The Bridge From Me to You Read online

  Sydney Harbour Bridge, Sydney, Australia — the world’s largest steel arch bridge

  Brooklyn Bridge, New York, NY — designated a National Historic Landmark in 1964.

  Tower Bridge, London, England — it looks old and modern at the same time

  Chapel Bridge, Lucerne, Switzerland — the oldest wooden covered bridge in Europe

  Millau Viaduct, southern France — the tallest vehicular bridge in the world

  A couple of weeks ago, Gram was asking Grandpa if he’d take her out for a picnic at a spot near an old bridge she’d heard about.

  “I just love old covered bridges,” she’d said. “There’s something special about them, don’t you think, Colby?”

  It was kind of weird she’d asked me. I hadn’t ever said anything to them about my strange fascination. But I agreed with her. And then she said something I’ll never forget: “I’ve always thought a bridge is like a good friend, holding its hand out to help you along on the more difficult parts of your journey.”

  In one sentence, she described it so well.

  I’m not sure where I’ll be going when I leave here. But wherever I go, one thing’s for sure: There’ll be bridges along the way. Since I don’t plan on playing football next year, they may be the only friends I have for a while.

  TUESDAY

  “Good to see you again,” Dr. Springer says.

  Maybe I’m supposed to say “you too,” but I don’t. What seventeen-year-old is happy to see her therapist?

  “Have you been writing in your journal?” she asks.

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me about that.”

  I shrug. “What do you want to know?”

  “What kinds of things are you writing about?”

  “Bugles. My blue bicycle. Owls. A cute boy. Dreams.”

  She tilts her head. “You’re not writing about what happened?”

  I shake my head and pick at a rough nail on my thumb. “No. I don’t want to write about that.”

  “I think it will help,” she says. “That’s the whole point of the journal, right?”

  “I’m not really sure.”

  “What kind of dreams?” she asks.

  Of all the things I mentioned, of course she’d pick that one.

  “Bad ones,” I say. “More like nightmares, really.”

  “Tell me about them.”

  I don’t say anything for a minute, debating about whether I should tell her the truth or make something up. I remember what she said the first time I came here. The only chance at this actually working is if I’m honest with her. I don’t have to say a lot, if I don’t want to, but what I do say should be the truth.

  I take a deep breath. “I dream about my brother all the time. He’s crying, and I can’t find him. I look and I look and he’s just … nowhere.”

  “Sounds like you miss him. Do you?”

  I glare at her. “That’s a stupid question.”

  EVERYONE’S MOVING slower today. Of course we are. Everything hurts after yesterday. Coach is on our asses, yelling at us over and over, “Move, move, MOVE!”

  I try to focus on the things I like about football practice.

  Being on the field with all my friends.

  Knowing I’m getting stronger.

  The smell of grass and summertime and sweat.

  It isn’t much of a list, but it’ll have to do.

  It is a long two and a half hours. And then it gets even longer.

  “Time for gassers,” Coach yells.

  I’m pretty sure we all want to moan, but we know better. Drills are always done at the end of practice. When we’re all dog-tired and just want to take a cold shower and drink Gatorade, we have to push past the pain and fatigue and do the sprints. They suck, but they also work. They get us in shape like nothing else does.

  We line up at the goal line, Coach blows his whistle, and in our pads, we sprint down to the other goal line and back, twice. When we finish, we get a minute to rest before we do it again. Coach tells us our time and that for the next set, we have to do it in ten seconds less, to make sure we aren’t dogging it.

  And so it goes. We do the drill over and over again, until guys are puking right and left. Not me, thankfully.

  The torture finally over, Coach has us gather round and take a knee. I stare up at him, wondering if we’re going to enjoy hearing what he has to say. He’s a hard guy to read. The way he looks at us, it’s like he loves us and hates us at the same time. And maybe he does. One thing’s for sure, the khaki shorts and polo shirts he likes to wear remind us that Frank Sperry is really nothing more than a regular guy who loves football.

  “Good work today,” he says with a slight grin, telling us he really means it. “It’ll get easier. You all know that. This is what it takes. I haven’t done my job if you can walk off this field like you’ve played golf instead of football.”

  His eyes move from player to player. “It takes a lot to win football games, boys. You know what it takes, but it’s my job to remind you every single minute we’re out here. It takes hard work. It takes heart. It takes character. Every time you dig deep and pull something out when you don’t think there’s anything left, you’ve become a better football player.

  “All right, see you back here this afternoon. I believe!”

  “I believe!” we yell.

  Benny helps me to my feet. When he lets go, my legs buckle and I start to fall. He grabs me and picks me up.

  “I got you,” he says. “Don’t worry, man. I got you.”

  I add this to my list of things I like about football practice.

  NO WAY.

  Did that really just happen?

  Colby called me.

  Called

  me!

  When Aunt Erica

  told me I had a phone call

  and it was a guy,

  I thought there was

  a mistake.

  Who would call me?

  At this house?

  And why?

  After I said hello, he said,

  “I went by the Jiffy Mart

  earlier today, but you weren’t there.

  So I had to get your number

  from your uncle Josh.”

  I was like, “You were looking for me?

  How come?

  Did I lose something else?”

  Yeah.

  I lost my freaking mind, that’s what.

  Could I have been any more ridiculous?

  He laughed.

  He said he thought I might want to go

  to a party up at the creek this Saturday.

  “Who all will be there?” I asked.

  “A bunch of people,” he said.

  “And me. I mean, if you don’t want to —”

  “No, I do! How far is it?

  Like, can I ride my bike?”

  “Well, you could, but it’s a long way out there.

  I’m happy to give you a ride.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, of course.

  Pick you up at one?”

  “Okay. Yeah. I’ll be ready.”

  “Great. See you then.”

  This is the

  best thing

  that’s happened

  to me since

  I left my key

  on that

  Jiffy Mart counter.

  IT SEEMS like Friday will never get here. But eventually it does, and everyone in the locker room is laughing and joking around because we have two days off from the annoying alarm clock, bossy coaches, and pain-in-the-ass drills.

  I feel like I could go to bed and sleep all the way until Monday morning. But of course I won’t. It’s time to have some fun.

  “You want to do something tonight?” I ask Benny.

  “You bet. Let’s meet up at Murphy’s Hill. Maybe eight o’clock? I’ll swing by Russ’s first and see if I can get us some beer.”

  “Sounds good. See ya then.”

  I take my time walking to my truck. It f
eels like someone’s chewed up my legs and spit them back out. A white Kia pulls into the lot and parks next to my truck.

  When Meghan gets out, her long, beautiful legs are what I notice first. Damn. I try to remember how long it’s been since I’ve even seen the girl. A month? Two?

  “Hey there,” she says when I approach her. “Dang, you don’t look too good.”

  “Wish I could say the same about you,” I reply.

  She laughs as she flips her blond hair. “I’ve missed you too. Want to get a bite to eat or something? Catch up?”

  I drop my bag of gear on the ground. “Thanks for the offer, but I just made plans with Benny. Sorry.”

  “Oh, come on. He’d understand.”

  “What are you doing, Meghan? It’s Friday night. Is your boyfriend out of town or something?”

  She walks closer to me. “There is no boyfriend, Colby. And like I said, I’ve missed you.”

  We went out for a few months last fall. Went to the Homecoming dance together and everything. But it wasn’t long after football season was over that she told me she needed space. A few weeks later, I heard she was going out with some guy in Lansford. Star of the basketball team or something.

  Funny thing, though, I wasn’t too broken up about it at all. She’s nice to look at and we had some fun times, but I didn’t miss her that much. I think she liked being seen with me more than she actually liked me. Everyone said we made the perfect couple, but not in the important ways. Not in the ways that matter. I’m pretty sure I was just a jersey to her, a jock who made her feel good about herself as we walked down the halls of Willow High.

  I don’t want that again. I’m tired of doing things simply because other people think it makes sense. You know — because in Small Town, USA, that’s what football players do; they go out with cheerleaders. Honestly, the last thing I want right now is someone worshipping me, up close and personal.

  “Sorry,” I tell her, “but if you need a shoulder to cry on because your heart is broken, mine is too damn sore right now.”

  “Well, here’s a little secret. I’m your guardian angel this year.”

  I shake my head. “Wait. What? Meghan, you aren’t supposed to tell me that. What are you doing?”

  Every year, each football player is assigned a guardian angel from the cheerleading team. She bakes him goodies, gives him a gift bag with funny little gifts before every game, writes him encouraging notes after the game, that kind of thing. But it’s all done anonymously, until the end of the season. The idea is that we each have someone “watching over us.” It’s supposed to bring the cheerleaders and the football players closer, and we have a lunch at the end for all of us. That’s when we usually find out which cheerleader was assigned to each player.

  But for some crazy reason, Meghan has decided she wants me to know now. Great.

  She reaches up and touches my face for a second, before she says, “Look, let’s not dance around, Colby. I basically came here to tell you, I’m here for you. If you need me, I’m here.”

  Dance around what?

  And then I get it. Holy shit. I get what she’s trying to say. And honestly, I’m speechless. Maybe some guys would be all over this. Maybe some guys would say, “Awesome, great, throw yourself at my feet because I’m one of the star players, and when I want a booty call, I damn well deserve a booty call.”

  But oh my God. What is she doing?

  I pick up my bag and step away from her. “Meghan, thanks, um, for the offer, or whatever, but can we go back to the way it’s supposed to be? You know, do the whole guardian angel thing anonymously? I bet you can switch with someone, right? Since school hasn’t started yet?”

  “Are you serious?” she asks.

  “Yeah. I am.”

  “But I requested you specifically.” She gives me a sad smile. “I know you aren’t seeing anyone, and … you know. We were good together.”

  I can’t even believe how messed up this whole thing is right now. Doesn’t she know how pathetic this makes her look?

  “Look, I’m sorry. Don’t take it the wrong way, okay? You’re a beautiful girl. But of all the things I need right now, this isn’t one of them.”

  “Something’s changed,” she says. “You’re different.”

  “Actually, Meghan,” I say as I open the door to my truck, “I just don’t think you, like most of the people in this freaking town, ever really knew me in the first place.”

  I WANT to go for a bike ride, maybe get some Bugles.

  I’m about to yell to let Erica know, when I hear them

  in the laundry room as I’m walking toward the garage.

  “Erica, we haven’t had a night out alone in over a month.

  What’s wrong with having a sitter?

  She must have realized this would come up sometime.”

  “I don’t want to make her feel bad.

  I just don’t think it’s a good idea. Not yet.

  Maybe after she’s here awhile longer. We can wait. Please?”

  I clear my throat and walk quickly, glancing as I go.

  “Oh, there you are. I was looking for you.

  “I’m gonna go for a bike ride, if that’s all right?”

  They nod and give their approval with their cheeks

  flushed, like I caught them doing naughty things.

  But really, I’m the naughty one in this scenario.

  They don’t trust me. They think I’m unbalanced,

  and they can’t imagine asking me to watch their precious

  little children for a couple of hours because

  what if something awful happened while they were gone?

  I want to tell them I’d love to babysit and they would

  not regret it, because I wouldn’t let anything happen.

  I adore those three kids, and I’d be a great babysitter.

  But I don’t say anything. I keep going. I get on my bike

  and pedal fast and hard, one thought spinning like spokes.

  They think they know me, but they don’t.

  They think they know me, but they don’t.

  They think they know me, but they really, really don’t.

  AFTER I shower and eat dinner, I head up to Murphy’s Hill to meet Benny. John Murphy was one of the greatest football players to come out of Willow. Rumor has it he wanted a place to party after games, so he went looking for a spot out in the country where he and his friends could have a good time without bothering anybody.

  There’s an old lumber road, nice and wide, off West Valley Road and it leads to a small hill with a clearing among all the trees. There’s lots of space for cars to park along the road and there aren’t any houses nearby. I didn’t learn about the place until I got into high school, and that’s the way it’s always been, I think. It’s become kind of this sacred place for students of Willow High.

  When I pull onto the road, I make my way up toward the top. Since it’s pretty early, there aren’t any cars to greet me, though Benny’s motorcycle is there. After I park, I grab the two lawn chairs from the bed of my truck. People either bring their own chairs or they stand, and I decided tonight was definitely a night we would want to sit and relax.

  “Hey,” I say as I approach Benny. “Your brother come through for us?”

  “Nope. Wasn’t home. And he didn’t answer my texts. Sorry, man.”

  “That’s all right. I’m so tired, probably would have just put me to sleep anyway.”

  We unfold the chairs and settle in. I take a deep breath, filing my lungs with the clean, fresh air that smells like earth and pine trees.

  “Guess who I ran into in the parking lot after practice?” I say.

  “Man, if you tell me the Hulk came by and I missed him, I’m gonna be really pissed.”

  I laugh, because neither one of us will ever get tired of bringing the Hulk into our conversations.

  “Not the Hulk. Meghan Cooley. It was kind of ridiculous how she was throwing herself at me.”

  “Oh n
o. Hell no. You gotta stay focused on football.”

  “Wait a minute. At least half the players on our team have girlfriends right now. If they can do both, why can’t I?”

  “Because they’re better football players than you, that’s why.”

  I pick up a small stick and throw it at him. He catches it and throws it right back. “You’re just jealous,” I say.

  “You know she’s not my type. Look, I just think it’s hard enough for you right now. Don’t add one more thing to the mix. Get through the season, you know?”

  “Yeah. Don’t worry. I told her to get lost in the nicest way possible. It was not a pretty scene. I’ll spare you the details.”

  “Well, good. No girls, Pynes. That’s your motto. Got it?”

  “So you probably don’t want to hear I’m bringing a girl to the creek party tomorrow.”

  He shakes his head. “I’m telling you, a girl will just complicate your life, man. You don’t need that.”

  “Maybe a girl would give me something else to think about besides football. I get sick of thinking about it all the time. Don’t you?”

  He leans back, puts his head in his hands. “Nah. Football is my escape. It’s the rest of the shit I get tired of thinking about.”

  THE ONLY

  bathing suit I have

  is an ugly yellow

  one-piece

  that’s two years old.

  It hardly even fits.

  Saturday morning

  I’m trying to pretend

  my aunt doesn’t think

  I’m a teenage delinquent

  as I think about asking

  if she has one

  I can borrow.

  She’s tall and thin, like me.

  I wish

  I hadn’t heard them talking.

  I wish

  I was a person they could be proud of.

  I wish

  I had money so I could buy my own stupid suit.