bras?”
“Shut up.”
“You look like a perfume ad or something.”
Em smiled. “Really?”
—
On her way home, Bridge stopped by the Bean Bar. It was one of their busy times, right after the end of the regular workday.
“Bonjour, Finnegan!” Adrienne said, waving to Bridge over the customers’ heads.
Her dad looked up. “You okay, honey?”
“Yeah. Just saying hi.”
“Did something happen?”
“No, Dad—I told you, I’m just saying hi.” Nothing had happened, she told herself. Emily promised not to send any of the pictures they took. Bridge had made her swear, twice, that she wouldn’t do anything yet.
“It’s dark already,” her father said. “I’ll walk you home.”
“I’m fine!” Bridge said, turning around. “It’s only five blocks. I can walk myself.”
Of course she could. She’d walked home alone in the dark before. But once she left the Bean Bar, Bridge couldn’t remember exactly when she’d walked home alone in the dark before.
She decided to count her steps. Jamie was right: she took about a hundred steps for every block she walked. When she got to her building, she was on step 485. She wondered if she could make it to her room without going over five hundred. She glanced around and took four giant steps to the elevator. It reminded her of that game, Mother, May I? She used to play it with Jamie in the hallway of their apartment.
You may take two giant steps.
Mother, may I?
Yes, you may.
In her mind’s eye, Bridge could see Jamie, hair in his eyes, wearing the Spider-Man pajamas he loved all the way through fourth grade. That intense look he used to get when he was trying to do something hard.
She reached her room on step 498. Then she went and knocked on Jamie’s door.
“Enter!” Jamie was hunched over his math homework. Bridge could see graph paper.
“What’d you bet Alex?” she said. “Come on, tell me.”
He pointed his pencil at her and said, “I told you, it’s irrelevant.”
“If you tell me, I’ll make you soup. For free.”
Jamie hestitated.
Bridge smiled at him.
Then he said, “No deal.”
SHERM
Sherm loved the feeling inside his house after his parents left for work.
He and his grandmother both woke early, but they stayed out of the way until the questioning mumble of his parents’ first movements became the sound of running water, quick heels on the wooden floors, a spike or two of laughter. And then: urgency in their voices, someone always rushing back upstairs for one last forgotten something, until finally—kiss, kiss, love you!—the door slammed behind them.
It was as if Sherm and his grandmother supported themselves while a windstorm blew through the house every morning and—kiss, kiss, love you!—left through the front door. Then the house seemed to exhale. Sherm became aware of the sound of the radio in the kitchen and the smell of his grandmother’s coffee, and beneath that, he felt his grandmother’s satisfied presence, which never changed.
He always sat at the kitchen table and did his math homework while she cooked his breakfast and wrapped up his lunch for school. She never had the appearance of hurrying, and yet things were done quickly.
Sherm used math homework to wake up his brain. When he didn’t have any, he missed it. Writing out each problem, going through the steps, circling his answers—it was a satisfying system check. He was like a pilot in his cockpit.
His grandmother never asked him what he wanted for breakfast. She put an omelet in front of him, with toast grilled on the stove with olive oil, or semolina pancakes, or a frittata with peppers and mushrooms. After she put down his plate, he thanked her, and she rested her hand on his wrist for a few seconds, as if she were gently pressing something there—and then she walked to the sink or to her coffeepot. Even the morning after his grandfather left, she got up and did this for him, never letting her eyes stray to the chair across from
“Shut up.”
“You look like a perfume ad or something.”
Em smiled. “Really?”
—
On her way home, Bridge stopped by the Bean Bar. It was one of their busy times, right after the end of the regular workday.
“Bonjour, Finnegan!” Adrienne said, waving to Bridge over the customers’ heads.
Her dad looked up. “You okay, honey?”
“Yeah. Just saying hi.”
“Did something happen?”
“No, Dad—I told you, I’m just saying hi.” Nothing had happened, she told herself. Emily promised not to send any of the pictures they took. Bridge had made her swear, twice, that she wouldn’t do anything yet.
“It’s dark already,” her father said. “I’ll walk you home.”
“I’m fine!” Bridge said, turning around. “It’s only five blocks. I can walk myself.”
Of course she could. She’d walked home alone in the dark before. But once she left the Bean Bar, Bridge couldn’t remember exactly when she’d walked home alone in the dark before.
She decided to count her steps. Jamie was right: she took about a hundred steps for every block she walked. When she got to her building, she was on step 485. She wondered if she could make it to her room without going over five hundred. She glanced around and took four giant steps to the elevator. It reminded her of that game, Mother, May I? She used to play it with Jamie in the hallway of their apartment.
You may take two giant steps.
Mother, may I?
Yes, you may.
In her mind’s eye, Bridge could see Jamie, hair in his eyes, wearing the Spider-Man pajamas he loved all the way through fourth grade. That intense look he used to get when he was trying to do something hard.
She reached her room on step 498. Then she went and knocked on Jamie’s door.
“Enter!” Jamie was hunched over his math homework. Bridge could see graph paper.
“What’d you bet Alex?” she said. “Come on, tell me.”
He pointed his pencil at her and said, “I told you, it’s irrelevant.”
“If you tell me, I’ll make you soup. For free.”
Jamie hestitated.
Bridge smiled at him.
Then he said, “No deal.”
SHERM
Sherm loved the feeling inside his house after his parents left for work.
He and his grandmother both woke early, but they stayed out of the way until the questioning mumble of his parents’ first movements became the sound of running water, quick heels on the wooden floors, a spike or two of laughter. And then: urgency in their voices, someone always rushing back upstairs for one last forgotten something, until finally—kiss, kiss, love you!—the door slammed behind them.
It was as if Sherm and his grandmother supported themselves while a windstorm blew through the house every morning and—kiss, kiss, love you!—left through the front door. Then the house seemed to exhale. Sherm became aware of the sound of the radio in the kitchen and the smell of his grandmother’s coffee, and beneath that, he felt his grandmother’s satisfied presence, which never changed.
He always sat at the kitchen table and did his math homework while she cooked his breakfast and wrapped up his lunch for school. She never had the appearance of hurrying, and yet things were done quickly.
Sherm used math homework to wake up his brain. When he didn’t have any, he missed it. Writing out each problem, going through the steps, circling his answers—it was a satisfying system check. He was like a pilot in his cockpit.
His grandmother never asked him what he wanted for breakfast. She put an omelet in front of him, with toast grilled on the stove with olive oil, or semolina pancakes, or a frittata with peppers and mushrooms. After she put down his plate, he thanked her, and she rested her hand on his wrist for a few seconds, as if she were gently pressing something there—and then she walked to the sink or to her coffeepot. Even the morning after his grandfather left, she got up and did this for him, never letting her eyes stray to the chair across from
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