Authors: Rebecca Stead
“Hey, you,” Patrick said to Em. He stopped and held up one clenched hand for a fist bump, which Em executed flawlessly.
Tab rolled her eyes.
“Hey,” he said to Bridge, smiling.
“Hey,” Bridge said. Patrick was only one grade above them, but something about him was older, as if he’d crossed a line Bridge couldn’t even see yet.
“Hi, Patrick,” Tab said in a cartoon-girl voice, making every syllable twice as long as it should have been. “Nice doorknob.”
He pretended not to hear. Julie Hopper yelled from the front of the store, “Patrick! Be my cash machine? I only have two bucks.”
“Um, sure!” Patrick followed the rest of his crowd up to the register.
Em turned on Tab. “What did you do that for?”
“Just making conversation. Geez. You’re bright red.”
“That was seriously stupid, Tab. Now he knows I’ve been talking about his pictures.”
“Sorry! It was a joke!” Tab smiled.
Em stared at her. “How do you not see how rude you just were?”
“I said sorry.” Tab shrugged. “I didn’t realize he meant that much to you.”
“You don’t sound sorry.”
“Em, I really am sorry. Okay? Anyway, no fighting allowed. Remember?”
Emily zipped her sweatshirt up to her chin. “I have to go to soccer practice. Do we have a decision about Halloween?”
“A decision? We’re still brainstorming!” Tab said.
“What about superheroes?” Bridge said.
“Superheroes?” Em looked doubtful.
“Yeah, you know, like Batgirl, Catgirl—”
“Notice how the male superheroes are all ‘this-man’ and ‘that-man’? And the females are all ‘girls’? Super
man,
Super
girl.
Bat
man,
Bat
girl.
”
“There’s Wonder Woman,” Bridge said.
“Okay,” Tab said. “I’ll be Wonder Woman. She has a cape, right? I love capes!” She started zooming around with her arms stuck out in front of her.
“Okay,” Em said. “You’re Wonder Woman. Obviously Bridge will be Catgirl. So I’ll be Batgirl.”
“Why is that obvious?” Bridge asked.
“Are you kidding?” Em pointed at Bridge’s head. “It’ll be the one day of the year that those ears aren’t completely random.”
Tab stopped zooming. “They are just a tiny bit random, Bridge.”
“They don’t feel random to me.”
“What do they feel like to you?” Em asked. “Why are you wearing them? Every. Single. Day.”
“Because I want to? They feel like me.”
Tab and Emily looked at each other. “They’re cat ears,” Em said. “Do you feel like a cat?”
“No,” Bridge said.
“Guys,” Tab said. “Let’s put a pin in this.” Tab had been saying that lately. As if you could really take a moment, stick a pin in it, and save it for later.
Tab turned to Bridge. “You coming over to do French?”
“Yeah,” Bridge said.
“Anyway,” Tab said as they walked to the register together, “there are
four
Teletubbies.”
MOON HUNTING
“You guys want soup?” Celeste stuck her head into the living room, where Bridge and Tab had done what felt like hours of French.
“Mom called,” Celeste said to Tab. “She’s on her way home, but remember, dinner’s gonna be late.”
“Oh yeah,” Tab said. “Poor Mom.”
“Why?” Bridge said.
“Today is Karva Chauth,” Celeste said. “Good Hindu women fast all day to show their devotion to their husbands.”
“For real?” Bridge asked.
“For real,” Tab said. “It brings luck, they say. They can’t eat or drink or anything, not even water, which is a little crazy if you ask me.”
“Until they glimpse the moon,” Celeste said. “I think it’s kind of romantic.”
“Romantic to starve yourself all day?” Tab asked. “And is there a day when the husbands fast for their wives? No, of course not!”
“Oy, the big feminist,” Celeste said. “It’s getting old, Tab. So—two soups?”
“Two soups,” Bridge said. “Thanks.”
Ten minutes later, Celeste brought out a tray with three bowls of tomato rice soup and a plate of saltines. “There’s one Karva Chauth story about this young queen,” she said, crossing her legs on the couch. “She fasts to bring her new husband good luck, and by the end of the day she’s really thirsty and weak with hunger but the moon isn’t up yet, and her seven brothers can’t stand to watch her suffer anymore—”
“So they trick her,” Tab said.
“I’m telling it, Tab! So they trick her. They put a mirror up in a tree and pretend it’s the moon. She sees it shining through the branches. So she eats.”
“And then—
BOOM
—her husband drops dead!” Tab clapped once, on the
boom.
“I said I’m telling it! He doesn’t die, Tab, he gets really sick. And then she feels terrible, she’s a mess. She takes care of him for a year and then this god feels sorry for her and makes him better.”
“I heard he died,” Tab said. “And the queen takes care of his dead body for a year. And that’s when the god feels sorry for her. So the god brings him back to life.”
“Girls!” Tab’s mom stood in the doorway in her socks, holding her briefcase. She looked at Bridge. “That’s only one story—there are others. Less gruesome ones.”
Celeste popped a whole cracker into her mouth. “Yeah, Ma, but this is the only one I can ever remember.”
Mrs. Patel put her briefcase on the floor and bent to massage one stockinged foot. “Part of what Karva Chauth celebrates is friendship. Between women. And the smell of that soup is driving me crazy. A bit of sensitivity, please!”
“Sorry!” They all put their hands flat over their bowls.
“When Daddy gets here we’ll go look for the moon. Bridge, do you want a lift home?”
“Sure,” Bridge said. “That’d be great.”
“I’ll come too!” Tab said. “I love moon hunting.”
—
Half an hour later, they trailed down the block after Tab’s parents, who walked arm in arm to their car. Tab’s father carried a plate covered with foil. It had been one of those weird chilly days that gets warmer as it goes on, and it was now just a tiny bit cool out.
“Your parents are really in love, aren’t they?” Bridge asked Tab.
“I guess so,” Tab said. “Sure.”
“It’s nice.”
Tab looked at her. “Well, yours are too, right?”
“Sure. But you know that stuff Emily said last year, about her parents and the nine thousand things? It doesn’t seem like that could happen to your parents.”
“You think it could happen to yours?”
“I guess not. I don’t know.” She was thinking of Sherm’s grandparents. How many of the nine thousand things could be waiting to surprise you after fifty years?
“Well, nobody
knows,
” Tab said.
—
The car was small and the backseat smelled like nail polish remover. Tab’s father put the plate down carefully between the two front seats. Bridge and Tab each took a window so they could look out for the moon.
“High ground or low buildings,” Tab’s mother said firmly. “That’s what we need.”
Her father turned the key in the ignition. “I know a place.”
They drove with the windows open, stopping for lights, making slow turns, until Tab’s father said “There!” and Bridge leaned out her window and saw the moon, a pale white sliver.
They pulled into an empty spot next to a fire hydrant. They were on a narrow street of low brownstones, with the moon sitting just above them. Bridge felt quiet pour into the car through the open windows, along with the smell of a fire from someone’s backyard.
Tab looked at Bridge and scrunched up her nose. “I smell burnt marshmallows,” she whispered.
Bridge inhaled, then smiled. “I love that smell.” She heard laughter through the window of the nearest brownstone, and what sounded like a metal spoon scraping a pot, getting the last little bit from the bottom.
Tab’s father looked at her mom. “Ready?” He picked up the plate and carefully began to take the foil off.
“Wait!” Tab’s mom grabbed her purse from between her feet, unzipped it, and pulled out a small metal sieve. She held the sieve up to her face and looked at the moon through it. Then, with the sieve still to her eye, she turned and looked at Tab’s father. She spoke a few words to him in French.
He answered her in French. Then he leaned over, pulled her hand down from her face, kissed her quickly, and held a water bottle out to her. She drank. And drank. And drank. Then she took a deep breath and said, “Food!”
Bridge and Tab were silent while he fed her with his fingers—a piece of bread and then a piece of meat from the foil-covered plate. Darkness was falling quickly, and their faces blurred into silhouette.
After a minute, Tab’s mom took the plate from her father. “These poor girls,” she said between bites of food, “are probably bored to death.”
As they pulled away into the street, Bridge inhaled again, filling herself with the scent of burnt marshmallow. She put her head close to Tab’s and whispered, “That was intense.”
“I know!” Tab’s voice was loud, and it broke the spell that had been cast over all of them. Her parents started talking about regular things, their days at work.
“It didn’t seem sexist, really,” Bridge told Tab a minute later. “It just seemed nice.”
For once, Tab said nothing. She just smiled into the dark.
VALENTINE’S DAY
The Bean Bar is hot lava: Mr. Barsamian totally knows you—and your parents.
But he would definitely let you have a bagel if you said you forgot your money. Maybe even one of those mango smoothies. You could always tell him it’s a half day at your high school. Jamie goes to one of those competitive schools that are an hour away by subway, so he would have no way of knowing that you’re lying.
You peek through the window. No Mr. Barsamian.
Instead, there’s that blonde with the dreadlocks behind the register. She’s been around for a few months, but you don’t really know her because you don’t come to the Bean Bar as much as you did in middle school. You walk in.
When you start telling the blonde about how you have no money but you’re kind of a friend of the family, she smiles.
“Friend of the family. You know, I hear that a lot.”
“Really?” You aren’t sure what she means.
“Really.” Those dreads are kind of fierce. Her T-shirt has a picture of two boxing gloves on it.
She puts her fists on her hips. “You realize this is a business, right?”
Oh. “Yes, I totally get that, and I’m going to pay. I could bring the money tomorrow.”
She looks at you, dubious.
“Or even later today.” You glance at a middle-aged woman in a red wool hat who’s sitting at the closest table, definitely within earshot. This is embarrassing. “I could bring the money today,” you tell the blonde.
“Excuse me. Are you all right?” The woman in the red hat is looking at you like she can see your brain and read everything in it.
You turn to her. “I’m fine.” But your voice is suddenly bubbling with wetness. Anyone who knows you would know you’re not all right.
“How old are you?”
“Fourteen.”
Why did you say fourteen? You should have said seventeen. The guy at the copy shop thought you were in college. “It’s a half day,” you add, which just makes you sound stupid.
Her forehead wrinkles up. “And you’re hungry? You have no money?”
You clear your throat, pull yourself together. “Actually, my friend is meeting me here.” You throw your shoulders back. “She has money.”
“Oh.” Her eyes sweep over you, up and down, taking in clothes, shoes, nail polish, the turquoise bracelets that you and Gina bought one Saturday.
“All right,” she says, suddenly smiling. “Just checking.” And she leaves.
You turn back to the blonde behind the register. You’ve now told two different stories:
I can pay tomorrow
and
I’m waiting for my friend with money.
She raises an eyebrow at you.
You give the door an impatient look, as if you wish your nonexistent friend would hurry up and get here.
“Aw, I’m just messing with you,” the blonde says. “What can I get you? You ever try this halvah? It’s Armenian. Full of protein.”
—
Five minutes later, you’re at a corner table with a toasted bagel. You could probably sit here all day, just a few blocks from home, and no one would know where to find you. You look out the window and sip your water.
You didn’t have the nerve to ask for the smoothie.
Sometimes your body feels like a cage for all the stuff inside. You paint your nails, braid your hair, and buy the right kind of jeans, but none of it is really about you. That guy with the spiky hair at the copy shop looked like one kind of person, but he could have been anyone. And Vinny still looks like Vinny, the same girl who carefully wrapped bags of M&M’s at her kitchen table while her grandmother sweated in front of the television and you floated in a lake in New Hampshire. She’s the same person who ran to your apartment when she was eleven with a filthy kitten shoved down the front of her coat, begging you to take it. She’d found it trembling under a car on 105th Street and spent an hour coaxing it out.
“Why don’t you take him to your house?” you’d said while it lurched around on your kitchen floor.
“She’s a girl, dummy.” Vinny got milk out of your fridge and poured some into a dish. “You have to take her. Please! You know my dad doesn’t do animals. I’m afraid they’ll kill her at the shelter if no one wants her.”
“What if my parents say no?”
“They won’t.”
An hour later, your dad came home with your sister to find you alone, crying over the kitten, whose belly had swollen to the size of a kickball. He called a vet and you rushed over together in a cab. She had worms and ear mites. And she was allergic to milk. But Vinny was right—your parents let you keep her.
You can see Vinny now, in homeroom, smiling as the Valentine’s Day flowers are handed out. She always gets a bunch of them; she’s still Snow White with a tan and a strut. But you don’t know what’s inside anymore.
FREEBIE
“This is blackmail!” Jamie shouted from the living room couch. “Blackmail!”