Bridge to Terabithia

The bus had stopped. Leslie took May Belle’s hand and led her off. Jess followed, still trying to figure out why two grown people and a smart girl like Leslie wanted to leave a comfortable life in the suburbs for a place like this.

They watched the bus roar off.

“You can’t make a go of a farm nowadays, you know,” he said finally. “My dad has to go to Washington to work, or we wouldn’t have enough money…”

“Money is not the problem.”

“Sure it’s the problem.”

“I mean,” she said stiffly, “not for us.”

It took him a minute to catch on. He did not know people for whom money was not the problem. “Oh.” He tried to remember not to talk about money with her after that.

But Leslie had other problems at Lark Creek that caused more of a rumpus than lack of money. There was the matter of television.

It started with Mrs. Myers reading out loud a composition that Leslie had written about her hobby. Everyone had to write a paper about his or her favorite hobby. Jess had written about football, which he really hated, but he had enough brains to know that if he said drawing, everyone would laugh at him. Most of the boys swore that watching the Washington Redskins on TV was their favorite hobby. The girls were divided: those who didn’t care much about what Mrs. Myers thought chose watching game shows on TV, and those like Wanda Kay Moore who were still aiming for A’s chose reading Good Books. But Mrs. Myers didn’t read anyone’s paper out loud except Leslie’s.

“I want to read this composition aloud. For two reasons. One, it is beautifully written. And two, it tells about an unusual hobby—for a girl.” Mrs. Myers beamed her first-day smile at Leslie. Leslie stared at her desk. Being Mrs. Myers’ pet was pure poison at Lark Creek. “‘Scuba Diving’ by Leslie Burke.”

Mrs. Myers’ sharp voice cut Leslie’s sentences into funny little phrases, but even so, the power of Leslie’s words drew Jess with her under the dark water. Suddenly he could hardly breathe. Suppose you went under and your mask filled all up with water and you couldn’t get to the top in time? He was choking and sweating. He tried to push down his panic. This was Leslie Burke’s favorite hobby. Nobody would make up scuba diving to be their favorite hobby if it wasn’t so. That meant Leslie did it a lot. That she wasn’t scared of going deep, deep down in a world of no air and little light. Lord, he was such a coward. How could he be all in a tremble just listening to Mrs. Myers read about it? He was worse a baby than Joyce Ann. His dad expected him to be a man. And here he was letting some girl who wasn’t even ten yet scare the liver out of him by just telling what it was like to sight-see underwater. Dumb, dumb, dumb.

“I am sure,” Mrs. Myers was saying, “that all of you were as impressed as I was with Leslie’s exciting essay.”

Impressed. Lord. He’d nearly drowned.

In the classroom there was a shuffling of feet and papers. “Now I want to give you a homework assignment”—muffled groans—“that I’m sure you’ll enjoy.”—mumblings of unbelief—“Tonight on Channel 7 at 8 P.M. there is going to be a special about a famous underwater explorer—Jacques Cousteau. I want everyone to watch. Then write one page telling what you learned.”

“A whole page?”

“Yes.”

“Does spelling count?”

“Doesn’t spelling always count, Gary?”

“Both sides of the paper?”

“One side will be enough, Wanda Kay. But I will give extra credit to those who do extra work.”

Wanda Kay smiled primly. You could already see ten pages taking shape in her pointy head.

“Mrs. Myers.”

“Yes, Leslie.” Lord, Mrs. Myers was liable to crack her face if she kept up smiling like that.

“What if you can’t watch the program?”

“You inform your parents that it is a homework assignment. I am sure they will not object.”

“What if”—Leslie’s voice faltered; then she shook her head and cleared her throat so the words came out stronger—“what if you don’t have a television set?”

Lord, Leslie. Don’t say that. You can always watch on mine. But it was too late to save her. The hissing sounds of disbelief were already building into a rumbling of contempt.

Mrs. Myers blinked her eyes. “Well. Well.” She blinked some more. You could tell she was trying to figure out how to save Leslie, too. “Well. In that case one could write a one-page composition on something else. Couldn’t one, Leslie?” She tried to smile across the classroom upheaval to Leslie, but it was no use. “Class! Class! Class!” Her Leslie smile shifted suddenly and ominously into a scowl that silenced the storm.

She handed out dittoed sheets of arithmetic problems. Jess stole a look at Leslie. Her face, bent low over the math sheet, was red and fierce.