The Bridge From Me to You

  “What kind of fund-raiser? Like a car wash or going door-to-door …?”

  Her eyes are big and bright. “I know. We’ll have a gigantic bake sale. Like, the biggest bake sale ever. I can ask Mr. Curtiss to donate some doughnuts from the shop. And we could make stuff, and ask a bunch of other people to make stuff.”

  I hold my hands up. “Whoa, hold on. The only thing I’ve ever baked was an angel food cake where all we had to do was add water to the mix. I don’t think you want me making something I’d probably have to pay people to eat.”

  She shakes her head. “Colby Pynes, are you serious? You’ve never baked cupcakes or chocolate chip cookies or brownies?”

  I shrug. “No.”

  “That is so sad.”

  “Well, when you don’t have a mom around most of your life … But you know, I could ask my grandma to make something. And I can help you with other stuff. Advertising. Setting up. Whatever.”

  “We’ll need to do all of that, of course, but we will make something. It’ll be more fun than playing with potato bugs, I promise.”

  “Wait, I know,” I say. “We could put potato bugs in whatever we’re making. Now that would be fun.”

  She wrinkles her nose. “Gross. You’re such a … boy.”

  I hold my hands up. “Hey, you’re the one who wanted to be friends with me, remember?”

  “I remember,” she says as she grabs a notebook and a pen from her backpack, opens it up, and starts writing.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “Making a list. We have a lot to do.” She looks up and must see panic in my eyes. “Don’t worry. Football comes first for you. I get it.”

  “Just so you know,” I say as I look down at the field, “I wish it didn’t.”

  I gotta admit, she is pretty easy to talk to.

  Now if she wasn’t so easy to look at, this being friends thing would be a piece of cake.

  MONDAY NIGHT,

  I sit on the patio,

  listening for the owl.

  The clouds have

  cleared, and so I

  look at the stars

  and think about

  lunch on the bleachers.

  Colby has

  no mom,

  and a dad

  who doesn’t see

  his son for the person

  he really is.

  I have

  no dad,

  and a mom

  who doesn’t see

  her daughter for the person

  she really is.

  We are different

  and yet

  we are

  the same.

  Like two stars

  hanging out in the sky,

  wanting so much

  to be noticed,

  to be part

  of a constellation.

  Maybe we will

  become our

  own constellation,

  just the two of us.

  Two stars,

  side by side —

  a pair of eyes

  in the sky.

  Together,

  we see.

  Together,

  we dream.

  Together,

  we shine.

  SHE THINKS we can do it. Be friends.

  Maybe we can. I’m thinking it’s not going to be easy, but I didn’t want to say no. I mean, it seems like something is better than nothing.

  And she’s right. I could use a friend right about now. Lately, my teammates don’t seem to know how to be around me off the field. It’s like Benny is there, between us, and they’re afraid of doing or saying the wrong thing.

  With Lauren, I feel comfortable. I think she knows there are two versions of me: the real me and the one everyone thinks is me.

  And she doesn’t care.

  For whatever reason, she understands.

  TUESDAY

  “Hi, Lauren.”

  “Hi.”

  “How are you?”

  “I’m all right. Busy.”

  “Oh? What’s going on?”

  “I’m organizing a big bake sale to help raise money for Benny and his family.”

  She smiles. “That’s wonderful. When is it?”

  “A week from Saturday. I have a flyer, if you’re interested.” I reach into my backpack and pull one out. She gets up from her chair and takes it from me.

  “I’ll definitely try to stop by,” she says as she looks it over.

  “That’d be great. Thanks.”

  “Are you going to bake something?”

  “Yeah. Not sure what.”

  “Did you and your mom ever bake things together?”

  I give a little grunt of indignation. I would have liked to, but I don’t say that. There was one time, in fourth grade, when the school had a bake sale to raise money for new instruments for the music room. I asked my mom if we could make something, and she said no. She didn’t have time. She said that a lot. She did give me a few dollars so I could buy something at the sale, though. I bought cupcakes and shared them with my babysitter, Mrs. Neely.

  “No,” I tell her. “My mom wasn’t really the baking type. My aunt Erica bakes a lot, though.”

  “How’s it going, living with them? Everything all right?”

  “Yes. They’re great. I just wish they’d trust me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I heard them talking one day. They don’t trust me to watch my cousins. After what happened. Or, well, what supposedly happened.”

  “Hmm. Well, give it time.”

  “I know. It’s okay. They’re good people, I know that. And I can’t really blame them, I guess.”

  “You know, Lauren, I’d love to hear your side of the story. You’ve been so close to telling me a couple of times and then you stop. How come?”

  I stare at the window. “I don’t know.”

  It’s true. I don’t. At first, it was because I didn’t think it would do any good. Like, what’s the point, rehashing it all? But now, if she thinks it might help, how do I know for sure that it won’t?

  “Are you afraid? Whatever you tell me is between us. You are safe here.”

  I stare at the tree outside the window. I wish I were there, hidden in the branches, the sky waiting for me. I imagine what that feels like — to open your wings and let the wind take you up and away.

  It must take a lot of trust.

  I take a deep breath. “It was late. The baby, my half brother, wouldn’t stop crying. I thought he was sick. He felt warm, like he had a fever. I kept telling her we needed to get some infant Tylenol to help him feel better.”

  “By ‘her,’ you mean, your mom?” she asks.

  “Right. She said Matthew would be fine, if she could just get him to sleep. But she was drinking that night, and the more he cried, the angrier she got. She started shaking him and shaking him, yelling at him to stop.”

  I look at Dr. Springer. “I was so scared. I’d never been as scared as I was that night. I tried to take him from her, but she wouldn’t let me. She locked herself in her bedroom with him. I really thought she was going to hurt him.” I gulp. “So I called 911 and asked them to send the police, because a baby was in danger. I gave our address, and then I hung up.

  “When the police came, I was in the bathroom, throwing up, because I was so upset. So … afraid. My mom came into the bathroom when they started knocking. She started yelling at me, ‘What have you done? Don’t you know they’ll take him from me? Is that what you want? Do you want to go to foster care? Because it won’t just be him. It’ll be you too.’ ”

  I lower my head, the memory so strong, I swear the air suddenly smells like the liquor that was on her breath. “I shouldn’t have called.”

  “Lauren, you did the right thing.”

  I shake my head. “I told her I’d fix it. I apologized and told her not to worry; I was going to fix it. So we went out there, and she held the baby, and one of the officers asked who called. I told him my mom wa
s the one who called, because the baby had been crying and I got sick of it and started shaking him, and I wouldn’t give him to her. I told them I was sorry, I knew it was wrong, and I promised them it would never happen again.”

  “So, you lied. To protect your mom.”

  My eyes fill with tears. “Yes. And then …”

  “It’s okay. Go on. What happened next?”

  I bite my lip, tears streaming down my face now. I sniffle. “When the officer asked if my mom wanted to press charges, she said no, she just wanted me to get the message loud and clear that my behavior was unacceptable. After one of the officers gave me a stern talking-to, they left.”

  “But that’s not the end of the story,” she says.

  I shake my head again. “My mom said we needed a break. Me and her. Some time apart. She thought I could stay with my grandma for a while, but my grandma said no. So she called my uncle Josh. And they agreed to take me in. I didn’t fight her on it. In fact, I was as sweet as ever.” I look down at my hands. “I kept hoping she’d change her mind. I can’t believe I thought she’d change her mind.”

  The tears won’t stop, but I don’t feel embarrassed. I just feel so … sad.

  Dr. Springer walks over to me with the box of tissues. I pull out a bunch and try to wipe the sadness away. Instead, I just smear it around.

  “Thank you for telling me,” she says as she sits back down. “I can see why that wouldn’t be easy to share. And why you’re having such terrible nightmares about your brother.”

  I jerk my head in her direction. “Why?”

  “Because you’re worried about him.” She makes a note in her file. “I think I’d like to have a social worker go and check on him. Would that be all right? Your mother doesn’t have to know the visit came about because of you.”

  “She won’t hurt him,” I say quickly. “I promise she won’t.” It’s like I’m pleading with her to believe me. “It was just that one time, you know? Because she drank too much.”

  “Do you think your brother is better off with your mother than somewhere else?” she asks.

  “Yes. Maybe. I … I don’t know. Look, I know she wasn’t the best mom, and that growing up, I wished for her to be different in some ways. But she never hurt me. I have to believe he’s okay.”

  “I know you do,” she says. “But I think checking on him is a good idea.”

  The truth is, I’m afraid my mom will know. She’ll know it’s because of me that they’re checking. And then what?

  Suddenly, there are too many scenarios playing out in my head. Did I make things better or worse by telling her the truth about what happened?

  Something tells me I’m going to find out.

  LAUREN AND her aunt Erica pulled things together quickly for the fund-raiser. They made flyers and put them all over town. An email chain was initiated, asking for donations to be dropped off early Saturday morning. The weekly newspaper agreed to put something on the front page about the event. And the best part is, the city is allowing us to use the big parking lot in the middle of downtown, where the Saturday Market is held in the summertime. A rental company is donating tables and canopies, so it’ll look super nice and there will be plenty of space for the food.

  I’ve been back to see Benny a few more times, and his mom is so thankful that we’re doing this for them. I keep telling Lauren we aren’t going to raise a million dollars selling cupcakes and maybe we should have thought of something else. And she keeps telling me you never know what might happen. For a girl who hasn’t exactly had an easy time of it, she sure has a good attitude. Maybe some of it will rub off on me.

  It’s Friday night, after the game, and I’m in her aunt and uncle’s kitchen, baking pies with Lauren. I imagine heaven smells like this kitchen right now.

  As she carefully puts the crust on the top of a berry pie, I ask her, “You know, maybe we should have picked something easier to make.”

  “Like what? Rice Krispies Treats?”

  “Right. What do those have, like, three ingredients?”

  “You can’t make good money on something like that. These pies will go for a lot.”

  “You really think so? How come?”

  “Because pies are special. Pies say, ‘I’m good and old-fashioned.’ ”

  “Rather than, ‘I’m cheap and easy’?”

  She laughs. “Exactly! Who wants something cheap and easy?”

  I raise my eyebrows. “About ninety percent of the football team?”

  She pokes me with her elbow. “Stop it. You wait and see. These pies will fly off the tables tomorrow.”

  I look at the clock. I honestly don’t know how much longer I can stay standing. “You mean today. It’s after midnight. Are we going to be done anytime soon?”

  “While this one bakes, we’ll whip together a chocolate cream one, and then we’re done.” As she pinches the last of the crust, she studies my face. “You know what? I can do the last one by myself. You should go home.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m positive. See, it wouldn’t be very helpful if you fell over from exhaustion and landed in the pies. Not helpful at all.”

  “Okay. Thanks. Do you want me to pick you up tomorrow and take you down there?”

  She looks around at all the pies: nine so far. “Oh God. I didn’t even think about logistics. How are we going to get all of these to the sale?”

  “Easy. I’ll put a sheet in the bed of my truck. We’ll set them back there, and then fold the sheet over.”

  “A sheet?”

  “Yeah. Why not? We’ll tuck them in tight, I promise.”

  “You are so cute, you know that?” she says as she opens the oven door before she pops the pie inside. I want to tell her she’s cuter, but I’m pretty sure that would be approaching flirting territory. That’s a place we’re both trying to stay far away from.

  When she turns around, she says, “Okay. Your plan sounds good. I want to be there by eight. All the other volunteers are supposed to be there by eight thirty.”

  “I’ll pick you up about fifteen minutes before eight, then.”

  We say good-bye and I let myself out. From the driveway, I can see her silhouette, no doubt starting in on the chocolate pie.

  “You’re cuter,” I whisper into the cool night air. And then I get into my truck, glad I get to see her again in only eight short hours.

  LAST WEEK, Aunt Erica

  asked me if I wanted

  her help with the pies.

  I told her I felt

  like I wanted to try

  and figure it out

  on my own.

  She gave me some

  recipes and her tips

  on how to make

  a good, flaky crust

  for the fruit pies.

  She took me grocery

  shopping to buy

  all the ingredients.

  And then she left

  me alone, to do

  the baking until

  Colby came by later.

  There is something

  really soothing

  about the act of baking.

  Comforting.

  It forces you to slow down.

  To focus on the work.

  To put everything else

  out of your mind so you

  can create something amazing

  that wasn’t there before.

  I started with an easy one.

  Two-minute Hawaiian Pie

  with pudding, pineapple,

  and coconut in a

  graham-cracker crust.

  One minute,

  a lonely,

  empty shell.

  The next, with just the right mix

  of ingredients and special care,

  a sweet, sweet pie.

  I think there is a lesson

  to be learned there

  somewhere.

  WHEN I pull into the driveway and see that the lights are still on in the house, I curse my dad. I consider tu
rning around and finding somewhere else to sleep so I don’t have to walk in there and deal with him.

  I’m so tired. I just want to go to bed. I don’t want to talk about the game, what I did wrong, what I did right, how so much is on the line with every game I play.

  Damn it. I just want to rest.

  I get out and go inside. I tell myself the whole way I will not engage him. I will not let him talk to me right now. I will tell him I’m going to bed and I will mean it and I will do it.

  I’m barely in the door, and he’s right there, like mud on a pig, “Colby, what the hell? Where have you been?”

  “There’s a fund-raiser for Benny tomorrow, remember? I was helping a friend bake some pies.”

  “Well, I’ve been thinking all night about that play. In the second quarter? When you missed the pass. Colby, what happened? It was a good throw. You should have had it.”

  This is where I should walk away. This is where I should say, not now, I’m tired, I’m going to bed.

  I look at him. He wants an answer. He wants to talk about this to death and know that I learned something from it so it won’t happen again. Even though there’s no guarantee of that, ever.

  “I don’t know, Dad. The throw was a little long, and I missed it. I’m sorry.”

  “We’ve talked about this before. You could have had it if you …”

  He moves toward the kitchen table, and I follow him. We sit down. He keeps talking.

  And I keep listening. Just like he wants me to.

  I’M ABOUT to turn out the lights

  and go to bed when Erica appears.

  She surveys the kitchen and smiles.

  “The pies look amazing. Great job.”

  “Colby helped. I hope they taste okay.”

  I look at her. “How come you’re up?”

  “Can’t sleep. Crazy schedule does that to me.

  I’m going to watch some TV. Something boring.”