Goodbye Stranger (6 page)

“We don’t have closets in this classroom,” Bridge’s teacher said, after clapping his hands for attention. “So when the drill starts, we’ll line up, walk to the back of the room, and crouch against the wall. Any questions?”

Everyone in the class had the same questions:
Closets? Crouch against the wall?
But nobody asked them.

The room was silent. Bridge looked at Sherm, and he looked back. She realized that Sherm’s eyes were the same green-gold mix as the eyes of Tab’s cat, Sashi.

“What’s wrong?” Sherm whispered.

“Nothing,” Bridge said.

They listened to the drill announcement on the PA, and when it was over, there was a sound like a loud droning dial tone that made Bridge aware of every other person in the room, as if her body had involuntarily flung little Spider-Man threads to each one of them.

The teacher took a set of keys from his desk drawer and calmly locked the classroom door. He unrolled a little black rectangle of cloth and somehow attached it to the door so that it covered the small window. Bridge wondered what held it there: Double-sided tape? Velcro? Then he switched off the lights.

Their classroom was in the basement, but there was enough light to see by, coming in through a few small windows near the ceiling.

“Quickly and quietly,” the teacher said. “Everyone to the back of the room. Don’t push your chairs in—leave them.” And these were the strangest moments, for Bridge, everyone standing up and walking away from their desks without the usual screech of a hundred chair legs against the floor. She stayed close to Sherm, following the pattern of his plaid shirt in the dim light. They squeezed into the line of kids that stretched across the back of the room.

“Get lower,” the teacher said in a quiet voice. “Make your bodies small.” Bridge tucked her head down. She could hear Sherm’s breathing next to her and smell the smell of his shirt. It smelled like—bread, maybe? Or pancakes?

Sherm appeared to be concentrating on his knees.

Someone started doing the shark music from
Jaws.
There was some nervous giggling. But mostly they were quiet. She knew it was only a drill, but it got a little creepy, with everyone hunched in the dark. Bridge kept her eyes on the door. Her folded legs began to ache. Every once in a while, she glanced at Sherm, being careful to keep her body still, to move only her eyes. But he seemed to feel her looking, and always raised his head a little to look back at her.

Then Sherm whispered. “Hey. What’d you have for breakfast this morning?”

She whispered back. “Breakfast?”

“Yeah. I had an egg sandwich. What’d you have?”

“Oh—cereal. And cinnamon toast.”

“I’ve never tried cinnamon toast.”

“Are you serious?”

He locked eyes with her. “I wouldn’t lie about a thing like that.”

“Do you know where they have the best cinnamon toast?” Bridge whispered. “At the Dollar-Eight Diner.”

“Yeah?” Sherm hesitated. “Want to go? To Dollar-Eight?”

“When?”

“What about next Friday? After school?”

Bridge nodded. “I think we have to. I mean, you can’t say ‘cinnamon toast’ and not want cinnamon toast. It’s like an automatic response, right?”

He smiled. “Sure.”

The PA speaker came back to life with a loud static pop that made everyone jump.

—

“He likes you, you know,” Em said after school. “That kid Sherm.”

“Don’t be nuts.”

“I’m not being nuts.”

They’d gathered outside for Em’s “emergency meeting.” Bridge was still in a bad mood from French, where all the words bounced off her, where she waited with a growing sense of doom for Madame Lawrence to point with that look on her face, like she was waiting for Bridge to stop being so stubborn and speak French already.

“So? The suspense is killing me!” Tab said to Emily. “What are you showing us?”

“This.” Em held out her phone. “Look at
this.
”

Tab and Bridge leaned over it.

It was a picture of a—

“What the heck is
that
?” Tab snatched the phone and held it close to her face.

“Do you need glasses?” Em said. “It’s a belly button.”

“That is NOT your belly button,” Tab said. “No offense, but we all know you have an outie.”

Emily grabbed for her phone, but Tab held on to it. “Let
Bridge
see it!” Em said. “And of course it isn’t my belly button. Would I call an emergency meeting to show you a picture of my belly button?” She got the phone from Tab and handed it to Bridge. “And just for the record, Tab, I happen to like my belly button. It’s awesome. You idiot.”

“So—this is Patrick’s belly button?” Bridge asked.

“Shhh!
Yes!
” Em shrieked. Then in a lower voice, “It’s Patrick’s.”

Tab made a face. “Ugh. I really wish you hadn’t shown me that. Celeste is waiting for me. I have to go to the stupid orthodontist.”

“Wait!” Em said. “You guys haven’t helped me at
all.
”

“Helped with what?”

“With the whole
picture
thing.”

“You want help erasing that ugly picture?” Tab said. “Why didn’t you say so?”

HOW TO MAKE A FIST

On her way home from school, Bridge stopped at the Bean Bar. Adrienne was behind the doughnut counter, wearing a T-shirt that said
THROW LIKE A GIRL.

“Is my dad around?” Bridge asked.

“He’s at an event.” Adrienne started jumping from side to side, fast little hops with her feet together. “One of those office-party gigs.”

“Oh.” Bridge watched Adrienne jump. Her blond hair was in a lot of messy braids that bounced, but the rest of her was small and compact. She had what Bridge’s mom called a heart-shaped face, and a chin with a tiny dimple in it.

“Have a seat,” Adrienne said, gesturing at the mostly empty tables.

Bridge sat.

“You want a doughnut, Finnegan?”

Bridge glanced around. “Um, my name’s Bridge.”

Still jumping, Adrienne nodded. “I knew a kid named Finnegan who always sat like that, on the edge of his chair, with his backpack on and everything. Like he was ready to bolt. Sometimes he’d be sitting on our couch in a winter coat all afternoon, playing video games.” She laughed. “So do you want a doughnut?” Bouncing, she pointed one hand like a gun at the doughnut tray.

“Nah.”

“Cookie? Muffin?”

“No thanks.” Bridge had never turned down a cookie from Mark, but Adrienne made her nervous.

“I have a brother too,” Adrienne said.

“What?”

“Like you. A brother. In Canada. Finnegan was his friend, actually. Not mine.”

“You grew up in Canada?”

Still jumping, Adrienne nodded and pointed at herself with both thumbs. “French Canadian.” She smiled.

“You speak French?”

“In school it was mostly English. But my dad was always making me speak French at home. I hated it.”

“You’re lucky, though. I mean, now you speak two languages, right?”

“Yeah. Three, if you count body language.” She laughed, moved her hands to her hips, and started jumping an invisible jump rope.

“Is that, like, exercise?”

“I like to move around. That’s why I’m a pretty decent boxer.”

Bridge laughed.

“What’s funny, Finnegan? I box. This place is more like a day job. You know what a day job is?”

“A job you do during the day?”

“No. A day job is a meaningless job that pays. No offense to your dad.”

Bridge didn’t know what to say to that. “I’m terrible at languages,” she blurted. “The worst.”

Adrienne smiled, still jumping. “But do you know how to throw a punch?”

“What?”

“A punch.” Adrienne punched the air, two quick jabs.

“I guess so.” Bridge’s hands clenched at her sides.

“You a righty?”

“Yeah.”

“Make a fist. Can’t throw a punch if you don’t know how to make a fist.”

Bridge made a fist and raised it in front of her. It made her think about that year of rehab after the accident: “Pick up the pen. Put it down. Walk to the door. Now come back.” She looked at her fist. She was still surprised by the lack of pain sometimes.

“What’s that?” Adrienne said. “That’s your fist?” She stopped jumping. “Come here.”

Bridge went up to the counter, and Adrienne came out from behind it to stand in front of her. “A good fist has no air in it,” Adrienne told her. “First, fold your fingers down, tips to base. Yeah. Now fold them again, toward that meat below your thumb. Right. Now tuck your thumb up to hold it all together.
Much
better.”

Bridge had never in her life thought about the right way or wrong way to make a fist, but standing there in the Bean Bar, she felt strong. She thought about the nonexistent intruder at school. She smiled and threw an air punch toward Adrienne.

“All wrong,” Adrienne said flatly. “Don’t square your body like that—put one leg back, and when you throw the punch, your weight should be shifting. Body in motion, body
always
in motion. Your other hand should be up by your face, not hanging dead at your side like that. And you want to lead with your knuckles, not the thumb. If you lead with your thumb, you’re going to do damage to no one but yourself. Let’s see it again. Yeah, better. There’s hope for you.”

Bridge dropped her arms. “Thanks.”

“You sure you don’t want a cookie, Finnegan? Or how about some of this sticky stuff over here?” She pointed.

Bridge smiled. “That’s halvah. My dad loves it.”

Adrienne looked up. “Armenian thing?”

Bridge laughed. “Yeah. Armenians like it. But so do other people.”

“I tried it the other day—it’s kind of like fudge without the chocolate.”

“It’s sesame,” Bridge said.

“Sesame! Full of protein.” Adrienne reached for the tray. “Come on, one for me and one for you.”

SHERM

October 14

Dear Nonno Gio,

I got a 102 on my math test. Mr. Fisher had me do the extra-credit problem on the board.

Nonna made the Marsala chicken tonight. Sometimes when she brings the food to the table I know we’re all thinking about you but nobody says anything. Dad gets this look on his face. Sometimes I get so mad at you I almost wish you were dead. I don’t wish that, though.

She’s still wearing those cat ears.

Sherm

P.S. Four months until your birthday.

DOLLAR-EIGHT

The waitress at the diner seemed genuinely happy to see Bridge. “Hey there, Cinnamon Toast. Little while no see!” She grabbed two menus from a stack and handed them to Sherm, winking at him. “Sit anywhere, guys. I’ll be right with you.”

Sherm was impressed. “You weren’t kidding—she really does call you Cinnamon Toast.”

Bridge smiled and slid into a booth. “Are you opposed to splitting a vanilla shake?”

Sherm said he wasn’t at all opposed to a vanilla shake.

“Good. Because a vanilla shake goes really well with cinnamon toast.”

Sherm grinned.

She kept waiting for the strangeness to arrive—being at the diner with Sherm Russo. This is strange, she told herself. They’d met in front of school and walked here together, pretending it was perfectly normal, which it wasn’t. Only it didn’t exactly feel strange, either.

Bridge had once read a story about a girl who goes on a date to a restaurant where she’s too shy to order anything but the cheapest thing on the menu, which is a cream cheese and olive sandwich.

“Have you ever had a cream cheese and olive sandwich?” she asked Sherm. Not that this was a date.

“No,” Sherm said. “Have you?”

“No.” They looked at their menus. “You can order anything you want,” Bridge said. “I have money.”

“Thanks. But we came for cinnamon toast, right?”

The waitress came back with two glasses of water. “You guys know what you want?”

“Two orders of cinnamon toast, please,” Bridge said. “And a vanilla shake in two glasses.”

The waitress smiled. “You sure you need two glasses? I could bring one glass and two straws.” She winked again.

“Two glasses,” Bridge said. “Please.”

Suddenly she worried that when the waitress walked away and she and Sherm were sitting across the table from each other with no menus between them, they would have nothing to say to each other. There would be what Jamie called awkward silence.

That was what Jamie said whenever the conversation died down at dinner: “Awkward silence.” And when their mother said, “It’s
comfortable
silence, Jamie. There’s nothing awkward about it,” Jamie would wait a beat and then say, very doubtfully, “If you say so.” Once, this routine had made Emily laugh so hard she practically snorted her dinner through her nose and had to leave the table to pull herself together in the bathroom.

“You know that riddle?” Bridge said to Sherm. “With the two brothers guarding the two doors, and one door leads to heaven and the other one leads to hell?”