by F. T. Lukens
“Not really, Buck.”
“Okay.”
They rode in silence. Bridger studied his hands and picked at his fingernails; his thoughts were a whir; his anxiety was at an all-time high. Knowing how to handle his moods better than he did, Astrid let him stew. She really was his best friend, but the Marvel nicknames didn’t quite fit any more. He didn’t feel like Captain America—maybe pre-serum Steve Rogers, always jumping into things he couldn’t handle—but not the upright paragon of truth and justice. But to be fair, all Astrid and Bucky Barnes shared was their badassness and their ability to wear killer eyeshadow.
When Astrid dropped him off, she gave him a sympathetic look and an awkward side-hug before he exited the car.
“I’ll see you tomorrow. You’ll be okay.”
“Thanks.”
Using his key, he opened the door and dropped his backpack at the foot of the stairs.
“Answer your father’s text!” His mom yelled from the kitchen as soon as he entered, followed by the sounds of pots and pans clanging and the stove hissing. “He’s been driving me crazy.”
Oh, yeah. Bridger pulled his phone from his pocket and checked his texts.
Dinner, tomorrow?
Ugh. No. He really didn’t want to, but this was Dad making an effort--too little too late, maybe, but at least effort.
Sure. Time & place?
7pm. I’ll pick you up at home.
Great. Not really. C u then.
“He wants to have dinner tomorrow. I told him yes.”
“Okay. That’s fine!”
“I have homework. I’ll be in my room.”
Bridger fled before his mom could answer. He threw his bag in his computer chair and slumped on the bed, falling back onto the pillows. He draped his forearm over his eyes.
How had everything become such a mess? All he wanted to do was be happy, graduate, have a job and a boyfriend, and exist in something other than chaos and panic. Was that too tall an order?
Marv padded out from beneath the bed, jumped up next to him, curled under his chin, and purred.
“Thanks, Marv,” he said, scratching behind the kitten’s ears. With her comfort and with the exhaustion from the day, he fell asleep.
Chapter 10
“I don’t know how you do it, Whitt,” Taylor said.
Bridger raised an eyebrow. He checked another name off the list of pre-sale yearbook pickups and handed a freshman her magical book of memories.
“Do what?”
Taylor hovered over him, supervising as he unenthusiastically passed out yearbooks at a table in the cafeteria.
“Not constantly break in half from jealousy.”
Bridger raised an eyebrow and handed a sophomore guy his yearbook. The kid blushed when they knocked hands, and Bridger shook his head at his own awkwardness.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Taylor.”
They slapped their hand on his shoulder. “Over there.”
Bridger looked up from his list and spied Leo across the room. He had a group of admirers around him, all fighting to sign his yearbook. Leo laughed, clutched the book to his chest, and waved off the crowd.
“What?”
“Your boyfriend is the hottest guy in school and is fawned over constantly. How are you not a ball of nerves?”
Oh, little did they know. Bridger was a constant ball of nerves. In fact, Bridger had traded in his bones, muscle, and brain for extra nerves and, as such, was one massive, twitching mess with no direction, self-control, foresight, or body. But seeing Leo across the room, being his genuinely awesome self, wasn’t anything nerve-wracking. In fact, it was a comfort knowing that Bridger’s mess was not affecting Leo and his happiness.
“Why would I be? Leo and I are together, but that doesn’t mean I have to be with him every second of the day. He has a life. I have a life. He has friends. I have friends.”
“You’re not worried about breakup week?”
Bridger rolled his neck. He was developing a crick from constantly looking down at the list of names. “Breakup week? Never heard of her.”
“The week after prom and before graduation. All the couples break up. They wait until after prom to make sure they have a date, and then break up before heading off to college.”
Bridger had never heard of breakup week. It wasn’t something he’d ever thought would be on his radar. Having a boyfriend or girlfriend his senior year hadn’t been in the hand of cards Bridger assumed he’d been dealt. “That’s unfortunate. But I’m not worried.”
“Huh. Okay then. Good for you, I guess.”
Bridger shoved another book across the table and tried not to scowl when he spied a girl trying to tug Leo’s yearbook out of his hands.
Leo shook his head and held on, though he wielded a pen and signed a page for the girl. He dropped a few more signatures for the group. He smiled as he did so, his eyes crinkled. Then he extricated himself from the group and made his way to Bridger. He plopped down in the empty seat beside him despite Taylor’s sniff.
“This side of the table for yearbook staff only.”
“Do I get to leave then?” Bridger asked. “Because I’m technically not yearbook staff. And I’d rather not spend my limited after-school time here.”
Taylor grumbled something uncomplimentary but allowed Leo to stay.
“Hey,” Leo said, knocking his shoulder into Bridger’s. “Will you sign my yearbook?”
“Yeah. Of course.”
Bridger accepted the book and flipped through the pages, hoping to find an empty space where he could write a cute message. All the signature pages were blank. No message or scribbles to be found. No hearts or smileys or jokes. Nothing.
“I wanted you to be the first to sign it.” Leo leaned on Bridger’s side and handed over a sharpie. “It was a battle, but, you know, you may not have been the first friend I made when I moved here, but you’re certainly my favorite.”
Bridger’s throat went tight. “Will you sign mine?”
Leo’s grin blinded him. “Yes. But shouldn’t Astrid be the first?”
“She was the first…” and only “…person to sign it last year. I think it’s safe for you to be the first this year.” Bridger grabbed one from the stack and handed it over.
“Have you even looked in it yet?” Leo asked.
“Not really. Why?” Bridger didn’t see the point of looking through it. He’d already seen his own senior picture. It was unflattering at best. And Astrid’s wasn’t much better, since her mother had made her remove all her piercings and have only her natural hair color—light brown—in the picture. It made Astrid look not like Astrid, but like a watered-down version of herself. Leo’s was, of course, perfect.
Chuckling, Leo flipped to the section about homecoming and held it up. There they were, on the sidelines during the homecoming game, kissing. Bridger cupped Leo’s cheeks, and Leo’s helmet dangled from his fingertips, and the scoreboard was lit up behind them.
“Oh,” Bridger said, flushing. He laughed awkwardly. “Oh.”
“Yeah.” Leo said with a grin. “Isn’t it awesome? Our first kiss is immortalized in the yearbook.”
“It is, isn’t it?” Bridger should be mortified, but he wasn’t. He was giddy with the fact that his big, old, coming-out kiss took up half a page. He ran his hand over the glossy finish. “It’s amazing.”
“You really didn’t know?”
Bridger shook his head. “No. I didn’t.”
“I’m glad I got to show you then.” His cheeks dimpled. “Hey, I have to get to practice. You keep that.” Leo tapped his yearbook. “I’ll get it back from you later. And I’ll keep this one and write something nice and sweet in it.”
Finding it hard to speak, Bridger nodded. “Sounds good.” Bridger gave him a quick peck on the lips. “I have dinner wit
h my dad tonight, so I probably won’t get to talk to you until really late.”
Leo’s expression turned fierce. He had a glint in his brown eyes Bridger had only seen on the sports fields. “I can be on standby if you need me to swoop in again. I can borrow my mom’s car. I’m sure she’ll let me if I explain the situation.”
Bridger could’ve hugged him. As it was, his belly filled with butterflies. He laced his fingers with Leo’s and rested his forehead on Leo’s shoulder. “Nah. I should be okay. But thank you. That means a lot.”
“Hey, you’d do it for me.”
“In a heartbeat.”
Leo softened. “I know.” He tightened his hold on Bridger’s hand. “I have to go now though. Coach will be upset if I’m late. If we win tomorrow, we have a good chance at the state tournament.”
“Okay. Hit a hundred home runs.”
“That’s not how the game works, Bridge,” Leo said on a laugh. “But I’ll try.”
They disentangled, and Leo slid Bridger’s yearbook into his bag, then looped it over his shoulder. “I’ll talk to you tonight.”
“Okay. Later.”
Bridger watched Leo walk away, admiring both the view and the way Leo cast a lingering glance over his shoulder and waved, before turning the corner for the locker room.
“You should’ve asked him if he knew about breakup week,” Taylor said, looming over Bridger’s shoulder.
Bridger let his head fall foreword until it thumped on the table.
After the cafeteria had mostly cleared and he’d handed out more yearbooks than he had ever wanted to touch, he raised his hands above his head and stretched his back, then promptly had a heart attack when the sound of every piano key mashed at once came from his backpack. He avoided Taylor’s raised eyebrow and scurried to the nearest secluded corner. He flipped open the compact and snorted. Pavel’s idea of a text message stared back at him. He’d trained the compact to ring once, then aimed it at a handwritten note, propped up on the small table in the living room.
Come to the house when you can was written in Pavel’s tiny, messy script on a piece of torn parchment.
Bridger snapped the compact closed. “Ridiculous.”
He shoved it into his bag and looped the strap over his shoulder. “Later, Taylor. I have to get to work.”
They waved as Bridger left the building. A quick look satisfied him that Summer wasn’t lurking, and he headed to the bus stop. He nodded to the route driver, whom Bridger had come to know fairly well, plopped into his usual seat, took out the yearbook, and flipped through the pages until he landed on the shot of him and Leo kissing. The caption was about the game, a quick wrap-up about the loss despite heroic efforts. Bridger snorted. Heroic efforts indeed.
He continued to look through the yearbook until the bus stopped at Pavel’s neighborhood. His shoulders were a tense line, and his kept his hood up and head down, just in case Summer lurked nearby. She wasn’t allowed in the school building, so Bridger was safe there, and she couldn’t enter Pavel’s house, but all spaces in between were fair game. He was on edge the entire walk to Pavel’s and broke into a jog once it came into view.
He bounded into over the threshold. When magic buzzed over his skin as he passed through the warded door, Bridger was finally able to relax. Standing in the foyer of Pavel’s house, he felt the cramp in his muscles ease and the racing of his pulse slow.
“Hey, Mindy,” Bridger said, sidling over to the desk. He took stock of the bobbleheads and noticed more were missing. He picked up a sheep wearing sunglasses, hat, and a wolf’s tail. A sheep in wolf’s clothing. Hilarious. “Why so many casualties in your bobblehead army?” Bridger asked, shaking the sheep slightly so the head wobbled. “Is there some kind of bobblehead migration going on? Are you making room for more? Please tell me you are gradually switching out the old ones for new ones to creepily stare at me when I’m down here.”
Mindy blinked; her orange eyeshadow swept like flames across her eyelids. Her expression didn’t change when she slid a piece of paper across her desk. “Sign your sheet.”
“A woman of few words. I admire that.”
Her frosted lips pulled into a tiny smirk. Mindy tapped her orange nail on the blank space for Bridger to write down his times and sign. Dutifully, Bridger clocked in and signed his name with a flourish worthy of John Hancock.
“Mindy, are you going to tell me why your figurines are slowly disappearing? Is it a plague? A relocation program? Did they witness a crime? Oh, oh, don’t tell me Bran made good on his threat and is trying to find a way to make the cute cat with wings come alive.”
Mindy sighed heavily and went back to her phone.
“Fine, don’t tell me. But I’ll find out,” Bridger wagged a finger at her and turned to the stairs.
“You’re a good kid.”
Bridger stopped short. He craned his neck to see Mindy watching him with an expression other than bored disinterest. It unnerved him.
“What?”
“You’re a good kid. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
Weird. “Mindy?” Bridger clutched the straps of his backpack. “Is something wrong?”
“No.”
Bridger frowned. “You’re okay, right?”
Back to her clandestine self, she didn’t answer or look at him. Instead, she clacked away on her keyboard, effectively ignoring him.
He cleared his throat and headed for the stairs. “Thanks though. I needed to hear that.”
Mindy’s typing paused, for only a second, then resumed.
Bridger continued his trek to the second floor and Pavel’s study. Nia greeted him as he stepped onto the landing. Her wings fluttered; her movements were perceivable only as a flash of pink as she zipped around the room. In a corner, a cauldron bubbled, balanced on a hot plate that was plugged into the wall.
“What’s cooking?”
“Nothing that concerns you,” Nia said, all business, as she dropped a handful of something into the pot. “Thank you for the shipment from Grandma Alice. Shame about the black blister beetles. I need them for the hand lotion.”
Bridger reined in a gag. “I can’t believe you sell this stuff.”
“Believe it, human.” She stirred the thick concoction with a long-handled spoon. “I sold out of the anti-aging cream. We’ll need more unicorn donations soon. And the acne treatment is flying off the shelves.”
Bridger flopped into a high-backed chair. “I’ve heard. Pavel told me he was helping you ship packages.”
“Yes. It’s hard work, and Pasha is the only one who can travel to the post office.” She fluttered to a bookcase filled with jars and pulled one out. “We’ve been forbidden.”
Stifling a grin, Bridger rubbed his hand over his mouth. “But do you enjoy it?”
Nia smiled, all sharp glinting teeth. “Yes. Now that Pasha has you, I am able to pursue other interests. Such as potions and cosmetics. It’s fulfilling.”
“That’s great. Glad my existence is useful sometimes.” Bridger propped his elbows on his knees. “Have you talked to Pavel today? Did he tell you about stuff?”
Nia upended a jar of powder into the cauldron. The bubbling increased, and plumes of green and pink smoke rolled over the sides and slid to the floor. Nia stirred madly, grunting with effort; pink sparkles shot everywhere.
“No. He hasn’t mentioned anything special.”
Dragging a cloth bag, Bran buzzed into the room. “Three pig hairs, a crow feather, and a moth wing,” he said, dropping the bag next to Nia’s supplies.
“Thank you, Bran. You may now eat a Pop-Tart.”
Bran pumped his fist and let out a squeaky sound as he dove into the kitchen cupboard. He emerged with a cookies-and-cream Pop-Tart in his hands, and his mouth, and his hair.
“Hi, Bridger,” Bran said. Flecks of chocolate and frosting went everywhere.
Bridger flinched. “You’re gross.”
“You’re gross,” Bran retorted.
“You’re all gross.” Pavel leaned over the railing from the third floor. “Bridger, up here.”
“Why? Aren’t we going to talk? Shouldn’t Bran and Nia be in on the conversation? I mean, we’re coming up with a plan, right?”
“We’re not worrying about Summer Lore today,” Pavel said, beckoning Bridger to the third floor. He held a bouquet and had a bag looped over his shoulder. “We have other duties.”
“Really? Pavel, I don’t think we should be ignoring the lady that could literally ruin your life, my life, and the lives of the myth community of the Midwest.”
“It’ll keep.”
“Pavel,” Bridger rubbed his brow, “you are stressing me out. All of this is stressing me out.”
“Exactly.”
Frustration, thy name is Pavel Chudinov. “I don’t think—”
“Bridger,” Pavel cut him off. “Trust me.”
Bridger wilted. “Fine. Okay. Whatever.”
“That’s the spirit.” He slapped the glossy railing. “Come along.”
Bridger climbed the stairs to the topmost floor. He spied the blue door down a hallway to his right. They passed the headless mannequin, which Pavel really needed to address because creepy.
“I know. I know,” Pavel said. “I’ll do something with it later.”
They ducked into a room, literally ducked, since the ceiling slanted in odd places.
Pavel straightened the high collar of his jacket—a leather thing that looked appropriate for a James Dean movie—and opened the closet door. At first glance, the closet was empty. The shadows coalesced into a gleaming mass of swirling chaos, semi-sentient, and pure magic. Infinite space and time, stars and black holes and nebulas, beginnings and endings, births and deaths, the first breath and the last gasp—the enormity of existence manifested in the enclosed area of a closet. Bridger peered at the undulating viscosity of the portal, and it peered back at him, waiting, humming, expectant.
“Hello, we’d like to visit Ada, please.” Pavel touched the surface and it slithered up to his wrist. “Thank you. Yes. The cemetery is perfect.”
