Goodbye Stranger

by Rebecca Stead

  “You’re not falling apart,” Bridge said. “You’re scared.”

  “Isn’t that the same thing?”

  “No.”

  Someone came up behind Em and knocked on the wall tentatively. It was Patrick. Em turned and smiled. “Hey, you.” She went over and pressed into him, exhaling into his shoulder. “Bridge says being scared and falling apart aren’t the same thing, but I think she’s full of it.”

  “She’s not full of it,” Patrick said. “And you’re going to be great.”

  Em took two fingers and hooked one of his thumbs, squeezing. Bridge caught herself staring and looked over at Sherm. Then the quartet sang its last note, the audience started clapping, and the three tech kids assigned to break down the last act sprinted onstage in their black T-shirts like a SWAT team. Mr. Partridge had been timing their setups and breakdowns all week. He said anything over twenty-five seconds was “simply unprofessional.”

  “Now or never,” Sherm said quietly.

  Em stood straight, turned her back on Patrick, and adjusted the cat ears. “I know why you like these,” she told Bridge. “They’re nice.”

  Bridge said, “So just friends, huh? You and Patrick?”

  Em smiled. “I didn’t say just friends forever.”

  “Seriously,” Sherm said. “Now or never.”

  Em let herself be hugged by Bridge, and then she followed Sherm onto the dim stage. Bridge listened to the audience get quiet, probably checking their programs, before she remembered that she was supposed to be sprinting toward the lights.

  —

  When Bridge got to the light board at the back of the auditorium, breathing hard, Mr. Partridge was standing in front of it, scowling at the cue sheet.

  Bridge’s heart felt like a fist with no air in it. Onstage, she could make out Sherm’s bent form taping down the microphone cord, and she could see the flat of Em’s face, tilted toward the people in the seats, who had begun to shift and talk in the dark.

  “Not on the program,” Mr. Partridge said, looking at Bridge.

  “No,” Bridge said. She saw Sherm scoot away, leaving Emily in front of the microphone, alone. The talking in the audience was getting louder.

  Bridge reached out and flipped Sherm’s switch. A circle of light broke over Emily, who winced and shaded her eyes with one hand. The audience got quiet again, and Bridge waited to be screamed at by Mr. Partridge.

  “Sorry,” she whispered.

  But Mr. Partridge seemed to have forgotten all about her. He was looking at the stage. He narrowed his eyes at Em and flipped another switch. The cone of harsh light around her became gentler, warmer. Em dropped her hand. Her shoulders unhunched, and her face relaxed.

  “See that?” Mr. Partridge said to Bridge. “That’s us, up there with her. I hit a switch, and just like that, she knows she’s not alone.”

  He turned and gave Bridge the tiniest smile before looking back to the stage. And she got this picture in her head, so clear it could have been a memory, of Mr. Partridge waiting patiently in line at Nussbaum’s for the Banana Splits Book Club’s black-and-white cookies. She had a feeling that black-and-white cookies were not in the school budget.

  On the stage, Em pulled off Bridge’s ears and bent down to lay them at her feet. Then she stood up straight and looked out. Bridge remembered what it had been like to stand where Emily was standing, facing the rows of seats. And for the first time she was scared for her.

  She glanced at Mr. Partridge. “We’re here,” he said, and Bridge realized he was talking to Em. “It’s okay. Sing to the people.”

  And, as if she could hear him, Emily opened her mouth and sang. She sang just as beautifully as she had at her audition, with that same twist of nakedness and power. But this time Em didn’t sing to the wall. She sang to every person in the room.

  It was another one of those moments: like sitting in the backseat of the car with Tab, smelling burnt marshmallows; like the first few notes of her mother’s cello music in the morning; like sitting cross-legged on the floor backstage, splitting the deck to play another game of spit with Sherm.

  Standing next to Mr. Partridge in the dark, she remembered the face of the nurse at the hospital, more clearly than she had in years: “You must have been put on this earth for a reason, little girl.”

  Bridge knew why she was here. It’s why we’re all here, she thought.

  Call it Mr. Partridge with his black-and-white cookies. Call it Em standing on that stage with her knees shaking but her voice strong. Call it Jamie looking awkward in the doorway of her bedroom after she’d had the mummy nightmare. Call it love.

  “Are all those pizzas we’ve been eating really in the budget?” she whispered to Mr. Partridge.

  He looked down at her, surprised. “I’ll tell you a secret,” he said. “Pretty much nothing is in the budget.”

  And then the audience burst into applause.

  I THINK I SEE YOU TOO

  Em didn’t win any prizes at the Talentine show.

  “You should have!” Patrick said, after. “You were top three, for sure.”

  Em laughed. “I wasn’t even officially entered!” Everyone had to settle for the look on Em’s face, which was happiness.

  “Now they know,” Em told Bridge. “Thanks to you, Bridge. They know that I still like myself. And they can watch me doing it all they want.” This was the Em who Bridge saw on the soccer field, the one in the yellow sweatshirt who threw two fists in the air after every goal.

  Then Em’s face changed. “Evan!” she shouted. “Why are you here?”

  Em’s brother was tearing down the aisle toward them, his hands balled at his hips. He was like a very serious train, plowing right into Emily. After a couple of seconds he pulled his face out of her stomach. “You were so good.”

  “Who’s with you? Are Mom and Dad here? But—why?” She whirled on Bridge. “Did you tell them I was singing?”

  “No,” Bridge said.

  “Tab called last night!” Evan said. “She said I should tell Mom and Dad. We surprised you!”

  “She did?” Emily and Bridge shared a look—of course Tab would think to call Em’s parents. Who else? “Where is she?” Em scanned the room.

  “There.” Evan pointed. “With Celeste.”

  Tab and Celeste were standing together against the wall on the other side of the loud auditorium, clearly arguing.

  “What’s Celeste doing here?” Em said to Bridge.

  “I don’t know,” Bridge said.

  Then Emily’s parents were there, hugging her, and people kept coming over to tell her how great she was. Bridge kept one hand on Evan’s shoulder and watched the silent movie of Tab and Celeste. Finally they hugged, and then Tab buzzed through the crowd toward Bridge.

  “Can you leave? Walk me home. I have to calm down my parents before they call the police or something.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Total craziness. Celeste skipped school and hid out somewhere all day. My parents are freaking, even though she just talked to them twice on my phone and I keep telling them that she’s fine. And now she says she can’t go home yet! She has to do something important, and guess who’s supposed to tap-dance for Mom and Dad until she’s back? Me! The person they’re already not too happy with because she got suspended this week!”

  “You could always juggle for them,” Bridge said. “I know where you can get some nice rocks.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Tab said, steering her out of the auditorium. “How am I supposed to take a bite out of a rock? Celeste said she’d meet me out front.”

  Outside, Tab pulled Bridge to where Celeste was standing, a little apart from the swarm of families in front of the school.

  “Hey, Bridge.” Celeste smiled. She was holding a red rose wrapped in cellophane and standing on one leg in an unzipped sweatshirt.

  “Hey. Aren’t you freezing?”

  “Kind of. How was the show? Tab says Em sang. I’m sorry I missed it.”

 
“It was actually kind of great,” Bridge said.

  “You sound surprised,” Celeste said. “Tab, sorry to be annoying, but you have to go home right now. They must be climbing the walls.”

  “Yeah, because of you! Not me!”

  “I swear I’ll be there in forty-five minutes. An hour, tops.”

  Tab pretended to scowl. “Do not be late. And take my phone.”

  Celeste pocketed it. “Thanks.” She kissed Tab and blew a kiss to Bridge. And then she turned and walked away.

  —

  They were almost to Tab’s corner when Tab said, “Where are your ears?”

  Bridge stopped. “My ears! I forgot all about them. They must be in the auditorium.”

  “Yikes, I hope they’re there on Monday,” Tab said.

  “Yeah.” But Bridge didn’t miss them. She could still feel that hand on her head.

  “Okay, here I go,” Tab said when they reached her building. “Wish me luck.”

  “Good luck,” Bridge said.

  “Oh!” Tab yelled over her shoulder. “Happy Valentine’s Day!”

  That was when Bridge realized she hadn’t even said goodbye to Sherm after the show. She pulled out her phone and texted him.

  Bridge: Sorry I ran away! Tab emergency.

  Sherm: ? All okay?

  Bridge: Fine now.

  Sherm: Where R U?

  Bridge: 105th

  Sherm: I’m on 106th!!

  Bridge looked up and scanned the block. It was dark, but she could just make him out, standing on the corner.

  Bridge: I think I see you

  Sherm: I think I see you too. Can you come over?

  SIX WHITE FLAGS

  “I want to show you something.” Sherm pulled at a latch above his head, and a trapdoor in the third-floor ceiling came down slowly until it hung in front of them like an open mouth. From this he carefully unfolded a narrow ladder that made Bridge think of a tongue reaching out to taste the floor.

  “You okay with climbing?” Sherm asked. He held out a flashlight to her.

  Bridge went up first, unhooking the latch on a second little door at the top and pushing it open to find herself on the roof of Sherm’s house. There wasn’t much open space—maybe two strides in any direction. She swung the flashlight around, though with the moon so bright she could see perfectly well without it. “Does your grandma know you come up here?”

  “Yeah, she knows,” Sherm called from below. “I used to go up there with my grandfather all the time. Catch!”

  She caught a dark bundle that turned out to be a sleeping bag, and Sherm dragged another one behind him up the ladder. When he was standing next to her, he flipped it out in front of him and Bridge heard something go thunk when it hit the roof.

  “Dropped my binoculars,” Sherm explained.

  “I’m cold,” Bridge said.

  They sat against the attic door with the sleeping bags pulled up to their necks. Bridge squinted into the binoculars. “I can’t find it.”

  “What do you mean you can’t find it?” Sherm said. “Keep both eyes open.”

  “I am.” Then she suddenly had it. The moon.

  “Wow.” It glowed hugely in front of her, like something she could reach out and touch. Who knew you could see the moon like this with a regular pair of binoculars?

  “Okay,” Sherm said. “So you see the face, right? Look at the eye on the left, and go down a little from there. There’s a dark spot.”

  “Yeah. I think. Yeah. Got it.”

  “That’s the Sea of Tranquility.”

  “There’s water up there?”

  “Well, not anymore. But that’s what they call it.”

  “Oh. ‘Sea of Tranquility’ sounds like it should be someplace in the Bahamas.”

  “That’s where they landed.”

  “Who did?”

  “Buzz Aldrin and Neil Armstrong. Apollo 11.”

  She lowered the binoculars and looked at Sherm. “Apollo 11? So you admit they were there?”

  “First manned flight to the moon. Landed July twentieth, 1969.” He shrugged. “It’s a fact.”

  Bridge looked through the binoculars again. “What about no wind on the moon? What about the American flag?”

  “The flag is still there. There are six flags up there, actually. But they’re all white now. Bleached out by the sun.”

  “Six white flags?”

  “Yeah. Like a big fat surrender.”

  In the moonlight, Sherm looked sad, as if he were the one surrendering. “Also, you can see their footsteps. The astronauts’, I mean. The footsteps are still there in the dust, and with a really powerful telescope, you can see them from Earth.”

  “Wow.” Bridge lowered the binoculars. “So this was kind of a grandpa thing? Something you did together, I mean.”

  Sherm nodded. “My grandfather is this really patriotic space-mission fan. We used to come up here a lot and he would tell me things. He actually worked at the factory that made the flag left on the moon by Apollo 11.”

  “Seriously?”

  “The factory is in New Jersey. My dad was born right after that. That’s why he’s named Apollo.” Sherm laughed. “Weird, right? But my grandfather used to say he had the best job in the world.”

  “Making flags?”

  “Yep—sitting in front of a sewing machine all day. Best job in the world. That was after he got back from the war. Vietnam.” Sherm reached for the binoculars. “Anyway, I wanted you to know. I was just being annoying—about the moon landing.”

  “Because you’re mad,” Bridge said. “At your grandfather.”

  “I guess so. Yeah.”

  “Like, really mad,” Bridge said.

  “Okay, thanks, Dr. Freud.”

  Bridge looked at the moon again. “Today’s his birthday, right?”

  She felt him turn to her. “How’d you know that?”

  “February fourteenth. I saw it at Dollar-Eight, remember? On that piece of paper you carry around everywhere. Because your grandfather doesn’t matter to you anymore.”

  “Shut up.” He elbowed her in the dark.

  “You should mail those letters.”

  “I’m thinking about it.”

  After a minute, Sherm said, “There’s something I want to tell you. You’re going to think I’m weird.”

  “I already think you’re weird.”

  “Seriously. Be serious.”

  “Okay.” Bridge gathered her sleeping bag around her shoulders, digging her chin into the softness of it.

  “When you had your accident,” Sherm said, “you were roller-skating down my block.”

  “Yeah, you told me. At the diner.”

  “But I didn’t tell you that I was there. I was sitting on our steps, waiting for my dad to come out of the house. We were getting in the car to go to Chuck E. Cheese.”

  “Whoa. Did you actually see me get hit? Tab is, like, scarred for life from it.”

  “This isn’t funny.”

  “It’s my near-death experience—shouldn’t I be allowed to joke about it?”

  Sherm pointed his flashlight at his very serious face and looked at her.

  “Yikes. Okay, sorry.”

  “My dad was the first doctor who got to you, after. He went with you in the ambulance and worked on you in surgery that night. You know he’s a cardiologist, right?”

  “Wow—seriously? That’s crazy.” Then she added, “Jamie said my heart stopped three times that night.”

  Sherm looked at her. “Three times?”

  Bridge nodded, thinking. Sherm’s father. “Do you realize your dad probably touched my heart? Like—directly?”

  “Huh,” Sherm said. “I never thought of that.”

  “Weird.”

  “My parents had to sell their car,” Sherm said. “After your accident. Because I used to cry whenever I saw it. It reminded me of what happened.”

  “Wait.” Bridge sat straight up, letting her sleeping bag slip from her shoulders. “The yellow B
ug? It was double-parked?”

  “You remember our car?”

  Bridge decided not to tell him. It would only make him feel worse, and it wasn’t his fault. It was nobody’s fault. She sat back and closed her eyes and remembered what it had felt like, flying down the block on her skates, doing her Chaplin moves.

  “Is that why you’re so nice to me?” she said. “Because we have this secret connection that only you knew about?”

  “Actually, I tried not to know you. I avoided you at school for three years. I didn’t want to think about you at all.”

  “Nice. You watch a girl get run over and then you ignore her.”

  “Would you stop joking?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t joke about the accident. And don’t joke about—us.”

  Bridge was glad it was mostly dark. She didn’t want to have to think about the look on her face. “Us?”

  “Yes. Us.”

  Bridge waited. She wanted to tell Sherm about the music and how she didn’t hear it yet. At least, she didn’t think she heard it. She didn’t know how to begin.

  “You’re my best friend,” Sherm said. After a few seconds he added, “I wanted you to know.”

  Bridge exhaled.

  “You’re my best friend too,” she said. “Tab, Emily, and you.”

  Sherm nodded, and they were quiet. Then Sherm said, “You know what my dad told me once? He said the human heart doesn’t really pump the way everyone thinks.”

  “It doesn’t?”

  “No. He said that the heart wrings itself out. It twists in two different directions, like you’d do to squeeze the water out of a wet towel.”

  “That’s pretty cool,” Bridge said. She thought about her heart, wringing itself out right next to Sherm’s.

  They were quiet again. After a minute, Sherm said, “I’m not going to kiss you or anything.”

  And Bridge said, “Good.”

  CELESTE

  That’s what life is. Life is where you sleep and what you see when you wake up in the morning, and who you tell about your weird dream, and what you eat for breakfast and who you eat it with. Life isn’t something that happens to you. It’s something you make yourself, all the time. Life is that half minute in the morning before your cat remembers she’s kind of a grouch, when she pours out her love and doesn’t give a flying newton who sees it.