by F. T. Lukens
Bridger bristled. “I bet you’re a delight at parties.”
“Oh,” she said, adjusting the straps on her blouse. “You’re mouthy. A know-it-all, huh?”
Bridger crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m just looking out for my friends. I’ve watched your show. I see how you treat the people you interview, especially in your later seasons. And I don’t want you humiliating my friends, my town, over some weird shit that happened in the fall. Yeah, there probably aren’t a bunch of cryptids running around Midden.” Just call him Liar Mcliarface. “But people experienced something they couldn’t explain, and it scared them or hurt them. And if they want to believe in a phenomenon or a piece of folklore to comfort themselves, as a coping mechanism, then that is okay for them. It’s not for you to judge and it’s not for you to make fun of and it certainly isn’t for you to decide what’s real and what’s not.”
Her perfectly arched eyebrows shot up. “Oh. You’re the third kind—a believer.”
Clenching his jaw, Bridger shook with anger, then with shock. “Wait. What?”
“You really think there was something that pulled you down.” She perked up; her blue eyes were alight. “What did you see when you went under?”
Uh oh. He’d said too much. Danger. Danger!
“I saw nothing.”
“Uh huh.” She pressed a finger to his chest so her pink manicured nail dimpled the fabric of his T-shirt. “You’re interesting. I think I’m going to keep my eye on you.”
Oops. “I’m really not.” Back pedal! “You’re right. I’m in it for the fame.” Harder! “Totally for the fame. Or, what was that other option? Yokel? Just ask my friends. I am not smart. I’m also the literal definition of strange. Really, really odd. And off-putting. Seriously awkward.” Okay, maybe that was a little too hard.
“Uh huh.”
“Hey!” Leo showed up, winded, dressed for baseball, bag over one shoulder, and glove in his hand. He stopped next to Bridger; his shoulder banged into Bridger’s arm. “Hands off.”
She shook her head. “You teenagers are so cute. Teeming with hormones and impulsivity. So ready to be offended and rush in when you’re not needed.”
“Hey, Summer! We need to get a move on if we’re going to make it to the haunted bakery tonight.”
“In a minute,” she called back.
“Anything else you two have to say?”
Bridger clenched his jaw. He grasped Leo’s hand. “No.”
“Great.”
“I do, actually.” In a cloud of perfume, Lacey appeared, holding her phone, and with her pouty lips pulled into an uncharacteristic frown.
Startled, Bridger looked over Summer’s shoulder and saw the whole group standing there listening, and he wondered just how long they’d been there.
“I heard what Bridger said,” Lacey continued, defiant and calm. She turned her phone screen to where Summer could see it. “And he’s right. Unless you’re going to take us seriously, we don’t want you here.”
Whoa. No. “That’s not what I said!” Bridger waved his hands. “That’s the opposite of what I said. The literal opposite! And since when do you listen to me?”
Lacey’s expression was set on serious, one that Bridger didn’t often see on her. The picture she showed was from the beach incident. It was of Bridger, passed out on the sand with blood running down his leg from the gashes. Dripping, Pavel stood over him next to Leo. She swiped the screen, and there was a photo of her own scratch from the mermaids. Then another swipe and she showed Bridger on his side, gagging, while Pavel, Leo, and Astrid hovered. Awesome. As if that moment couldn’t get more humiliating.
Summer tapped the screen. “Interesting.”
Zeke brandished his phone as well. And on the screen was a picture of Luke in the hospital, wrapped in bandages, bruised, bloodied, and swollen. Then there was another kid, whose phone showed the damage to the cars after the football game, and the sparkles the unicorn’s hooves had left on the crunched metal.
And suddenly, the whole group had stories: about running from the ball fields the day the Ozark Howler showed up, about going to a club and someone making out with a strange guy and feeling weak for days afterward, about the traffic problems at the bridge and the acid burns on the concrete roadbed.
Bridger gasped, stepping backward as the crowd surged forward to yell at Summer, and he rubbed his sternum with his fist.
The lesson Pavel had given him about belief and human perception slammed into his consciousness. People dismissed the strange when there was no validation. They chalked up shimmering unicorn tracks and troll traffic jams to tricks of the light or other mundane reasons, rejecting the fantastical when a real-world solution was presented, especially if they were the only witness or if someone with them denied experiencing the same thing.
But now, Bridger had just given his friends corroboration. With one ill-timed speech, he’d turned them from slightly interested parties into true believers. He had meddled.
“What have I done?” he whispered.
Summer raised her hands. “All right,” she yelled, smirk still firmly in place. She turned to Matt. “We’ll postpone the bakery until tomorrow afternoon. This is much more interesting.” She addressed the crowd. “I want to talk with each of you.” She winked at Bridger. “Especially you.”
“The answer is no. Thanks.”
“Now, Bridger.” She tilted her microphone toward him. “You can’t create chaos and then run. That doesn’t seem fair.”
His heart quickened. His breath stuttered. He rubbed his chest harder. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead.
A large, black beetle buzzed into the group and landed on Lacey’s shoulder. It crawled along the strap of her tank top then pulled a strand of her hair.
She shrieked.
The bug took off, only to bump right into Summer’s forehead, before careening toward Zeke. He ducked and swatted uselessly, nailing another kid in the cheek. And suddenly, everyone was yelling about bugs and allergies. They ran for cover.
Bridger took a step back, yanking Leo with him, but the bug didn’t come near them. The mutant beetle bounced from screeching student to screeching student, then, after a few minutes of terrorizing the crowd, it zoomed away.
“That was weird,” Bridger said.
“Coming from you, that means something,” Leo said.
Once the coast was clear, the cameraman, Matt, crept forward from where he had ducked behind the van. “Summer,” he said. She peeked around the open back door.
“Yes?”
“We lost the light.”
She muttered a curse and stomped her foot. “Fine. Round up the kids. We’ll get everyone’s names and numbers and we can collect information tomorrow.”
That was Bridger’s cue to flee. He tugged Leo, and together they walked briskly away and back to the baseball field.
“What are you going to do?” Leo’s glove was tucked under his arm, and his ball cap sat askew on his head.
Bridger’s headache returned in full force. “I don’t know.” Pavel said not to worry, but he’d also said not to meddle. “I think I screwed up.” He gulped. “I need to talk to Pavel.”
“Rivera! Get on the field! Or are you not planning to play on Friday?”
Leo winced. “Gotta go. I’ll call you tonight.” He pecked Bridger on the cheek and then bolted to the dugout and out to shortstop. “Sorry, coach!”
Bridger brushed his fingers over the spot on his cheek. His body tingled from his scalp to the tips of his toes and he grinned.
Then he remembered everything else, and his stomach dropped to his knees.
Chapter 6
“I thought I was explicit in telling you not to interact with Summer Lore.”
Bridger winced as Pavel paced around his living room.
“I didn’t mean to, if it’s any c
onsolation. I really tried to walk away. It was just… I got caught up. She’s, um, you weren’t wrong. She’s magnetic. I see why you have a crush.”
Pavel cast him a withering glare. Rubbing the bridge of his nose, he turned on his heel and stalked to the toasters. He used his sleeve to wipe off a fingerprint.
“The toasters have been quiet. No emergencies from her presence. Yet.”
Bridger hunched his shoulders. What he wouldn’t give for handful of pixie dust so he could disappear into the cushions of one of Pavel’s chairs. Bridger had seen Pavel angry—it had been terrifying, and Bridger hoped never to see it directed at him again. This was more along the lines of I-know-you-broke-the-lamp-when-I-told-you-not-to-play-basketball-in-the-house disappointment than I-am-magic-and-pissed-off anger. Still, upsetting Pavel was the worst.
“I’m sorry.”
Pavel waved away the apology. He crossed to the window and put his hands on his hips. The afternoon sun threw him into sharp profile: the curve of his nose, the cut of his cheekbones, the bird-like quality of his frame. His tan trench coat hung off his shoulders as if they were a wire coat hanger, and the hem ruffled around the knees of his pinstripe trousers.
“I need to talk to my mentor.” His accent thickened, and he clipped his words, which made the consonants sound harsher. “I should check protocol again for interacting with the media. Not that I am strict with protocol.” He shrugged. “But Aurelius may have some wisdom.”
Bridger knotted his fingers. “What should I do?”
Looking over his shoulder, Pavel knit his brows. “Stay away from her.”
Bridger hung his head. “Yeah, I know that part.” He scratched the back of his head. “But this week I’m scheduled to see Ginny and pick up an order for the pixies. But—”
“That’s fine. Go.”
Bridger knew a dismissal when he heard one, but he couldn’t resist pressing on a bruise. “I want to help with this. Is there anything I can do?”
“Oh, I think you’ve done enough.”
Bridger slumped.
Pavel sighed. He leaned on the wall, facing Bridger, and crossed his arms. “Sorry. That was… I know you only have good intentions, Bridger. I’m not doubting that. Your judgment isn’t stellar. But again, you’re young and impulsive. We all make mistakes. And I’m sure this will work out with a little intervention. But let me handle it. You have enough on your plate.”
“Okay. Okay. I really am sorry.”
“I know. I’m not going to lie and say it’s okay, especially since you went directly against what I asked, but I will say that I’m positive it will be fine.”
“Thanks for that.”
“You’re welcome. Now, move along. You don’t want to be out too late. Get a good night’s rest so you can look at things clearly in the morning.”
“Did you, did you just parent me?” The edges of Bridger’s mouth ticked up despite the mood.
Pavel lifted his finger. “No, I did not. I merely offered advice.”
“Ha!” Bridger said. He stood and grabbed his bag. “You totally did!”
“I would be a lackluster parent.”
No. No, he wouldn’t. Bridger had experience with a lackluster parent and Pavel would be anything but lackluster. Odd, maybe. Full of dad jokes, most likely. Distant on occasion. But all parents had flaws. Anyway, he’d be awesome, but Bridger was not about to tell him that. It’d be weird.
“Anyway, time to go. Chop, chop. I know you have homework.”
“You did it again!” Bridger crowed, as he rounded the banister. Pavel’s irritated sputter followed him down the stairs. Bridger snickered as he thumped his way to the first floor. He hopped over the last few steps and hit the floor with a thud. Mindy’s bobbleheads wobbled.
“Hey, Mindy,” Bridger said with a wave. She had a large pink flower tucked into her sculpted mound of blond hair. Bridger didn’t know if it was there on purpose or if she’d walked under one of the flowering trees on Pavel’s front lawn and one had stuck. She wore a burnt-orange jacket over a pink blouse and a matching pink skirt. “How are you today?”
She played a game on her phone and ignored him.
“I’m great, thanks. Pavel yelled at me a little, but otherwise I’m doing well. How’s your bobble-head family? Good?” Bridger teased, but stopped short when he noticed that the usual army of bobbleheads had thinned. One, a dog dressed as a mail carrier, had been painted with crossed eyes. Bridger didn’t like it, and had tried not to look at it, but it had sat in a prominent space on Mindy’s desk and been difficult to avoid. Now it wasn’t there.
“Hey, what happened to cross-eyed Postman Rover?”
Mindy sighed. “Do you need something?”
“Obviously not,” Bridger replied, hefting his backpack higher on his shoulders. “I’m only talking to annoy you.”
Her expression soured, and she went back to her phone.
Huh. Strange. Well, not really. Bridger never had a good read on Mindy.
“Okay, I’m leaving. See you tomorrow.”
Casting one last look over his shoulder at Mindy, Bridger left the house, and made his way to the bus stop.
* * *
The next day after school, Bridger grabbed the bus to downtown to visit Ginny at the bakery. His phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and scrunched his nose at a text from an unfamiliar number.
Is this Bridger?
He typed back Yes.
The phone rang. He swiped his thumb over the screen to accept the call.
“Hello?”
“Bridger, it’s Luke. I got your number from Leo. I hope that’s okay.”
Bridger shot straight up from his uncrowded-bus sprawl. “Yeah. It’s fine. Is everything okay? Is it the interview? Did Summer say something weird? Ask you to do anything weird? Was there weirdness?”
There was a pause. “Um, no. That’s not why I’m calling.”
“Oh.” Relief was a palpable thing, like a cold bucket of water over his nervous system. “Um, why are you calling then?”
“I want to ask Astrid to prom.”
“Oh,” Bridger said, taken aback. And then giddiness spread through him. “I mean, awesome. That’s awesome.”
“Do you think she’ll say yes?”
Bridger had no fucking clue whether or not she’d say yes. Astrid had never given an opinion one way or another about Luke. She hadn’t given much information on her crush levels since Bridger’s Leo-awakening. She held her cards close to her chest in that area. Or maybe Astrid didn’t have a crush-interest now. She always said teenage boys were pretty gross and she wasn’t wrong. She also hadn’t given any indication of being into other genders, other than the occasional comment on how beautiful certain people were. Natalie Dormer was their most recent topic of conversation, and who didn’t have a crush on Natalie Dormer?
“Luke, I have no idea. But I think she’d appreciate being asked.”
There was another pause. “That’s not helpful, Bridger.”
“Yeah. Sorry. Look, she lamented to me that no one had asked her yet. And I know she wants to go. That’s all I got.”
“Okay. Well. Do you think, I mean, I kind of have an idea for a promposal. Would she like that? I mean, does she like attention? Or do you think I should ask privately?”
And that, that was a question Bridger could answer without a doubt. “Luke, make it as big and obnoxious as you want. She’ll love it.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yeah. Trust me. And if you ask the field hockey team, I know they’d help.”
“Awesome. Thanks, Bridger. I’ll do it.”
Bridger’s mom always warned him that if he made faces that his muscles might stick that way, but he wouldn’t mind his face forever pulled into the biggest grin ever.
Bridger bounded up the steps to Gimme Some Sugar
, Baby, the bakery on Fifth Street in downtown Midden. It was an old building, made of brick, with the front stoop directly on Main Street. Bridger hopped off the city bus a few blocks down. He liked the short walk along the sidewalk, where old trees grew from fenced off squares of soil. The thick branches offered dappled shade and whispered above him in the breeze, and the large roots curled, cracking the sidewalk. Bridger always jumped over them--funny how superstitious he’d become.
Downtown Midden seemed like another world, so different from the perfectly planned and manicured Commons. It was organic in a way that the rest of the city wasn’t, as if the little shops and odd-angled streets popped up from the ground, much as flowers did in the cracks in the concrete in the spring. Bridger rarely visited downtown, because finding a parking spot was a nightmare, and Astrid wasn’t great at parallel parking. And a lot of the area was boarded up or had for-rent signs in the window, so there wasn’t much to do, other than walk around, see a movie at the weird-smell, sticky-floor theater, or eat. Since Ginny had moved into the bakery, Bridger had a reason to visit and amble.
The owners of Gimme Some Sugar, Baby were middle-aged hipsters, a couple named Peter and Meadow, who had an affinity for Bruce Campbell movies, baking, and flannel. They lived above the store in a studio apartment. They were also surprisingly chill about the fact that their bakery was haunted, and that Bridger regularly visited to talk with their ghost.
When he pushed open the door, the bell above him jangled, and Bridger waved. Rock music played at a low volume overhead, and the air was heavy with the smell of chocolate chip cookies.
Peter held up a brown paper bag. “Ginger cakes, lemon bars, and frosted brownies.” He set the bounty next to the register. “Tell Mr. Chudinov we say hello and thank his friends for their timely payment.”
“Thanks, Peter. I will.” Bridger grabbed the bag and rounded the counter. He let himself into their storage room and hopped up on a bar stool at a table.
