The Boy on the Bridge

by Sam Mariano

  I drop the bag in my lap and reach for the wallet he bought to go with it. I run my fingers over the soft calfskin, then open it up.

  Hunter said he put some cash inside for me, but I didn’t check to see how much. Now I finger through the bills and see he provided me with $200—which is about $182 more than I had in my old wallet.

  I take the money out and set it on my bed. I shouldn’t keep it, but I’m tempted to give it to my mom and tell her to put it towards bills this month. We’re always on such a tight budget, I’m sure it would take some of the stress off her shoulders.

  I shouldn’t keep any of his presents, though. That’ll only make him think they’re working.

  The phone vibrates on my bed. Another new number.

  “Had to see if I was bluffing, huh?” he asks.

  I sigh and pick up the phone. “No. I know you don’t bluff.”

  He only lets a few seconds pass before texting back, “What are you up to tonight?”

  “Studying. Fighting with my mom. Worrying about Sara’s slight tendency toward stalking. You guys have a lot in common, you should hang out sometime.”

  “I’m too hot to stalk someone. When I do it, it’s called courting,” he tells me.

  I groan out loud, but it’s mixed with laughter. I can’t keep a stupid smile off my face as I text him back. “Oh my god. I’m blocking this number now.”

  I say it, but I don’t actually do it this time. I should—and I will—but I suppose there’s no harm in waiting another minute to see what he says.

  Hunter responds with, “What are you and your mom fighting about?”

  You.

  I sigh heavily looking at the screen, but I don’t type back a response.

  I don’t want to tell him that, but some part of me does want to talk to him, and that’s worrying.

  I can’t let him off the hook this time.

  It doesn’t matter if he’s smart and funny and perfect in so many ways. He’s also mean and vengeful and too cocky for his own good.

  Most importantly, apparently… he’s Valerie’s.

  That reminder causes my stomach to sink. The gnawing feeling comes back. I didn’t even realize it had dissipated while Hunter was distracting me.

  I can’t let him do that.

  He’s a temptation I’ve always had trouble resisting, but I’ve never had as much motivation as I do now. I have to be strong.

  Even though I don’t entirely want to, I block the number.

  I feel sad this time when I drop my phone on the bed.

  I don’t look through my purse or go back to studying. I don’t text back Anderson or even Sara.

  I wait, because deep down, I wonder if I’ll get another text from another unknown number.

  I don’t.

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Riley

  A few days pass without incident.

  There’s still the usual culture of hostility toward me at school, just nothing new.

  Hunter texts me from another new number Wednesday night, but I block it without responding.

  On Thursday, I stay after school for the newspaper meeting. I’m one of the first ones there.

  I’m hopeful that the newspaper will be something of a haven for me this year since the newspaper staff tends not to be populated with jocks or the jock-obsessed. There are some people in this room so far down the social food chain, they probably don’t even know about the post-game jock parties, let alone know a breakdown of what happened at one last week.

  It’s a relief to be in a room full of people who don’t know about the state of—or care about—my virginity.

  I’m also happy when a few new faces wander in. I didn’t mind doing extra work while we waited for our skeleton crew to fill out, but pulling triple duty throughout the school year would have probably been pretty tiring.

  I glance up at the clock as the faculty advisor walks in front of the empty whiteboard and welcomes us to a new year of the school paper. Before he can say more than that, the door opens and one more student wanders in from the hall.

  My soul leaves my body as Hunter Maxwell nods at Mr. Lohman and starts walking toward me.

  I can only stare, my brain unable to fully process his presence here. He drops onto the chair beside mine—without turning it around, maybe a first for him—and shoots me a winning smile.

  “Hey, Bishop. Fancy seeing you here.”

  “What are you doing here?” I ask carefully, praying for an answer that isn’t the obvious one.

  “You didn’t see my name on the new recruits list? I’m gonna be the Clark Kent to your Lois Lane this year. Get excited.”

  “There are too few ways to say no to this.” I stare at him. “You can’t be here. This is… You don’t care about the school paper. Jocks don’t write articles. What the hell, Hunter? This is mine. Every other area of the school is yours, but the paper and the library, those are supposed to be my safe spots.”

  “Jocks don’t write articles, she says.” Hunter shakes his head. “A little narrow-minded, isn’t it? Not like you.”

  “I don’t want you here,” I say more honestly. “I want to do good work this year. I need to be able to focus and think in this environment.”

  Hunter cocks his head, looking mighty pleased with himself. “You can’t focus or think when I’m around? That must be frustrating for you.”

  I look away from him, training my gaze back on the front of the class.

  I am not happy about this. The school paper needed writers, yes, and Hunter is smart so maybe he can write, but…

  This is just one more time I have to see him every week. Not only that, I can’t freeze him out here. It would be childish. It would make everyone’s job harder. I have to interact with him in this setting, to do anything else would be unprofessional.

  Fuck.

  He found a loophole.

  Leaning over, he whispers in my ear, “See, you should’ve just unblocked my number.”

  I press my lips together in a grim line.

  Yes. Yes, I should have.

  “All right, everybody. So, as you can see, we have some new talent this year. Stanley, Grace, Ria, Hunter, welcome aboard.”

  I sigh unhappily, flipping my notebook cover over, then I grab my pen so I’m ready to work despite the worst distraction in the world sitting beside me.

  “We put out an issue every two weeks,” Mr. Lohman explains for the newbies. “Our existing crew from last year has been hard at work writing extra articles and pulling double duty so our first issue would be ready to go for us. Stellar work, guys.”

  He pauses to look around the room. I offer a wan smile and nod when his gaze lingers on me, since I did the most extra work.

  “The only thing we weren’t sure about coming into this meeting was what we wanted to put above the fold. Obviously, we wanted something special for our first issue back. We had a lot of great content, but nothing that really felt like the hook we needed.” Bizarrely, he gestures to my table. My stomach drops. I don’t think I wrote anything worthy of going above the fold, why is he looking…?

  He’s not looking at me.

  Mr. Lohman smiles. “That is, until one of our new recruits pitched me the story about his summer in Italy. Hunter just transferred back home to Lexington after studying abroad for several years—pretty exciting in and of itself—but his article is really great, too. We have some photo options—turns out Mr. Maxwell has quite an eye for photography—so we’ll go over those today and pick out the best shot to accompany his piece.”

  Slowly, I turn my head to shoot a look of utter disbelief at the golden boy as he offers Mr. Lohman a smile that might fool a person into believing he’s humble.

  His first ever article is going to be an above the fold piece? Seriously?

  “Mr. Maxwell has also very generously offered to sponsor an extended printing of our first issue back since demand for this one might be a little greater. He has some great ideas to expand our readership, so we’re re
ally going to hit the ground running this year.” Mr. Lohman looks at Hunter. “I believe you said you had something to pass out, too, didn’t you?”

  “I sure do.” Hunter grabs his gym bag and draws out a box, then he puts it back down.

  More gifts?

  Everyone is looking over here, eager to see what he’s brought.

  He dumps out the box and spreads out a bunch of black, moleskin notebooks. He grabs the first one and passes it to me. It’s personalized, with the logo for the paper emblazoned across the front cover.

  “I figured if we’re gonna be reporters, we need official press notebooks to record all our ideas in, right? Come and get ’em,” he says, indicating the spread.

  Chairs scrape the floor as everyone comes over to grab a notebook.

  Among his friends, this would be a real flop, but watching the faces of all the other writers who—like me—enjoy back-to-school shopping and get excited over things like great pens and stationery, the notebooks are a hit.

  Ria grins as she grabs hers, shyly looking up at him. “I love notebooks. These are so cool. Thank you, Hunter.”

  I watch her blush when he winks at her and try to ignore the ridiculous churning in my gut.

  Once all the notebooks have been claimed, I whisper, “You don’t like school supplies. How did you even think of this?”

  He leans over and whispers back, “I just thought, ‘what would Riley get a kick out of?’ and then I applied it to the rest of the nerd population.”

  I wrinkle up my nose at him, but I can’t even deny it.

  I love the stupid notebook.

  ___

  Friday marks the end of another week, and I am so grateful.

  Anderson has an away game tonight, so I don’t have to go.

  I manage to escape Mrs. Dowd’s class without even speaking to Hunter, so by the time lunch rolls around, today is feeling like a win.

  “So then she asked me if she could copy my homework,” Sara says, eyes wide as she relays the details of the interaction she had with one of Valerie’s goons in her class before lunch. “Can you believe that? Can I copy your homework?” she asks, her tone mocking. “The nerve.”

  I shake my head as I peel back the foil lid of the applesauce I brought in my packed lunch. “The absolute nerve.”

  Sara shakes her head as she picks up the spork she got from the lunch line and prepares to dig into her macaroni and cheese. “Just because she had more important things to do than her homework, I’m supposed to hand mine over. The entitlement of that whole crowd, I swear.”

  I nod in agreement, but movement behind Sara snags my attention and I forget to speak.

  Valerie Johnson is looking straight at me and walking in this direction.

  Uh oh.

  “Incoming,” I say quickly, to give Sara at least a slight heads-up.

  Sara’s gaze jumps to mine. “Hm?”

  I don’t have time to answer.

  Valerie stops behind Sara, her hateful gaze on me, but she doesn’t say a word.

  I put down my spoon, applesauce forgotten. “Is there something we can help you with?”

  Sara looks up, her face losing a shade of color when she sees Valerie standing at our table.

  “It seems like I’m lost, doesn’t it?” Valerie says. “Over here at the reject table with people who barely even exist. I can understand your confusion.”

  “I am confused,” I tell her, nodding, “but I think it’s the noxious cloud of perfume that follows you around everywhere. Do you naturally smell really bad, or…?”

  Valerie’s eyes narrow, a snide little smile tugging at her lips. “You’re the one that left a smell in my bedroom after you spread your legs, you nasty slut.”

  I grimace in feigned sympathy. “Do you mean to keep reminding people I fucked your boyfriend? Seems like the kind of thing you’d want everyone to forget if you’re not planning on leaving him. Makes you look kinda stupid.”

  She latches onto that. “Oh, you’d love that, wouldn’t you? I don’t think so, Riles. This isn’t revenge of the nerds. You don’t get the hottest guy in school. That pleasure is all mine—and I’m not about to let him go, so you can give up your pathetic little fantasy of going after my scraps.” With an insulting onceover, she says, “Like he’d want you anyway.”

  I can only stare at her, stunned at her apparent obliviousness. “You don’t really believe that, do you? I’m the one ignoring his texts. If I wanted Hunter, I could have him on a silver platter. I don’t; I prefer my men faithful.”

  She crosses her arms and glares at me. I guess she doesn’t have a snappy comeback for that one.

  As much as I loathe her, as evil as she has been to me, some part of me wonders if maybe she really doesn’t get it. I’m not even trying to be mean when I say the next thing, I just think someone should tell her in case she doesn’t already know. “He doesn’t like you, Valerie. He’s only using you to get a rise out of me.”

  I can tell by the fiery glint in her eyes this is not the first time the thought has occurred to her. “Bullshit. He got drunk and made a poor decision. You. You were the poor decision.”

  I cock an eyebrow. “He was stone cold sober when it happened, so I’m not sure how that defense could have possibly worked.”

  “Everyone was drunk, stupid,” she snaps.

  “I wasn’t.”

  “That’s because you’re a fucking freak. You must have been hiding in a corner somewhere, nobody even remembers you being there.”

  I don’t say anything as Valerie huffs and straightens. I get the impression that my presence baited her and she has engaged with me far more than she meant to.

  Working to reclaim her composure, she pointedly straightens her shoulders and her cheerleading uniform, then pastes on a fake smile and plants a hand on Sara’s shoulder.

  “Anyway, I didn’t come over here to talk to this fugly skank-whore. It was you I wanted to talk to.”

  Sara stares up at her blankly. “Me?”

  Valerie nods cheerfully, then leans down as if she’s sharing a secret. “I heard a rumor you liked Wally Kazinsky.”

  Sara flushes. I’m certain the color reaches clear down to her toes.

  “Well,” Valerie continues, her tone friendly and coaxing, “he was asking about you.”

  “What?” Sara breathes.

  Concern steals over me. I can tell Sara is blown away by this news, stunned, shocked, completely awestruck.

  I am a little more skeptical. Not of someone liking Sara—she’s my friend and I think she’s incredible, I just don’t think Wally sees that.

  Valerie nods, her pretty face so effectively portraying excitement, it would be easy to believe it was genuine.

  I don’t, though. I’ve known her for too long. This girl has shown her true colors over and over again, and she hasn’t changed. The whole reason Sara and I were relegated to social Siberia pre-Hunter was because even as a child, Valerie was an asshole.

  “Why don’t you come sit with us today?” Valerie asks Sara. “That way he could talk to you. He’s single right now,” she adds playfully, as if her offer wasn’t already enticing enough.

  Sara can scarcely breathe as she looks at me across the table. I can see she’s conflicted.

  On one hand, Valerie has fanned the flames against me every chance she got for the past four years, and relegated Sara to social obscurity for no other reason than her epilepsy—a truly heinous, abominable reason to exclude someone.

  On the other, this is Wally.

  “Will you hate me?” Sara asks, cringing even as the awful words leave her mouth.

  It feels as if an ice cube is sliding down into my stomach, but I try not to let it show.

  I can’t summon any words, but I shake my head no.

  “Are you sure?” she asks.

  I still can’t find words. Is she really going to leave me here to go off with Valerie Johnson?

  My breathing becomes slightly more labored, but I nod my head, summoning a
weak, shaky smile. Finally, I force a jumble of words out of my mouth. “Go, if you want to.”

  She’s torn, but only for a split second. Taking my permission as a blessing, she quickly stands and gathers her food on her tray. She steals one last uncertain look at me.

  “Be careful,” I tell her lowly, not wanting her to get hurt.

  She flashes me a smile, but as she turns and rushes after Valerie, I know my words have fallen on deaf ears.

  I try not to feel completely abandoned. Utterly betrayed.

  I know how much Sara likes Wally, how long she’s carried this torch for him.

  I just can’t believe she ditched me at Valerie Johnson’s behest.

  I’m completely alone at the table now.

  The crowded cafeteria around me buzzes with chatter.

  I look across the room as Sara takes a seat at Valerie’s table, and the girls nearby fuss over her as if every last one of them hasn’t deliberately ignored her for the past 12 years.

  I glance over to Hunter’s table where Anderson has been allowed to sit on the very end—still a ways from Hunter, but no longer at the run-off table. Since Hunter doesn’t know we got back together, he’s been allowed back into the fold.

  I hate this school.

  I’m not given to feelings of loneliness, but a wave of it sweeps over me now and threatens to drag me away.

  Sitting here with Sara was one thing, but I’m not going to sit at this table by myself.

  Quickly, I gather my things.

  Typically, I wouldn’t want Valerie to see that she’d won a round, but I’d rather leave now and let her think she pissed me off than stay and let her realize she made me legitimately sad.

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Riley

  There’s a big oak tree out in front of the school with a trunk thick enough that if you sit in front of it, you can almost disappear. That’s where I pick to finish my lunch.

  I have less time to eat since I’ve fled the school, but in an uncharacteristic turn, I don’t really care if I run late and miss my next class.

  It’s a lovely day today. Warm, but not hot if you have a nice spot in the shade, which I do.