Bridge to Terabithia

Katherine PatersonBridge to Terabithia

Illustrated by Donna Diamond

I wrote this book

for my son

David Lord Paterson,

but after he read it

he asked me to put Lisa’s name

on this page as well,

and so I do.

For David Paterson and Lisa Hill,

banzai

Contents

One

Jesse Oliver Aarons, Jr.

Two

Leslie Burke

Three

The Fastest Kid in the Fifth Grade

Four

Rulers of Terabithia

Five

The Giant Killers

Six

The Coming of Prince Terrien

Seven

The Golden Room

Eight

Easter

Nine

The Evil Spell

Ten

The Perfect Day

Eleven

No!

Twelve

Stranded

Thirteen

Building the Bridge

About the Author

Other Books by Katherine Paterson

Credits

Copyright

About the Publisher

ONEJesse Oliver Aarons, Jr.

Ba-room, ba-room, ba-room, baripity, baripity, baripity, baripity—Good. His dad had the pickup going. He could get up now. Jess slid out of bed and into his overalls. He didn’t worry about a shirt because once he began running he would be hot as popping grease even if the morning air was chill, or shoes because the bottoms of his feet were by now as tough as his worn-out sneakers.

“Where you going, Jess?” May Belle lifted herself up sleepily from the double bed where she and Joyce Ann slept.

“Sh.” He warned. The walls were thin. Momma would be mad as flies in a fruit jar if they woke her up this time of day.

He patted May Belle’s hair and yanked the twisted sheet up to her small chin. “Just over the cow field,” he whispered. May Belle smiled and snuggled down under the sheet.

“Gonna run?”

“Maybe.”

Of course he was going to run. He had gotten up early every day all summer to run. He figured if he worked at it—and Lord, had he worked—he could be the fastest runner in the fifth grade when school opened up. He had to be the fastest—not one of the fastest or next to the fastest, but the fastest. The very best.

He tiptoed out of the house. The place was so rattly that it screeched whenever you put your foot down, but Jess had found that if you tiptoed, it gave only a low moan, and he could usually get outdoors without waking Momma or Ellie or Brenda or Joyce Ann. May Belle was another matter. She was going on seven, and she worshiped him, which was OK sometimes. When you were the only boy smashed between four sisters, and the older two had despised you ever since you stopped letting them dress you up and wheel you around in their rusty old doll carriage, and the littlest one cried if you looked at her cross-eyed, it was nice to have somebody who worshiped you. Even if it got unhandy sometimes.

He began to trot across the yard. His breath was coming out in little puffs—cold for August. But it was early yet. By noontime when his mom would have him out working, it would be hot enough.

Miss Bessie stared at him sleepily as he climbed across the scrap heap, over the fence, and into the cow field. “Moo—oo,” she said, looking for all the world like another May Belle with her big, brown droopy eyes.

“Hey, Miss Bessie,” Jess said soothingly. “Just go on back to sleep.”

Miss Bessie strolled over to a greenish patch—most of the field was brown and dry—and yanked up a mouthful.

“That’a girl. Just eat your breakfast. Don’t pay me no mind.”

He always started at the northwest corner of the field, crouched over like the runners he had seen on Wide World of Sports.

“Bang,” he said, and took off flying around the cow field. Miss Bessie strolled toward the center, still following him with her droopy eyes, chewing slowly. She didn’t look very smart, even for a cow, but she was plenty bright enough to get out of Jess’s way.

His straw-colored hair flapped hard against his forehead, and his arms and legs flew out every which way. He had never learned to run properly, but he was long-legged for a ten-year-old, and no one had more grit than he.

Lark Creek Elementary was short on everything, especially athletic equipment, so all the balls went to the upper grades at recess time after lunch. Even if a fifth grader started out the period with a ball, it was sure to be in the hands of a sixth or seventh grader before the hour was half over. The older boys always took the dry center of the upper field for their ball games, while the girls claimed the small top section for hopscotch and jump rope and hanging around talking. So the lower-grade boys had started this running thing. They would all line up on the far side of the lower field, where it was either muddy or deep crusty ruts. Earle Watson who was no good at running, but had a big mouth, would yell “Bang!” and they’d race to a line they’d toed across at the other end.