The Bridge

by Rachel Lou

  “I’m positive. Is he not answering the door?”

  “I’ve rung the doorbell two times, and he hasn’t answered.”

  “Ring it again.”

  He did and pressed his ear to the door. He heard the doorbell echo, and nothing more.

  “I don’t hear anything moving inside. I think he isn’t home,” Everett said.

  “We agreed to a timeslot from ten to one. He confirmed it last night.”

  “That doesn’t change the fact that he’s not here. Does he have a habit of flaking out?”

  Everett expected more from such a powerful and famous witch. He walked the perimeter of the house. What were the chances Omar was tending to his backyard? He peeked into the gaps of the wooden fence around the house. A wooden backyard dining set sat under a closed umbrella. Cobwebs connected the benches to the table. Tiny bushes ran along the perimeter of the backyard, a patchy green.

  “He’s not in the backyard either,” Everett said, still poking around the gaps in case Omar was squatting somewhere hard to see.

  “He’s a party animal, but he’s not flaky,” his grandfather said.

  “I don’t think he’s here. If he is, he’s not going to answer the door.”

  His grandfather mumbled profanities. He’d have to close the shop, and they’d lose early Saturday business. Everett should have driven himself here. Omar’s house had been on the way to the shop, so Everett had carpooled to save gas.

  “I’ll pick you up. Stay in front of the house and don’t draw too much attention to yourself. Your aura has become very noticeable.”

  His grandfather hadn’t explained why Everett’s aura needed to be concealed. He had never heard of witches hiding their auras. There wasn’t a need. Witch auras were very similar to human auras—to anyone who wasn’t a witch. It took a witch to know a witch.

  Everett exposed all paranormal residues in a fifty-foot perimeter from the house. Nothing appeared.

  His phone rang. His heart leapt at the caller ID.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, hey, hey!” Bryce sang. “Are you free today?”

  “I think. Why?”

  “Ann has time to talk with your gramps about lessons, if you haven’t discussed it yet.”

  Everett rubbed the stress line between his eyebrows. “I don’t think I’ll have time to do lessons. I’m… moving.”

  “Moving,” Bryce deadpanned. “You’re moving.”

  “Not far. Just from Ashville to Sundale.”

  Bryce exhaled a long breath. “Can’t you commute from Sundale?”

  Everett should have been bothered by Bryce’s persistence. Instead, he found it endearing.

  “I try not to drive. Gas is too expensive to waste.”

  “I could pick you up.”

  For every class? “I don’t want to burden you.”

  Bryce sighed. “Is there no way to convince you?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right. I’m free after three tomorrow, so if you want to hang out, come visit the dojang.” Bryce hung up.

  Everett watched his phone darken after the call. He sighed at his reflection in the tiny screen.

  HIS GRANDFATHER pulled up along the curb. Everett threw his bag in the backseat and dropped into the passenger seat, nearly clipping his head on the doorframe.

  “I called Omar and the call went straight to voicemail. Wherever he is, he doesn’t want to be bothered,” his grandfather said, pulling onto the road as Everett buckled his seat belt.

  “Does this mean there’s no lesson tomorrow?”

  His grandfather cursed. “We’ll come back tomorrow. If he isn’t here, I’ll speak with the Order.”

  “What are we going to do about my aura?”

  “I’ll teach you how to conceal when we get home. First, we’re taking a detour to the Four Wings Martial Arts School. I got an interesting call from the master instructor. She’s offering you a scholarship.”

  “Huh?” How had they gotten his grandfather’s number?

  “One of her students noticed that you sat in on several classes and figured you were interested. He convinced the master instructor to give you a scholarship.”

  Bryce convinced Ann?

  “What’s with that smile and blush?” his grandfather asked.

  Everett looked out the window and fought the corners of his smile. “Nothing.”

  “Is that student the one you used spells on?”

  “I used spells on multiple students.”

  “But this one you’re interested in.” His grandfather chuckled. “Your pale skin is a curse. It highlights every blush.”

  Everett’s blush deepened.

  “Is this student the one who drove you home after you fainted?”

  “Not saying.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Not saying.”

  Chapter 10

  THE FIRST class was scheduled to start in a little less than thirty minutes. The building was empty, save for Ann who was typing on the computer in her office.

  The office was a small, square room, professionally furnished with a polished wooden desk, cushioned chairs, file cabinets, a wide-screened computer monitor, and no personal items. No family portraits or trinkets on the desk. No décor. The office could have belonged to anyone.

  Everett and his grandfather sat on the cushioned chairs in front of the desk.

  “We can manage fifty dollars a month,” his grandfather said.

  “It’s still too much.” Everett hated to use money that could be saved for food or gas or bills. They weren’t groveling on the floor for money, but with his upcoming classes at Greenford, money had become scarce.

  “Fifty dollars isn’t much. Compared to the usual price of a hundred sixty, it’s a bargain,” Ann said.

  “We’ll still be saving money when we move to the shop,” his grandfather said.

  Everett hadn’t thought his grandfather would be accepting of the classes. He did want the classes, wanted to get closer to the dojang—and Bryce—but he didn’t want to cost his grandfather. He felt enough guilt forcing them to abandon his parents’ home and move to the shop. Even if private lessons opened a window in his investigation, he could find another way. He could visit a small-group session or a private lesson if he was allowed. He didn’t have to spend fifty dollars for this.

  “How does forty feel?” Ann asked.

  Now Everett felt guilt for robbing the dojang of its profits.

  “I wouldn’t want to lower your revenue,” Everett murmured.

  What would it take to decline the classes and go home? The shop was still closed. Everett could imagine the potential customers standing before its glass doors, staring at the “Will Return” paper clock taped to the surface.

  “You’re very considerate, as Bryce said. It’s a very admirable trait in martial arts,” Ann said.

  Martial arts and consideration? Everett saw no connection, and he didn’t want to.

  “I honestly don’t think I’d be very good at martial arts. I don’t have the black-belt mindset mentioned in your student creed—” Ann smiled at the reference, leaning forward as if she had something to say about the creed. “—and I don’t have the body to train.”

  “You’re considerate, but not with yourself. You lack self-confidence, and we can help with that.”

  “I don’t—”

  Someone jogged to the office. “Hey, Kwang—Everett? I thought you said you weren’t coming.”

  Bryce leaned against the doorframe, dressed in his uniform pants and a tight white T-shirt.

  Everett tried not to stare at Bryce’s muscled arms. “I didn’t think I would, but Kwang Jang-nim called my grandfather.”

  “I’ll sign him up.” His grandfather gestured for Ann to hand over the paperwork.

  “What?” Everett said.

  “Excellent.” Ann slid the signup sheets and a pen across the table.

  Bryce’s face lit up with a wide smile. “Christmas came early.”
<
br />   Everett gaped as his grandfather palmed the sheets and pen. “But—”

  “Forty dollars is nothing, and I think martial arts is an excellent character builder,” his grandfather said, smiling as he straightened the papers in front of him.

  “It certainly is. Look at me. I have great character,” Bryce said. He flexed an arm muscle, and Everett’s mouth dried in a second.

  Ann chuckled. “You certainly do.”

  Defeated, Everett slouched in his chair. He watched his grandfather scan over the fine print and whip signatures on the paperwork.

  His grandfather made him fill out the emergency and medical forms. His numb hands trembled as he filled the sheets from top to bottom.

  Bryce watched from the doorway. “Hey, Everett, did you bring salt with you again?”

  Everett’s grandfather paused in midsignature.

  “I did. Why?”

  “I have unsalted pretzels in my car.”

  “The salt won’t stick to the pretzels,” Everett’s grandfather said.

  “I have Nutella as glue.”

  “It’s in a fabric bag, not plastic anymore. It’s dirty. I don’t think you’d want to eat it,” Everett said.

  His grandfather warned him with a stern look.

  He couldn’t imagine how much trouble he’d be in if his grandfather knew about the information he had already slipped to Bryce.

  “For the experiment?” Bryce came into the office and sat on the corner of Ann’s desk, close enough to make Everett’s heart beat harder.

  “Experiment?” Everett’s grandfather repeated. “I haven’t heard of any experiments you were conducting.”

  “He didn’t tell me either. Apparently I’ll think he’s crazy or something.” Bryce said, having no idea of the line Everett was balanced on.

  “Crazy?” Everett’s grandfather smiled.

  “It’s nothing.” Everett looked at Bryce and tried to convey a message through his eyes.

  Bryce shifted his jaw and made a slight nod. “Whatever you say. So, what lessons are you taking? Private or group?”

  “It is forty dollars either way,” Ann said, “so you may as well take private lessons.”

  “Private will suit you much better,” Everett’s grandfather said.

  “I also teach private lessons sometimes, so….” Bryce shrugged, smiling devilishly.

  Everett struggled to moisten his mouth without looking like he had oral problems. “Oh? What days?”

  “It doesn’t matter. If Kwang Jang-nim lets me, I’ll teach all your lessons. I’m pretty good with kids my age since, you know, I am a kid myself.”

  Ann swatted Bryce off the desk with a rolled newspaper. “Bryce is an assistant instructor. He’ll be promoted to an actual instructor when he turns twenty-one, but for now he’s limited to assisting and hosting private lessons. He has a year of private-lesson experience, but if you want someone more qualified, you can train with Antonio.”

  Bryce made an X with his arms and pretended to cut his throat with the top V. “You don’t want Antonio. He leads the boot camps. That should tell you enough.”

  “He’s the head master of the dojang. Very experienced and smart with his technique. You’ll learn more from him than from Bryce,” Ann said.

  Bryce leaned on the desk and gestured to Ann. “She didn’t deny it. She agrees Antonio is harsh.”

  Ann didn’t respond with anything more than a sigh.

  Everett’s grandfather finished filling the info sheets and slid them to Ann with finality. “Who do you want?” he asked Everett.

  There was no question about it. “I’d feel more comfortable with Bryce. Antonio would scare me silly.”

  “Excellent choice. You should read my online reviews. I’m really good.” Bryce shook Everett’s hand.

  Bryce’s knuckles were bruised and scabbed, as if he had taken bare fists to a punching bag. Everett brushed his thumb on one scab. It was thin and fresh.

  “I have dry hands,” Bryce said.

  Everett could see though the lie. Bryce had the hands you found on someone who was extremely hands-on and took care of their skin. His hands were rough, but moisturized. Those scabs weren’t from dry skin.

  Bryce gently pulled his hand back. He smiled, but it wasn’t confident. He rubbed his knuckles, watching Everett with uncertain eyes.

  “When do you want to start?” Ann asked.

  “He’s free all weekdays, and after three on weekends,” Everett’s grandfather said.

  “Private lessons are five to seven on weekdays and three to eight on weekends. Choose any time you like. Bryce is free for them all.”

  “Is there a limit?” Everett asked.

  “Only with space reservation. Our policy is first come, first serve. Make sure you schedule a free time on the online calendar.” Ann pointed at the link on an informational sheet. “Your login is your student ID and last name. We can have two private lessons at a time, so feel free to sign up if someone is already signed on.”

  “Try not to sign when Antonio’s there. He might borrow you as a practice target for his student,” Bryce said.

  “Bryce and Antonio aren’t on the best terms,” Ann said, as if that explained everything.

  “What are you talking about? We’re best friends with a great rivalry.”

  The dojang’s doors opened and voices drifted into the office.

  “I’ll greet ’em. Call me later.” Bryce slipped a hand under Everett’s bangs and brushed them over his head.

  Everett fixed his hair and blushed under his grandfather’s scrutiny.

  “HOW CLOSE are you to Bryce?” Everett’s grandfather asked during the drive home.

  “I don’t really know him.”

  “How much does he know about you?”

  The atmosphere shifted in seconds. The air was tense, and it tightened Everett’s breaths.

  “He doesn’t know I’m a witch,” Everett said, trying to keep his bitterness low.

  “He knows you carry salt with you. He knows you do ‘experiments.’ He knows you want to keep these ‘experiments’ to yourself because they’d make you sound crazy.”

  Bryce also knew he was moving to Sundale, but that didn’t scream anything about Everett’s nature. Maybe Everett really was a crazy teenager who loved salt and experiments with salt. Nobody knew witches used salt for focuses anyway. Everyone believed they used caldrons, wands, broomsticks, pointed hats…. If Bryce suspected anything paranormal of Everett, it would be hunting creatures.

  “That’s hardly enough to even hint that I’m a witch. If anything, he thinks I’m weird.”

  “One secret will lead to another.”

  Everett hissed and shifted his attention to the houses they passed. “Then why did you let me take private lessons with him? If you don’t have faith in my secrecy, why didn’t you stop me?”

  His grandfather lowered his voice to a resigned murmur. “You need time to be a teenager.”

  “I may not be a regular teenager, but that doesn’t mean I’m missing out on anything.”

  Normalcy was foreign to him. He was the son of two witches, the grandson of four witches, and the great-grandson of eight witches. He had been guaranteed a life of witching the moment he was born.

  He didn’t have a stolen childhood to cry over. His childhood hadn’t been normal, even in comparison to other witch children, but it existed.

  “You need to experience life as a normal teen,” his grandfather said.

  “That’s ironic,” he couldn’t help but say because private lessons with Bryce gave him an opening to further investigate the dojang’s paranormal haunting. “Normal teens don’t take private lessons with their crushes.”

  His grandfather chuckled. “You admit he’s your crush.”

  He had only mentioned that to get his grandfather on another topic.

  “Do you approve of him?”

  “He carries himself with absolute confidence. He reminds me of two boys I knew in college. Both confident, bot
h loud, both charming. Women loved them. But one used his charm to manipulate people. The other was an angel. He used his charm for nothing. I hope your Bryce is the angel.”

  Everett ran a finger over the wings on the folder. “I hope so too.”

  BACK HOME, Everett’s grandfather tried to contact Omar and received no answer.

  Everett curled with a blanket on the couch and read a book he had picked up from a “Free Book” stand on the way home.

  “Call the Order,” Everett said.

  “I’ll call tomorrow, after Omar flakes again.” His grandfather dialed Omar’s number again.

  “He’s going to have a dozen missed calls tonight if you don’t stop.”

  “The longer we postpone your lessons, the more danger we put you in.”

  He slapped his book shut. His grandfather’s visible unease with Omar’s absence made it difficult to follow the plot.

  “Omar is a regular witch, right? If a regular witch can teach me how to be a Bridge Master, why can’t you?”

  “Some witches are better suited for instructing, but I’d like to teach you aura concealing. It’s a Bridge Master’s first safety measure. Come here.”

  “Should I get my salt?”

  “You need to learn independence from focuses, but your safety is vital, so go ahead.”

  He grabbed his bag from his room before joining his grandfather at the chess table.

  “Aura blocking is vital for Bridge Masters. Your aura acts as a tracking device for normal witches and paranormal creatures. Some view it as a balance of power. The weak can track the strong, but the strong can’t track the weak.”

  It was almost funny how much weaker Everett was in comparison to normal witches. They surpassed him by miles.

  “If someone tries to expose my aura, will anything show?”

  His grandfather opened the salt bag. “No, but it is safer than being tracked 24-7.” Any living thing without an aura was begging for examination. “Now, put your hand inside. What do you think you should visualize in order to block your aura?”

  “A wall?”

  “Try it. There is no correct answer, but some visualizations will work better than others. Let me know when you’re ready to test your block.”