Authors: Rebecca Stead
I guess that means that somewhere there’s a universe in which you never left. I wonder what you’re doing right now in that universe, whether you’re sitting here with me in the kitchen. Na is making the almond biscotti. The house smells amazing. I wonder what it smells like in your universe.
Sherm
P.S. Two months, fifteen days.
VALENTINE’S DAY
Adrienne is wrapping yesterday’s muffins. “Mr. Barsamian gives them to the soup kitchen on a Hundred and Fifteenth Street,” she says. “You know they have a real chef there? He comes in sometimes.”
You stand next to the industrial-size box of Saran Wrap, ripping off pieces and passing them to her. You still don’t feel like talking, but it feels good to be doing something.
On the counter near the muffins is a small plastic figurine, a boy with a pointy hat, purple pants, and a big swoop of yellow hair. You can’t imagine Mr. Barsamian owning such a thing.
“Is that yours?” You point.
“Yeah. It was a gift.”
“What is it?”
She picks up the plastic guy and gives him a serious look. “I’m told it’s an elf who wants to be a dentist.”
You laugh. “He’s perfect for you.”
“How so?”
“Because you’re a genius who wants to be a boxer?”
“Who said I’m a genius?”
“You finished high school a year early, right?”
“I went to summer school. I’m not a genius.” Then she smiles. “Above average, definitely.”
Gina would love that elf.
—
Adrienne stops your hand as you reach for the plastic wrap for the umpteenth muffin. “There are two banana-chocolate-chip muffins left,” she says, looking serious. “It’s possible that we should eat them. I mean, it
is
Valentine’s Day.” She squints at the window. “And I don’t see anyone rushing to bring us any candy.”
You laugh, then stop yourself. You know you shouldn’t be having fun today.
You also know she’s wondering why you’re here.
—
Gina loves the word “umpteen.” She says it’s the best word ever. “Ask me to use it in a sentence,” she’ll say. And if you do, she always says the same thing: “Let’s eat umpteen cookies.” Only Gina would have a favorite word. Gina has a favorite everything.
A man comes into the Bean Bar, walks right up to you as if you belong there, and says, “Medium coffee and a blueberry-bran. Please.”
Adrienne nods at you, and you grab a cup, pour the coffee, and point the guy to the lids and the milk. Adrienne hands him the muffin.
“Teamwork,” she says when he’s gone. She pats you on the back and hands you a banana-chocolate-chip muffin. She still doesn’t ask.
BELLS
Bridge gave a fake stretch and tried to sound casual. “Hey, Simon got called down to the office during math this morning. Do you know why?”
“No,” Sherm said, dealing the cards. “I don’t even know Simon.”
She yawned. The yawn was real: Em had texted Bridge and Tab steadily until one-thirty in the morning. Not about David Marcel, or Patrick, or the picture, but about everything else: television, her hair, music, her brother.
“That’s weird,” Bridge told Sherm, “because I asked him what’s up, and he said, ‘Ask your boyfriend.’ I mean, obviously you’re
not
my—”
“Obviously,” Sherm said.
“But he meant you.”
Obviously.
“So you don’t know what’s going on?” She looked at him. It was possible that Sherm had seen Em’s picture by now. It was even possible that Sherm had been called down to the office himself. Was that what Simon had meant?
Sherm hesitated. “No.”
Later, after knowing him a few more years, Bridge would decide that one of her favorite things about Sherm was that he was a terrible liar.
He waved his cards. “Are we playing or what? The bell’s going to ring pretty soon.”
They heard footsteps—someone was crossing the stage on the other side of the heavy curtain. After a few seconds, Tab appeared, having punched her way through. Her hair was a static mess.
“I couldn’t find the stupid opening! Bridge. Come! Em is freaking again.”
Sherm followed them out.
—
Tab led them to the girls’ bathroom on the fourth floor, where there were only a few classrooms. Sherm stopped outside, but Bridge said, “It’s okay, no one’s ever here,” and pulled him in.
Em was sitting on the floor again, her back against the sink wall, her eyes on her knees, which were pulled up tight to her body. It made Bridge think of the first intruder drill and the way her English teacher had said “Make your bodies small!” It was only now, looking at Em all curled up, that Bridge got it: smaller bodies meant smaller targets.
“The school knows.” Em’s voice was completely flat. “And guess what? David Marcel didn’t just
see
the picture. He had it on his phone. And he sent it to a bunch of people. Mr. Ramos is calling my mom tomorrow morning. He says I have tonight to tell her everything myself, if I want to.”
“Oh, Em!” Tab and Bridge went to wrap their arms around her, sitting on the floor so that they could press against her from both sides. Sherm remained standing just inside the door.
Em was still staring at her knees.
“I should probably say something now,” Sherm said.
“Say something to who?” Bridge said.
He took one step toward them, seemed to reconsider, and stopped. “I’m really sorry, Emily. I just—didn’t know what to do.”
Bridge began to tell him that he didn’t know what he was talking about.
“Wait,” Tab said. “What exactly are you sorry about, Sherman?”
His neck got red. “I’m the one who told Mr. Ramos about the picture. I had it on my phone—I mean, someone sent me a text. I just wanted it to stop.”
“You told?”
Tab yelled. “Like things weren’t bad enough? What kind of human are you?”
“I was making it
less
bad!” Sherm said. Now his face was red too. “After I talked to Mr. Ramos, everyone got called down to the office and they all had to erase the picture. Mr. Ramos told them all this scary stuff like how they could go to jail. That’s the only reason they stopped sending it all over the place!”
Em was crying now.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Bridge yelled at Sherm. “Em’s my—”
He cut her off. “I wanted to. But I wasn’t even sure you knew about it. I was trying not to tell
anyone
!”
Sherm looked at Em. “Look, I’m sorry. And I’m really sorry you have to tell your parents. But it’s better than the picture going everywhere, isn’t it? One kid had already posted it—never mind. Mr. Ramos made him take it down.”
Em began to move. Slowly, she unzipped her backpack. And then she started whipping things at Sherm—pencil case, phone, binder.
He let the pencil case hit him, but he ducked the phone and the binder.
“Get out of here!” Em shrieked. “Just get out!”
Her voice seemed to hang in the air.
Sherm dropped his head and laced his fingers behind his neck. Then he looked up, as if he wanted to say something, glanced at Bridge, and left.
Em pulled up her knees again and rested her head on them. “I wish I were dead. Right now I sincerely wish I were dead.”
“You don’t mean that.” Tab looked at Bridge, then up at the ceiling. “She doesn’t mean it.”
Em lifted her head and rolled her eyes. “It’s an
expression,
Tab. Drama, much?”
“Say it,” Tab said. “Say you don’t mean it.”
“Fine. I don’t wish I were dead.” Em actually smiled a little. “Geez, Tab.” She leaned against Tab’s shoulder. “Now I feel bad about Sherm,” Em said.
They looked at Em’s stuff, scattered across the tile floor.
“He was trying to help,” Bridge said. She’d been thinking about it. “I’m not just sticking up for him.” A big part of Bridge wanted to go find Sherm right now.
Em nodded, her head still on Tab’s shoulder. “At least those idiots don’t have my picture anymore. That’s kind of good.”
“Still,” Tab said. “This is all so
unfair.
They’re making it like you’re the one who did something terrible. But it was Patrick. And David Marcel.”
“I texted Patrick last night,” Em said. “He swears he didn’t send the picture to anyone. He says he didn’t even
show
it to anyone. Someone grabbed his phone and started looking through his photos. That’s who sent it around, as a joke or something.”
“That’s so pathetic,” Tab said. “You don’t believe him, do you?”
The bell rang, long and shrill. Longer and shriller than usual, it seemed to Bridge.
“You guys should go to class,” Em said. “I’m staying right here.”
But they didn’t go. They stayed right there too.
CUPS
“Oh God,” Em said to Bridge after last period. “My mom. You have to tell her with me. Or just—be there. You don’t have to, but will you?”
“Of course I will. She won’t even be mad, I bet. Your mom isn’t the mad type.”
Em was biting her nails. “Not mad. Upset.”
—
She was right. After Em got her story out in one long rush, her mother moved closer to Em on the edge of the couch. “Why didn’t you talk to me first?”
Em turned and looked at her. “Because I knew how stupid it was, I guess?”
“But I didn’t even know this was
happening.
Honey, I didn’t even
realize
you felt this way. About
anyone.
”
And then: “I feel so
stupid.
I know this kind of thing goes on, and I should’ve
talked
to you about it.”
And then: “Of course it’s the ‘child of divorce.’ That’s what they’ll be thinking.”
Em rolled her eyes. “Really, Mom? I doubt it.”
Em’s mom looked at Bridge. “Sweetie, can you give us five minutes? Evan’s doing his cards—I know he’d love a fresh victim.”
“Oh! Sure. Yeah.” Bridge felt her face get hot. Should she have known to leave the room? Were they both wondering why she’d sat there watching? But Em had asked her to come.
Em glanced up and said, “Sorry, Bridge. I—”
“No, it’s fine!” Bridge stood up quickly.
—
Em’s little brother, Evan, sat in his room, his tarot cards spread out in front of him on his old play table. When Bridge walked in, he looked up as if he’d been expecting her.
“Oh good!” he said. “Can you sit?”
“Sure.” Bridge took the small chair opposite his. “Haircut?” she asked. Evan’s hair was extremely short, making his big-cheeked, nine-year-old face look even rounder than usual.
Evan gathered his cards into a pile. “Yeah. The guy went overboard, Mom says, but in a couple of weeks it’ll look okay.”
“It’s nice. It—makes your eyelashes look long.” She reached out to run her hand over the bristly top of his head.
He ducked her, jumped up, and went to his bed, where he grabbed a small navy-blue blanket that was jumbled up with his stuffed animals. He shook the blanket open over the table, letting it float down like a tablecloth. “This makes it more official,” he told Bridge.
Then he sat down and laid out three cards, facedown, on the blanket. These three cards, he explained, represented her past, her present, and her future.
“I like to do present first,” he said, flipping over the middle card. “Oh, I love cups! See the guy crossing the water?” He tapped the picture with one finger. “That means change is coming.”
Evan said that this card, the eight of cups, meant she was “crossing over,” leaving something behind and moving toward something she wanted.
“Okay, but isn’t that kind of
everyone’s
present?” Bridge said. “Leaving something behind? Moving toward something new?”
“But see how the guy is walking away all alone?” Evan said. “It’s like he’s kind of sad. So it might be more like an
inner
journey.”
Bridge laughed.
Evan gave her a cloudy look. “It isn’t a joke. And we can’t really understand this card until we look at the past and the future. You have to look at them together. Okay, now let’s do the past.”
He flipped another card.
“Yikes,” Bridge said. The picture on this one was grim: a man was lying facedown on the ground with a bunch of swords sticking out of his back.
“Ten of swords.” Evan looked at it for a few seconds, almost glaring. “That doesn’t really— Oh! It’s from when you ran in front of the car!” He sounded pleased. “Now it makes sense.”
Evan brought up Bridge’s accident almost every time she saw him.
“I didn’t
run
in front of—”
He tapped the card, all confidence again. “According to this, you’re letting it hold you. Like hold you back.” He crossed his short arms over his chest, demonstrating.
“I am not.” But Bridge shivered. This was suddenly weird.
“Well, that’s what you’re crossing
away
from.”
She forced another laugh. “On my ‘inner journey,’ you mean?”
“Let’s do future,” Evan said.
Em stuck her head in. “All done,” she said. “Mom and Em: best friends again!” She gave Bridge a funny smile.
“We’re not finished,” Evan said. “You can watch, but not if you’re going to talk.”
Bridge thought Emily would come back with something snotty, but she just nodded, dragged a third little chair from next to Evan’s bookshelf, and sat down, her knees bumping the table.
Even turned the last card. “Ace of cups!” He hit the table with two fists. “Okay, this is good. It means new beginnings—like a seed has been planted, kind of, but you might not know it yet.”
“What seed?”
Evan shrugged. “Could be anything.” He gathered his cards. “But whatever you’re walking toward, it’s kind of already there. Waiting.”
Em was grinning. “Cups is the suit of
love,
Bridge.”
Evan nodded. “Em got cups too, last time.” He turned to her. “But remember, it was the two. That means shaky ground.”
“Yeah, you told me. Thanks, Evan.” Em stood up and pulled Bridge to her feet.
“Thanks, Evan,” Bridge said. “That was great. Do I owe you anything?”