Bridge to Terabithia

He never got phone calls. Leslie had called him exactly once, and Brenda had gone into such a song and dance with her about Jess’s getting a call from his sweetheart that Leslie had decided it was simpler to come to the house and get him when she wanted to talk.

“Sounds kinda like Miss Edmunds.”

It was Miss Edmunds. “Jess?” her voice flowed through the receiver. “Miserable weather, isn’t it?”

“Yes’m.” He was scared to say more for fear she’d hear the shake.

“I was thinking of driving down to Washington—maybe go to the Smithsonian or the National Gallery. How would you like to keep me company?”

He broke out in a cold sweat.

“Jess?”

He licked his lips and shoved his hair off his face.

“You still there, Jess?”

“Yes’m.” He tried to get a deep breath so he could keep talking.

“Would you like to go with me?”

Lord. “Yes’m.”

“Do you need to get permission?” she asked gently.

“Yes—yes’m.” He had somehow managed to twist himself up in the phone cord. “Yes’m. Just—just a minute.” He untangled himself, put the phone down quietly, and tiptoed into his parents’ room. His mother’s back made a long hump under the cotton blanket. He shook her shoulder very gently. “Momma?” he was almost whispering. He wanted to ask her without really waking her up. She was likely to say no if she woke up and thought about it.

She jumped at the sound but relaxed again, not fully awake.

“Teacher wants me to go to Washington to the Smithsonian.”

“Washington?” The syllables were blurred.

“Yeah. Something for school.” He stroked her upper arm. “Be back before too late. OK?”

“Umm.”

“Don’t worry. I done milking.”

“Umm.” She pulled the blanket to her ears and turned on her stomach.

Jess crept back to the phone. “It’s OK, Miss Edmunds. I can go.”

“Great. I’ll pick you up in twenty minutes. Just tell me how to get to your house.”

As soon as he saw her car turn in, Jess raced out the kitchen door through the rain and met her halfway up the drive. His mother could find out the details from May Belle after he was safely up the road. He was glad May Belle was absorbed in the TV. He didn’t want her waking Momma up before he got away. He was scared to look back even after he was in the car and on the main road for fear he’d see his mother screaming after him.

It didn’t occur to him until the car was past Millsburg that he might have asked Miss Edmunds if Leslie could have come, too. When he thought about it, he couldn’t suppress a secret pleasure at being alone in this small cozy car with Miss Edmunds. She drove intently, both hands gripping the top of the wheel, peering forward. The wheels hummed and the windshield wipers slicked a merry rhythm. The car was warm and filled with the smell of Miss Edmunds. Jess sat with his hands clasped between his knees, the seat belt tight across his chest.

“Damn rain,” she said. “I was going stir crazy.”

“Yes’m,” he said happily.

“You, too, huh?” She gave him a quick smile.

He felt dizzy from the closeness. He nodded.

“Have you ever been to the National Gallery?”

“No, ma’am.” He had never even been to Washington before, but he hoped she wouldn’t ask him that.

She smiled at him again. “Is this your first trip to an art gallery?”

“Yes’m.”

“Great,” she said. “My life has been worthwhile after all.” He didn’t understand her, but he didn’t care. He knew she was happy to be with him, and that was enough to know.

Even in the rain he could make out the landmarks, looking surprisingly the way the books had pictured them—the Lee Mansion high on the hill, the bridge, and twice around the circle, so he could get a good look at Abraham Lincoln looking out across the city, the White House and the Monument and at the other end the Capitol. Leslie had seen all these places a million times. She had even gone to school with a girl whose father was a congressman. He thought he might tell Miss Edmunds later that Leslie was a personal friend of a real congressman. Miss Edmunds had always liked Leslie.

Entering the gallery was like stepping inside the pine grove—the huge vaulted marble, the cool splash of the fountain, and the green growing all around. Two little children had pulled away from their mothers and were running about, screaming to each other. It was all Jess could do not to grab them and tell them how to behave in so obviously a sacred place.

And then the pictures—room after room, floor after floor. He was drunk with color and form and hugeness—and with the voice and perfume of Miss Edmunds always beside him. She would bend her head down close to his face to give some explanation or ask him a question, her black hair falling across her shoulders. Men would stare at her instead of the pictures, and Jess felt they must be jealous of him for being with her.