Goodbye Stranger (15 page)

“Nah. Mom says I’m not allowed to charge money.”

Bridge stopped in the doorway. “Evan,” she said. “What if it had been the other way around? Cups in the past and swords in the future?”

“Oh, I would have figured out a way to make it sound good,” Evan said, already shuffling again. “That’s Mom’s other rule.”

—

Bridge and Emily were in the living room with Em’s mom, eating peanut butter crackers and watching TV, when the doorbell rang.

Em’s mom looked at her watch. “The sitter’s early! And I wanted us to have a little snuggle time, especially today”—she looked quickly at Em—“I didn’t mean that. It’s a perfectly
normal
day. I mean,
you’re
perfectly normal, sweetheart.”

Em rolled her eyes. “Mom. Calm down.”

“Do you want me to cancel dinner with Dad? I can cancel.”

“No, you guys should do your divorce date,” Em said. “But don’t tell Dad everything, okay? Can’t it wait a little?”

Em’s mom considered. “I think I have to tell him, sweetie. You understand, right? Parents are partners.”

Em flopped into the couch pillows. “I
knew
you’d say something like that.”

“Sweetie—” Her mom stood up to answer the door.

Celeste stood there in a wet coat, taking her earbuds out. “Hey, guys. Hey, Em.” She gave an awkward little wave. It was clear she’d been told the whole story.

Emily turned to her mom. “Can I go to Bridge’s for dinner?”

Her mom nodded.

THAT MUSIC

They walked to Bridge’s in the rain.

“Your poor ears,” Em said. She reached up to touch one as they crossed a street. “All wet and droopy.” A turning car honked long and loud, then cut in front of them, wheels squeaking.

“Jerk!” Em yelled after it. “Can you believe that jerk?” she said, turning to Bridge.

Bridge was frozen. She wasn’t hurt, but she couldn’t move.

“Are you okay?” Em said. “Is it that thing again? When you get scared?”

“I’m okay,” Bridge said. “Just give me a minute.” She told her legs to get moving.

Em stood and stroked her hand.

Two teenage girls with a black umbrella and matching red purses ran past them in the rain. One of them turned around to shout at Bridge and Em. “Freaks!”

Em started laughing. And Bridge felt her legs come back.

“Now your ears are
really
wet,” Em said when they were moving again. “Do you ever put them in the dryer?”

“I think they’re dry-clean only,” Bridge said.

“Sorry I laughed,” Em said. “It was such a random moment. That stupid car, petting your arm in the rain, those stupid girls, and—this whole
day.
”

“Actually,” Bridge said, “the laughing helped.”

—

When Bridge unlocked her apartment door and flung it open, the first thing she saw was Jamie, crawling down the hallway toward the kitchen.

Emily’s hands flew to her mouth. “Oh no—what happened?”

“Don’t worry,” Bridge said quickly. “He’s fine. He’s just saving steps.”

“Saving them for what?”

“For later. It’s a bet.”

“Another one?” Em whispered.

Jamie looked over his shoulder and gave them a little smile. “Yay, you’re home. Can you grab me a banana? My knees are like little knobs of pain.” He took a left and crawled toward the living room couch.

Bridge stepped out of her damp shoes, got a banana from the kitchen counter, walked to the couch, and dangled it in front of his face. “One dollar,” she said.

“Can I owe you?”

“I guess, but I’m writing it down. Is Mom home?”

Jamie took the banana. “Do you think I’d pay you a dollar to get me a banana if Mom were here to do it for free?” He felt underneath the couch and came up with a book, which he started to read.

Bridge turned to Emily. “What do you feel like doing?”

Emily shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe just watch TV?”

“Any chance you guys could take this somewhere else?” Jamie pointed to his book. “Studying here.”

“Jamie! This is the living room, not your private domain.”

“I know. But I’m low on juice.”

Bridge rolled her eyes. “Let’s go to my room.”

—

“So,” Bridge said, landing cross-legged on her bed. “How’re you doing?” She patted the space next to her.

“At this moment?” Em sat on the edge of the bed. “I don’t even know. Did I tell you Patrick called my cell at one-thirty in the morning? He said after I texted him about the whole David Marcel thing, he felt so bad he couldn’t sleep.”

“But, Em, how did David Marcel get the picture in the first place?”

“I told you. Patrick says someone grabbed his phone.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

Em picked at the bedspread. “Did you know he’s joining Banana Splits? We talked on the phone for almost an hour. Turns out his parents broke up last year too. Weird, right?”

“Wait. You don’t hate him? At all?”

“I knew you’d say that. Now I’m double pathetic, right? He ruins my life and I’m still crushing on him.”

Bridge was quiet.

“This is where you’re supposed to tell me my life isn’t ruined.”

“Oh, sorry! Your life—”

“Kidding,” Em said. “You know what? I actually like Patrick more now, in a way. He’s like—a
person
now. His parents’ divorce was way worse than mine. You should hear the things they say about each other. When I told him how mine are really good friends and still go out to dinner and stuff, he didn’t believe me.”

“So are you going to keep kissing him?”

Em laughed. “Well, not over the phone! Duh.” She stretched out on the bed. “I don’t know. We only kissed a few times. And last night was the first time we really talked, you know?”

It was still a little unreal that Em had kissed anyone. It was as if she’d been to the moon. But here she was, still Em.

Bridge bounced off the bed and sat in her desk chair, hunching forward to face Emily. “Em, I don’t trust him. If he didn’t send your picture to David, who did?”

“I told you, someone grabbed his phone! I know it sounds stupid, but I believe him. I just do.” Emily gave her a big smile. “Things are different now. It’s like the whole picture thing happened to two other people.”

“
Two
other people? Emily, it happened to
you.
Not to him. He doesn’t have to walk around knowing that half the school has seen—”

“But I don’t mind,” Em said quickly. “I mean, I do and I don’t.”

Bridge stared. “What are you talking about? You’ve been crying for two days.”

“Yeah.” Now Em started picking at the cuticle on her thumb. “But—don’t think I’m stupid or anything, but I still like that picture. I never showed you which one I picked—it’s the one where I’m looking to the side? And I used a filter—you can’t see much, really. But I look good. Like you said.”

“Are you saying you’re
happy
this happened?”

Em picked her head up. “Are you insane? I’m just saying that I still like the picture. Noelle Park posted about ten pictures of herself in the Bahamas last Christmas. That little bikini, and no one said anything but how amazing she looked! What’s wrong with looking amazing? I’m not ashamed of it.”

Bridge chose her words carefully. “So why did you care? When Patrick—or whoever, this mystery person—sent the picture around? If you like it?”

Em shook her head. “Well, it was supposed to be just for him, you know? That’s one thing. But the bad part wasn’t that everyone was looking at the picture. I mean, it was weird and not great. But the bad part was that it felt like they were making fun of my feeling good about the picture. Of me
liking
myself. Does that even make sense?”

Bridge wanted to kill Patrick and David Marcel. Or at least utterly and completely humiliate them.

“You’re not saying anything,” Em said.

“I’m just getting angry,” Bridge said. “All over again.”

“Don’t bother. Let’s talk about something else.” Em snapped her fingers and made an I’ve-got-a-great-idea face. “I know! You and Sherm.”

“Are friends,” Bridge said.

Em smiled. “More than friends, maybe?”

“Did you hear music?” Bridge asked, swiveling to face Em. “When you kissed Patrick?”

“Music,” Em repeated.

“Yeah, my mom says that love is like music. One day you just—hear it.”

“Whoa. First of all, I never said I loved Patrick. But I think I know what she means. I don’t think she means actual music, Bridge. She means that you know it when you feel it. Like music—you know it when you hear it.”

“Okay, so love is also like a hamburger? You know it when you taste it?”

Em laughed. “A hamburger is more deliberate. You have to make it, or ask for it…. Music just kind of breaks over you.”

“She also says hearing the music is different from wanting to dance. And knowing who you want to dance with—that’s different from hearing the music.”

Em flopped back on the bed and laughed into Bridge’s pillow.

“What?” Bridge said.
“What?”

“Nothing,” Em said. “I just love your mom.”

“Yeah, she’s a nut.”

“But you like Sherm, don’t you, Bridge? It’s kind of obvious.”

Was it obvious? Bridge thought about the way she looked for him at school now. The cafeteria used to just be the cafeteria. Now it was the cafeteria
and Sherm might be in it.
And English wasn’t English anymore. Now English was
definitely
seeing Sherm.
But she didn’t want to meet him behind the science lab.

“How did you know you liked Patrick?”

Em smiled. “How did I know? I think about him all the time.”

“But you guys don’t spend any time together. Maybe what you like is some fake idea of who he is.”

“I just told you, it’s different now. We talk to each other.”

“Once. You talked once.”

“For an hour! And stop changing the subject.” Em sat up and crossed her legs. “Tell me two things you know about Sherm. Two things you know
for sure.
”

“He’s nice.”

Em shook her head. “Lame. Two real things.”

“Fine. One: he smells a little like bread.”

At least, his shirt smelled like bread. What did that mean? That she’d smelled his shirt?

“Okay,” Em said. “What else?”

“He misses his grandfather, who used to live with him.”

“Aw, his grandpa died?”

“No. He left Sherm’s grandmother. Moved out over the summer.”

“Really? Wow. The curse of the nine thousand things.”

“I guess.”

“Anyway,” Em said. “You like Sherm. Definitely.”

“How do you know?”

“I just know.”

“I don’t want to kiss him or anything,” Bridge said quickly.

“No?”

Bridge shook her head.

“Hmm,” Em said. “You know what?”

“What?”

“I think you just need more time. Put a pin in it.”

Bridge wondered if you ever found your dance partner
before
you heard the music.

—

That night, Bridge woke with a shudder and a frantic intake of air. Rising from the dark of the mummy dream, she threw her arms wide, drew her knees up, and kicked her covers halfway down the bed. Not far enough. She kicked and kicked until everything was on the floor.

“I’m here,” her mother said quietly. She stood near but knew not to try to hug Bridge or touch her right away. What Bridge needed was space. Once the dream receded—the feeling of paralysis, the suffocating closeness of it—her body relaxed, and her mom came closer.

“You’re okay,” her mom said, brushing Bridge’s hair back from her forehead and letting her fingers run lightly along Bridge’s scalp. It was something she’d started doing when Bridge was in the hospital, because the rest of Bridge’s body was in some sort of cast or sling. “You’re okay,” her mom said again, soothingly.

But Bridge was already asleep.

SHERM

December 2

Dear Nonno Gio,

I’m pretty sure she hates me now. And most of the guys are mad too. They all know I told Mr. Ramos about the picture going around. But Patrick actually texted me to say what I did was cool. He said he didn’t have the guts! Which just goes to show.

Actually I have no idea what it goes to show.

Sherm

P.S. Two months and twelve days till your birthday.

VALENTINE’S DAY

Gina lives only a mile from your high school, and sometimes she walks. Back in the fall, when you were first getting to know her, you saw her coming down the block with Marco Saks, talking.

“You know Marco Saks?” you asked Gina.

She nodded. “Oh yeah—since we were two. Our families rent a house together every summer for a month. We kind of grew up together.”

“You grew up with Marco Saks? The sophomore lusted after by ninety percent of the girls at school?” Or whatever percentage of them had decent vision and a male-oriented libido. Because Marco Saks is beautiful. There’s no other word for what Marco Saks is.

She smiled. “I know. Everyone’s in love with him. But he’s an only child, like me, and now he’s like my big brother. Actually, I like to call him my
little
brother.” She laughed. “It annoys the hell out of him.”

Gina is tall.

—

It wasn’t even a month later that, in her bedroom, Gina whispered, “Can I trust you? Because I can’t hold this in anymore and I think you’re the nicest person I’ve met in at least five years. I think I can trust you. Am I right?”

No one had ever talked to you like that before, but you don’t dwell on it now—you don’t think about how good it made you feel to have another person say “I like you. I trust you.” None of Vinny’s games.

“Of course you can trust me,” you said.

“I can, right?” She looked into your eyes, her color rising fast behind the dark freckles that sprinkled her nose and cheeks, even in October. Then she said, “I’m in love with him.”

You didn’t get it. “Who?”