Goodbye Stranger Read Free

said. She looked at Bridge. “Forever.”
    “And ever,” Tab said.
    But Bridge understood that life didn’t balance anymore. Life was a too-tall stack of books that had started to lean to one side, and each new day was another book on top.

MAYBE
    Emily had long legs, and her chest jiggled a little when she moved. She probably jiggled exactly the right amount. And it didn’t slow her down on the soccer field. At all.
    “Wow, she just exploded, ” Bridge heard someone say after Em scored a goal during the first game of the season. But she wasn’t sure if it was Emily’s speed or her body that was exploding. She and Tab watched the kids running back and forth in the knee-high dust. It was almost October but still summer-hot.
    “So what’s with the ears?” Tab asked.
    Bridge shrugged. “They’re ears.”
    “It’s been a week. How long are you going to wear them?”
    “I don’t know.” Bridge could feel Tab studying her, but she didn’t turn her head. “Maybe until it rains?” She touched the cat ears carefully with four fingers. “I don’t want them to get wet.”
    “Are you okay?” Tab asked.
    “Sure,” Bridge said.
    —
    On the last day of September, Bridge kissed her locker for the last time and Emily got a text from a boy. It had not rained. Bridge was still wearing the ears.

    The text was from an eighth grader. It said: S’up?
    “Wild,” Em said.
    “Are you gonna text him back?” Tab asked.
    “Maybe,” Emily said.
    —
    On the first day of October, Emily got a text from a boy asking for a picture.
    “Same boy,” Em said. “That eighth grader. His name is Patrick. Very cute, actually. And he plays soccer.” They were sitting against the fence after Emily’s second win.
    “A picture of what?” Tab asked, pulling at the dry grass. She was stirring up dust that made Bridge want to sneeze.
    Emily laughed. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not doing it.”
    “Send him a picture of your feet,” Bridge suggested.
    And so Emily took a picture of her dirt-covered soccer cleats and texted it to Patrick.
    Ten seconds later, he texted Emily a picture of his sneakers.
    “Ha,” Emily said, shoving her phone into her bag. “He thinks he’s funny.”

VALENTINE’S DAY
    You should have known about Vinny. You did know. You’d known ever since that day last fall, when it was the three of you, playing one of Vinny’s games. You watched her blindfold Zoe, who sat obediently on your kitchen floor while Vinny quietly cut a slice from a banana, giggling and telling you to shush. She fed the banana slice to Zoe with a spoon, saying, “Don’t peek! Don’t peek!”
    Then it was your turn. You sat smiling on the floor, blindfolded with a pair of your own black tights, and Vinny came with her spoon, laughing. “Open wide!”
    It was a spoonful of pure cinnamon. You choked and ran to the bathroom to spit and spit and spit into the sink before you came out, smiling again, eyes watering. Ha. No big deal. At dinner that night your sister asked you three times what was wrong. Nothing, you said. Nothing. Until your mom told her you were just being a teenager.
    A week later, you asked Gina if she felt like hanging out. She hadn’t gone to your middle school, and her sense of humor made geometry bearable.
    Big mistake. Vinny’s eyes feasted on Gina’s clothes, her sneakers, her lack of purse. As soon as the four of you were in your room, Vinny clapped her hands and called out, “Tasting game!”

    This time you got the banana. And then you watched Vinny feed Gina a spoonful of black pepper. She couldn’t stop coughing and had to go home, apologizing.
    Gina was the one who apologized.
    You were the one who let it happen.
    —
    You can’t stand this freezing-cold playground for another minute. Your mom must have left for work by now. You want your bed. You want to lie down and disappear. But first you have to get home: six blocks. You don’t want to have to explain yourself to anyone, especially anyone who