There was no black line separating Colorado from Utah. There was no black line between friendship and whatever might come next. And Bridge didn’t know whether she would want to step over that line, if there were one.

Tab had opened a bag of chips and was eating them one at a time, looking weirdly solemn, as if she felt sorry for them.

“How are you supposed to know what you want?” Bridge asked her.

“About Sherm, you mean?”

“Yeah.” Bridge felt herself flush. Tab always picked up on more than she let on. “What do you think the Berperson would say?”

“Well,” Tab said, perking up, “the Berperson says the most important thing is to be true to yourself.”

“But what’s ‘yourself’? That’s the problem. What if I don’t know?”

Tab shrugged. “Then I guess you should just…be true.” She wiped potato-chip salt on her jeans.

“Gee, thanks,” Bridge said. “Super-helpful.”

The bell rang. Tab stood up and put both hands out to pull Bridge to her feet. “You want to know what
I
think?”

“Yeah. But please don’t tell me to put a pin in it.”

“I think that when you don’t know, you should just wait until you do.”

Bridge smiled. “That actually makes sense.”

“Yeah,” Tab said, feeling for the opening in the curtain. “In other words, put a pin in it.”

SHERM

January 27

Dear Nonno Gio,

No one gets picked up after school in seventh grade. It was pretty easy to spot you out there, scanning the steps with one hand over your eyes like a salute.

I just turned around and went out through the yard gate instead. I guess you thought maybe I’d run right up to you and we’d go get a slice like we used to.

I know it’s only been five months, but you look smaller. I’m not just saying that to be mean. Otherwise you seem the same. It was good to see you, but it also felt good to walk away. Now you know how it feels.

Sherm

P.S. Eighteen days.

THE PITFALLS OF BEING WONDER WOMAN

The next morning, Sherm was on the corner in his down vest and navy-blue thermal shirt, which was Bridge’s favorite. He gave her a funny smile as she walked toward him.

“What?”

He pointed. “Stove Top stuffing? Is that breakfast?”

“Oh.” She realized she was cradling the cardboard canister as if it were a baby. “No, this is for Tab. She has to get some teeth pulled today. She’s leaving at lunchtime.”

“Bleh.”

“Yeah,” Bridge said. “My mom gave me this to give to her—she says it’s the best thing to eat after you’ve had a tooth pulled.”

“They should put that on their ads.” Sherm made his voice low, like a television announcer’s: “Stove Top. Really great for after the dentist!”

They laughed. Then Bridge replayed it in her head and laughed harder. Then she couldn’t stop laughing.

“Are you one of those people who laughs really hard at bad jokes?” Sherm asked. “How did I not know that?”

—

When Bridge powered up her phone after school, it began to ding with voice-mail messages. When it stopped, she had six of them, all from Tab. She didn’t bother listening to them, but texted Tab instead:

Bridge:
U OK?

Tab:
There U R! Come see me??

Bridge:
At home?

Tab:
No! Still at bad dentist.

—

Bridge and Tab both went to Dr. Miller, and they’d called him “bad dentist” since they were little kids. He was only eight blocks from school.

Tab:
U coming?

Tab:
Come now?

Bridge was supposed to be at a Tech Crew meeting in ten minutes. The Talentine show was Friday, and Mr. Partridge had been telling them for days that it was crunch time.

Tab:
U there? U coming?

Bridge:
Yes! Coming!

Tab:
K. Love U.

Bridge:
Love U too.

Tab: