“It doesn’t feel real,” I tell her.
She tsks. “You’ve got a case of the things like this don’t happen around heres.”
“Things like this don’t happen around here.”
“False,” she says firmly. “Violence happens everywhere, Bridget. It happens behind closed doors and sometimes it happens to people we don’t care about, so we pretend it hasn’t happened at all.”
Minna is the human version of Florida. She is harsh, intense—extreme heat or torrential rains. The lines that map her face, travel her hands, and snake down her neck are packed earth that has been baked under harsh conditions for so long that she has no choice but to crack. But she is strange and lush, too, rich with understanding about the world and how it works or how it doesn’t.
“I should feel sad, like, all the time. But sometimes I feel blank. Like nothing’s happened at all,” I confess.
“Shock,” she says, and she leans across the coffee table, and she rests her hand over mine. “It will fade. And when it does, you’ll know.” She squeezes my hand. Then she slides a few tiles into place. “You lost your turn.”
I glance at the board. BAZOOMS. I roll my eyes.
“You know! Breasts!” she says impatiently. “Twenty points.”
“Minna. Bazooms hasn’t been a word since, like, 1920.”
“I’ll use it in a sentence,” she argues. “Just because Bridget doesn’t have bazooms doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”
I close my eyes and lean into the couch. Just last week Wilson Hines existed, a random collection of atoms blown into life. The calloused hands that rested on Wil’s shoulder. The silvering temples and stern mouth; the jaw muscles that tensed while he examined his newest boat for imperfections.
It is strange and awful to think that Wilson Hines just . . . isn’t, anymore. All because someone else decided to erase him, for no reason at all.
BRIDGE
Spring, Senior Year
WIL still isn’t at school on the following Monday, but the day ticks by as usual: PE and Spanish and Econ and lunch. When teachers call roll, they trip at Wil’s name. And then they say that if we want to talk to a counselor, ours has an office on the third floor—the third floor? They’re pretty sure—and we move on. There are equations to contend with, essays to write.
The halls are bubbling with talk of the murder, only nobody says that word. Everyone uses language that dances around the truth: the accident, the thing with Wil’s dad. It. It’s so sad, it’s so awful, they were nice, a nice family.
People whisper about the cops’ theory: that this man has killed before. According to the paper, Henney’s police statement matches the description of a guy who broke into a house in Neptune Beach, just a few miles away. The woman he attacked was a teacher. Dana York. She worked with a sketch artist at the hospital, describing in excruciating detail the man who had knocked her unconscious before he fled with her mother’s jewelry. Three days later, her injuries killed her. The kids at school pass phones back and forth, zooming in on the sketch of the guy. White, buzz cut, a nose that’s bent a little like it’s been broken. The sketch chills me every time. He looks ordinary. He looks like anyone and no one.
After the last bell, Leigh and I head to the senior courtyard, where Ana has called an emergency class meeting. Senior courtyard is a generous term for a concrete slab that extends outward from the left side of the school. There are a couple of stone benches pushed up against the concrete wall. Since it’s almost summer, somebody’s busted out a Dora the Explorer blow-up pool and a couple of lounge chairs.
As Leigh and I squeeze in, I watch Emilie Simpson hug Ana while Thea Tritt hovers. Buck Travers wanders over to Emilie and flashes a smile whiter than bleached sand. She tosses her hair with unnecessary violence.
My stomach wrings itself out. I still can’t look at Buck—the green mirrored sunglasses wedged on the back of his neck, the SURF LIFE shirt when I know for a fact he’s never touched a surfboard—without feeling generic.
Ana disentangles herself from Emilie and heads to the front of the courtyard. She clears her throat. “Um, hey, guys. I feel like we should talk about what we can do for Wil as a class,” she says, her voice rippling. “I want him to know that we’re thinking about him while he’s gone, and I’m wondering if anybody has any ideas.”
“When is Wil coming back?” asks a girl I recognize from English class.
“Ah—” Ana clasps her hands together. Her voice wavers. “I’m not sure. He’s not ready yet?” Her eyes fill, and Thea rests her hand on Ana’s shoulder.
Everyone is silent, baking under the sun. I shift on my feet. Wil would hate that we’re talking about him when he’s not here, and I wish Ana knew that. I wish she knew what to do without asking: an informal gathering on the beach, maybe, or an afternoon on Wilson’s latest boat. If she’d ask me—I think, and erase the thought before it’s fully formed. Ana would never ask me about Wil. Neither would anybody else in our class. After Ana and Wil started dating, the entire school forgot about Wil and me. It was as if the seven years before had never even happened.
“Maybe we could have a sign-up sheet to bring him dinner. A casserole or something. Or we could send flowers as a class,” Ana says.
“I have to get out of here,” I mutter to Leigh. I don’t want to be here, with these people, talking about casseroles. I need to do something that will actually make a difference. “Call you later.”
I decide to walk. I slip off my shoes and follow the bricked sidewalk, which is rough and just hot enough to feel good. I pass Nina’s Diner and the seafood restaurant with the good tartar sauce Micah eats with a spoon. I move slowly, reading the bricks as I go. They are etched with people’s names or dates or sometimes a quote. Wil and I used to alternate making up stories to go with the bricks on our way to the beach.
I pass IN MEMORY OF KYLIE MITCHELL. In seventh grade, Wil decided that Kylie Mitchell departed this world after a tragic spray-tanning accident left her insides filled with toxic orange goo. I told him that was disgusting, and Kylie Mitchell was probably a sweet old lady who fell asleep painting watercolors and never woke up. That was stupid, he said, because if you think about it, how many old-lady Kylies do you know?
The turnoff for Wil’s is only a few blocks away. The closer I get, the slower I walk. I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what to say or how to say it or whether Wil will want to hear it. I just want to see him. I want to be someone who doesn’t gossip about what happened, someone who knows better. I want to be someone who doesn’t say the word casserole.