by F. T. Lukens
“Sweet,” she said. “That’ll get us at least a massive sundae.”
“And milkshakes,” Leo said. “And maybe a giant cookie.”
“I like the way you think, Romeo.”
Astrid pulled out of the parking spot, and Bridger relaxed into their banter and the sound of Astrid’s playlist and closed his eyes.
* * *
Groaning, Bridger woke with sunlight pouring through his window, right into his eyes, and with a warm weight on his chest. Marv purred as she rubbed her face along the edge of his jaw and meowed; her tiny claws kneaded his shirt.
“Morning, Marv,” he said, scratching between her ears. She arched into his hand, and Bridger smiled.
He stretched under his sheets, which dislodged her from her perch, then checked his phone. He had a message from Leo.
Roped into spring cleaning with mom after Mass. Will probably never see you again. Mourn me.
Bridger chuckled.
Okay, so hanging with Leo was out for the day. And Astrid had family obligations as well, since her parents had imposed Sunday family time when they realized that their youngest kid was about to leave for college.
Bridger rubbed his eyes and yawned widely. He considered going back to sleep, but it was already late morning. His mom didn’t work that night, and, with the clarity that comes with being an adult for an entire day, Bridger decided he should be a good son and spend the day with her—especially after the awkwardness that was dinner last night.
Marv batted his nose from her spot on his pillow, and Bridger squinted at her. “What?”
She jumped to his nightstand and pushed his magic compact off the surface with her paw. Eyebrows raised, Bridger leaned over, balanced precariously on the edge of the bed, and scooped the mirror off the floor.
Oh, yeah. He’d almost forgotten. The awkwardness of his birthday dinner had actually managed to block out the fact that a shrieking Grandma Alice had chased a reporter through the woods. He needed to talk to Pavel.
Flipping open the mirror, he squirmed into a more upright position, resting against his headboard. His reflection showed his bedhead, the crease on his cheek from his pillow, and the small crust of dried drool at the corner of his mouth. Gross. He scrubbed his sleeve over his lips.
“Call Pavel, please.”
His reflection wavered, and the glass glowed.
Bran appeared, blue face pressed close to the mirror, cheeks puffed out. “This better be good,” he said around a mouthful. “It’s Pop-Tart time.”
Bridger rolled his eyes. “I need to speak to Pavel.”
“Boss!” Bran called. “It’s Bridger.”
“What have I said about answering my mirror?” Pavel said, plucking Bran up by the back of his shirt.
Dangling between Pavel’s thumb and forefinger, the pixie grinned; crumbs and frosting oozed from behind his pointy teeth. “That’s it’s very helpful?”
“Close,” Pavel said. “Only I said don’t.”
Bran’s wings fluttered. Pavel released him, and Bran flew away in a cloud of sparkles.
“Bridger,” Pavel said, the side of his mouth lifted in a grin, “what can I help you with?”
“Grandma Alice was on the monster show screaming and chasing the reporter lady through the woods.” The sentence spilled out in a rush, and, wow, releasing that felt amazing. He hadn’t realized he’d carried around that much pressure.
“Oh.” Pavel blinked. “I’m aware.”
“You’re aware?”
“Yes. Of course, I am.” At Bridger’s expression, Pavel shook his head. “I know you don’t think I’m taking things seriously, but I am. Summer Lore has been on the intermediary radar for years. She’s mostly harmless.”
“Mostly harmless?” What the hell? Spiders were mostly harmless, but his mom still screamed every time she saw one, and they weren’t welcome inside the house. He wouldn’t want a spider to interview him and his friends about drowning in the lake. “How can you say that? Granted, this last season she was fairly lifeless on screen but—”
“Lifeless?” Pavel interrupted. “I wouldn’t say that. She was unenthused about the subject matter yes, but lifeless? She’s bored, not a zombie.”
That brought Bridger up short. He sat up in his bed, shoulders tense. “You’ve watched it? I thought you said it wasn’t a big deal.”
“It’s not a big deal.” Pavel cleared his throat and ducked his head. He swept his dark hair off his forehead, and Bridger was horrified to see a blush spread across his cheekbones. “I merely did a few hours of research on the latest season.”
“Oh, no,” Bridger said. He jabbed his finger at the mirror. “Pavel! You can’t!”
“Can’t what?”
“You can’t have a crush!”
“I don’t have a crush.”
“Then what’s up with that?” Bridger said, waving a hand at his own face. “You look like I look when I talk about Leo. You like her. You’re attracted to her. You have a crush!”
Pavel shrugged. “Call it professional interest.”
“No, I will not. This is dangerous. One wrong move, and everything weird that happened last semester goes from a series of random coincidences to ‘oh, hey, there are concealed mythical beings living in Midden!’ And now I have to worry that if she bats her eyelashes, you’ll hand over the big book of Rules and Regulations.”
Pavel narrowed his eyes. “I would not.” He said it in such an affronted tone that Bridger believed him. “Bridger, I’m only going to say this once: do not interfere. Just let this run its course. They’ll film a few episodes and leave. I’ve already alerted the local myth community, and everyone is aware. They’ve all promised to lay low.”
“The unicorn is aware?”
“Yes,” Pavel said. “The unicorn. The Nain Rouge. The mermaids. Ginny at the bakery. Grandma Alice. Et cetera and so on. Bran and Nia made a few rounds. And Elena is going to talk with the Dogman.”
Okay. Pavel sounded proactive. Maybe he’d learned when he almost died from a skewering by a manticore tail.
“But she wants to interview my friends. What should I do about that?”
“Nothing.”
“But!”
“Bridger! Do not meddle. I’m on it. Trust me.”
Bridger sagged. Trust Pavel. Trust his mentor, who has not only shown him kindness and understanding but has acted more like a dad than his actual dad. He did trust him, but Pavel admitted that he was young and inexperienced compared to other intermediaries. And the learning curve was devastatingly steep.
“Okay, but can you trust me? I’m really worried.”
“I do trust you,” Pavel said, brow furrowed; the closest thing to hurt Bridger had seen flickered across his features. “And I trust that you’ll listen to me about this. Don’t engage. I’ll take care of it. You have other things to worry about, I’m sure.”
Bridger sighed. Pavel was not wrong. “Okay, I guess. I’ll stay out of it.”
“Thank you. I’ll let you know if I need any additional help. But until then, perform your regular duties and graduate from high school.”
“Yeah,” Bridger said. “Graduation.”
“Do you need time off before the summer to finish the school year? If you do, just ask.”
“No.” No way. Time off was the last thing he needed. He didn’t need more free time to spiral. Keeping busy would keep his brain focused on everything but his future. Work was a welcome respite from the crushing anxiety of life after high school. “I’m good.”
“If you say so.” Pavel sighed, shoulders dropping. “Now, I have somehow become Nia’s assistant in her cosmetic enterprise and must pack shipping boxes.”
“Have fun with that.”
“Of course. Have a good Sunday, Bridger. Don’t worry too much.”
Pavel’s image wav
ered, then winked out.
Bridger clasped his medallion in his hand. Right. Don’t worry. He could totally do that.
Chapter 5
Bridger gritted his teeth, determined to enjoy the rest of his weekend. His mom wouldn’t stop apologizing about his birthday and even went as far as to buy him a cake. They had a candle-blowing-out ceremony while watching game-show fails on YouTube. But it was obvious they were both forcing the fun. The atmosphere in his house was awkward and tense.
He contemplated talking with Pavel again about Monster of the Week but resisted the urge to meddle. At least Bridger had Marv. The kitten stayed near him all day while he caught up on homework and slept on his chest again that night. Marv purred so loudly Bridger didn’t know if he’d be able to fall asleep, but, once his head hit the pillow, he was out.
On Monday, classes were hectic. His mythology teacher prodded him to pick a topic for his end of semester paper. He needed it to pass and graduate, but he couldn’t focus on it. The yearbook editor reminded him through clenched teeth that he would be required to hand out yearbooks during fourth block for the foreseeable future. At lunch, everyone left him alone while he chased his popcorn chicken with a plastic fork and accidentally shot a piece at a sophomore when the fork bent. He didn’t die of complete mortification, but it was close.
At least he could see Leo at baseball practice after school. He’d hang out for a while, before running his usual errands for Pavel. The thought buoyed him and kept him motivated until the final bell rang.
Bridger grabbed his bag and headed for the back doors to the field. The sun was high, and the air was crisp with a lingering chill, and the green grass swayed in the breeze. Tugging his hoodie closer and spirits lifting with each step toward Leo, he made a beeline to the baseball field.
He turned the corner at the equipment shack, then walked quickly past the vacant football field and across the field hockey field to the baseball diamond. The bleachers sagged with fatigue and age; the paint was cracked and peeling and faded by the sun. Spectators had to be wary of splinters. Today, Bridger tossed his backpack on the third base side stands and stopped short.
In the closest parking lot, he spied the van he’d seen a few days ago. And crowded around it were members of the baseball team plus Lacey, Zeke, and Luke. Abandoning his bag, and all his joy, Bridger jogged to the parking lot.
Summer Lore was shorter in person than on TV, or maybe it just seemed that way because she stood on the asphalt and the people who surrounded her stood on the curb. But her hair was the same, blonde and straight, and her smile was the one she had in the tenth season, plastic and strained. Impeccably dressed in a billowy blouse and a pair of tailored trousers, she held a microphone in one hand while she prepped the crowd. Her cameraman, a beleaguered-looking, college-age guy, readied the equipment.
Bridger shouldered his way through the group, earning glares, as he moved to the front next to Zeke and Lacey.
“What’s going on?” he asked, voice low, as Summer manhandled Luke away from the group. She positioned him in front of the high school, on the side where the banner for their sports teams hung limply proclaiming in purple and gold that Midden High Monarchs Rule, which, while admittedly catchy, was not what Bridger would consider spooky enough for a cryptid show backdrop.
Lacey’s eyes were bright. “She’s going to interview Luke about the creature that bit him.” She clasped her hands in front of her. “Isn’t it awesome?”
No. Decidedly not awesome.
But Pavel had told him not to intervene. He shouldn’t intervene. He was going to stay out of it. He was a bystander. A simple bystander. But Astrid didn’t have to be a bystander. And neither did Leo. Pavel didn’t tell them not to intervene. Bridger looked around, but, not seeing them in the crowd, he realized he was on his own.
Okay. Welp. Guess this was happening. He was allowing this to happen.
Bridger shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. He’d be just an innocent witness to Luke’s potential humiliation and the outing of the entire myth world. Yep. He could stay silent. He could watch his new world go up in flames. He was unbothered. He channeled his inner Pavel and went for nonchalant and aloof, all-knowing but unconcerned.
Summer tipped Luke’s head to the side. “If you feel like crying, go ahead. Tears make for great television.”
Okay. Nope. He couldn’t allow this to happen.
Squeezing past Zeke, Bridger strode to where Summer and the cameraman were lining up the shot.
“Sorry.” Bridger grasped Luke by the elbow. “We need to have an aside.”
“Bridger?” Luke asked.
They didn’t know each other well. Luke was Zeke’s best friend. He rode the bench on the football team and was in choir and drama club and played the piano for the talent show every year. He ate lunch with them, but his seat was at the far end of the table. He was shorter than Bridger and had short brown hair, brown skin, and a sharp nose. He had thin scars which raked across his cheek and down his chin. There was also a bite mark on his shoulder, one on his collarbone, and another on his upper arm. Bridger knew about them from the pictures Zeke had taken when it happened. Bridger pushed down his guilt about the circumstances surrounding the mauling because he didn’t need to sprint down that road again. He’d done enough of that over the winter break.
“Yep. That’s me. We need to talk.”
“Oh, no, you don’t.” Summer stepped closer, eyes piercing. “You’re not stealing my interview. I have exclusive rights to Luke’s story, which means your little school newspaper project will have to be about the cafeteria pizza this month.”
Bridger huffed. “First,” he said, raising a finger, “our cafeteria pizza is actually pretty edible.”
Luke nodded in agreement.
“And two, I’m not with the school newspaper. I just need to talk to my good buddy Luke before you get your claws into him.” Oh, bad choice of words. Smooth. He cleared his throat. “Sorry, Luke. That was insensitive. What I meant was, I need to talk before you talk. Okay? Thanks.”
Bridger yanked Luke onto the grass.
Summer followed, undeterred. Her high heels sunk into the soft ground of the Michigan spring, and she cursed.
Bridger took the opportunity to drag Luke farther. “Hey, sorry, but are you sure you want to do this?” Bridger asked, genuinely concerned, not just for his life, but for Luke as well. “This lady is a harpy, and, believe me, I don’t say that lightly.”
“Bridger, they’re paying me money. Enough to be able to afford a tux and a limo for prom. And maybe the girl I want to ask will say yes if she knows that.”
Bridger’s eyebrows climbed into his hairline. “You’re doing this for money? Luke, I’ll give you money not to do it. Seriously, have you watched the show?”
Luke pried Bridger’s fingers from his arm. “Yeah, I watched the first season on Netflix. It wasn’t bad.”
“The first season is fine, but have you seen the recent one? The format changes over the years. And the lovely host morphs from interested investigative reporter to snide zombie who pokes fun at the people she meets in towns like ours.”
“I take offense to that,” Summer interjected. She’d managed to unstick herself and wobble over. “That’s libel.”
“No, it’s not,” Bridger shot back.
“Yeah, technically it’s slander,” Luke said.
“Not helpful.” Bridger rubbed the headache blossoming at his temple. “But what he said. What kind of reporter are you if you don’t know the difference?”
She flicked her silky hair over her shoulder. “Come on, Luke. Let’s get this done before we lose the light.”
“Oh no. That sounds serious. Like it could wreck the shot. It would be disastrous. Maybe Luke should think this over a little bit more and talk to you tomorrow when you’re not in danger of losing the light and destroying
the whole show.”
Summer was unimpressed.
“Bridger,” Luke said, nose wrinkled, brow furrowed. “Why do you even care? It’s not like we’re friends.”
“Yes,” Summer said, interjecting. “Why do you care? Bridger, was it?”
Bridger glared at her. “I just don’t want to see anyone hurt or embarrassed. That’s all.”
“Is it because of the beach incident?” Luke asked, frowning. “Are you, like, embarrassed you drowned? Is this a Leo thing? I wouldn’t worry about it. He talks about you all the time, it’s kind of annoying.”
Bridger internally groaned and resisted the urge to bury his face in his hands.
“Wait,” Summer said, smile growing sharp, eyes narrowing. “You’re that kid? The beach kid?”
Bridger faced Summer. He put his hands on his hips, stuck out his chin, and glared back. Lying wasn’t really an option since Luke had given him away, and, whatever, who cared what this woman would think. His friends had all witnessed what happened. He’d puked on Leo’s sandals, and Leo still wanted to date him. “Yeah, I’m that kid.”
“Bridger, huh. Interesting name.”
“Thanks.”
“You were the kid who was pulled under? Anything else you want to tell me?”
“No.”
She smirked and cocked her head; blonde hair swished flawlessly. “Hey, Luke, why don’t you head over to my camera guy, Matt, and let me talk to your friend here.”
Luke shrugged. “Okay.”
“No, wait, hold on. Luke!” Bridger tried, but Luke walked away, and he was left with Summer. The way she looked at him made him feel like a bug under a magnifying glass. He crossed his arms and lifted his chin, desperate to exude confidence, but inwardly he squirmed.
“Look, kid.” She twirled the microphone chord. “I’ve interviewed a ton of teenagers over the past decade, and they all pretty much fall into two categories: the fame seekers and the yokels. I don’t care which one you are or which one your friend is. I don’t care if you got a cramp while you were swimming with your friends and nearly drowned and instead of admitting you were a dumbass, you thought you’d save face by coming up with a story. Maybe this is a fame-grab for your friend. He thinks being on television will make him popular with the girls. Whatever the reason, let me be clear. I don’t care. Okay?”
