The Bridge (3 page)

He would visit the school again tomorrow to investigate.

THE BOY
and the girl weren’t at the school Monday morning. The school wasn’t even open. A plastic handout box glued next to the front door held the current schedule. The business hours on weekdays were from twelve to seven; weekends were from eleven to three. From five to seven on weekdays and three to eight on weekends were private lessons and/or open floors.

He checked on the strings inside as best he could through the sun’s glare on the windows. It looked like a ball of yarn had exploded inside. The creatures had run in dizzying patterns before running out—and back in. He spotted the ends of two strings and tried to time their disintegration, but he was unable to measure without going inside.

He waited in the Ashville library until the school opened. The first class hour was for kids, and the viewing chairs inside were partially filled with adults. Some were occupied with work while they watched their kids kick and punch, led by a blonde instructor who certainly had a way with children. Everett took the seat closest to the entrance and rested his bag on his lap. He had a few recreational books and a large bag of salt inside. The extra salt was just a precaution against any paranormal forces near the school.

The school was narrow but long. The gray-matted floor was divided in two by a row of three padded pillars. The mirror facing the viewing seats covered most of the tan wall. A white poster board with a student pledge was taped above the mirror. The far wall from the entrance was filled with shelves of containers. The plastic ones contained weapons, most of which were wooden. A small alcove at the end of the floor had three doors: one for the bathrooms, one for the back exit, and one for the master instructor’s office.

Everett slipped a hand in his bag and revealed the paranormal traces.

His jaw slackened.

The strings were gone.

Impossible. At the rate from the morning, not even half the strings could have disappeared.

The boy from yesterday walked in, dressed in a white uniform with vertical blue stripes embroidered down each pant leg and both sleeves. On one flap of his black belt were three golden stripes.

“Sorry I’m late!” His voice was strong, assertive, and it made Everett’s spine tingle.

The instructor clapped her hands and the class quieted. “Turn and bow to
Pu Sabom-nim
Bryce.”

The class bowed. Bryce bowed back. “We’re doing Korean now?”

Everett liked his voice. It had a silvery undertone; in private, it was probably low and suave, smoky even. And with that handsome, crooked smile, he seemed inclined to make lighthearted jokes on the spot.

“
Kwang Jang-nim
Antonio is adding terminology to the curriculum.”

“Again?” Bryce muttered and rolled his eyes.

There were no residual strings attached to Bryce. He kicked his flip-flops under the chair next to Everett. “Oh. Hey. You’re from yesterday.”

Everett couldn’t find his voice. He smiled.

Bryce looked confused, and Everett wondered what he did wrong. “You okay? You look a little pale.”

Everett nodded.

Bryce’s lips and eyebrows twitched as though he found Everett amusing. Everett must have looked childish in his silence with his round eyes, twitching leg, and hand stuffed in his bag. Then there were his hand-me-down clothes from his father’s childhood. He guessed he looked like one of the ghosts from Ashville’s history.

The instructor divided the class in half and gave Bryce responsibility over ten kids. Everett paid more attention to Bryce than the kids. He called on Bryce’s aura. A strange dizziness passed over him. Aura reading usually didn’t take much energy, not even enough to make him slightly dizzy. He steadied his breath, then bathed in the warmth of Bryce’s golden light. Gold auras were associated with optimism, prosperity, and generosity. Bryce’s aura reached to the kids, connecting them to his warmth. Aura reading wasn’t an accurate method of judging others, but it was a decent first look at someone’s personality.

Everett exposed the kids’ auras. They were receptive to Bryce’s teaching and tendrils of their auras waved in Bryce’s direction. Everett let the auras go after his thoughts started to cramp in his head like painful knots. His energy pool was too small to watch so many people at once.

He left halfway through the lesson to replenish his energy with a fruit blend in the neighboring café. He sat at a window seat and watched people pass on the sidewalk, recognizing a few kids from his school, all of them in groups of at least two. Everett’s only school friend wasn’t even a friend. She just stuck by Everett’s side on campus because her friends attended other schools.

He tossed his drink and retook his seat when Bryce walked in. He ordered a large double chocolate chip vanilla drink that wasn’t on the menu.

“For the kids?” the barista said.

“King of the Mountain. Winner takes the drink.” Bryce drummed his hands on the counter. He looked over a shoulder at Everett and a corner of his mouth lifted. “Small world! Then again, you literally just walked from next door.”

Everett held his breath as Bryce pulled out the chair next to him, straddled it backward, and held his hand out. “I’m Bryce.”

Everett withdrew his hand from its home inside his bag and touched palms with Bryce. Bryce closed his fingers around Everett’s hand in a strong hold. The warmth ran from Everett’s arm to his cheeks.

The last time he had felt such a burn in his cheeks from touching another boy was in the eighth grade, when his physical education curriculum included swing dancing. There had been more boys than girls, and Everett had considered himself lucky to be partnered with the school’s most popular boy. Then he had gotten called out by the other boys for reacting so girlishly to dancing with another boy. The normal thing to do was dance stiffly and avoid as much close contact as possible, like the other boy-boy couples.

Bryce’s palm and fingers were rough, but it added to his charm.

“Can you talk?” Bryce asked.

“Of course!”

“Oh!” Bryce leaned back, eyebrows raised. “You’re a boy.”

Everett thought he had outgrown the feminine-boy jokes.

“I’m kidding. You’re obviously a boy.”

Realizing their hands were still joined, he pulled away.

Bryce’s eyebrows drew together, and he looked at the hand he had shaken with Everett. He rubbed his fingertips together. “Salt?”

Everett was going to die of embarrassment.

“Sorry! That must have been from my bag. I had… salty food in there. I’m going to vacuum it when I get home.”

Bryce brushed his hands off on his pants, looking more amused than confused. “What’s your name?”

“Everett.”

“Cool name. I saw you in front of the
dojang
yesterday.”

Everett suddenly remembered the girl. If Bryce was human, maybe the girl wasn’t. But if they were twins, wouldn’t they be the same?

“Is dojang a dojo?” Everett asked.

“Dojang is Korean and dojo is Japanese.”

“And what was it you were called? By the instructor?”

“Pu Sabom-nim
.
It’s a title for a third-degree black belt. I have no idea what it means. Makes me sound badass, though.” Bryce waggled an eyebrow and leaned against the table, looking out the window and giving Everett an undisturbed view of his jawline.

Everett was about to ask what a degree was, but the barista called Bryce’s order. He was thankful for the distraction. Too much questioning would turn their conversation into a boring interview.

Bryce grabbed the cup, a straw, and a wrinkled clump of napkins from the dispenser. Everett expected him to continue on, but he stopped by the table and said, “Are you interested in classes?”

“No. I just decided to sit in.”

“Kiddie classes are boring. Come to the adult classes. They’re a ton more fun. The beginner class is right after this one, so it won’t be a long wait.”

“I have to be somewhere,” Everett lied. “But I’ll come when I can.”

“If you want to join, you don’t have to take group lessons. We have private lessons too. More pricey, but you learn faster.” Bryce’s eyebrows danced up and down, and he shouldered the café door open.

BACK HOME,
Everett heated a late frozen lunch and read the rest of the first witchtales volume. Between completing the first volume and starting the second, he spent a few hours on his Ashville history fact-checking. He had a few inconsistencies among his sources to work on.

His grandfather returned early from work at six with groceries. Their guest would arrive in an hour, so they immediately prepared dinner. They didn’t often have visitors for dinner, so they treated every visitor the best they could.

Everett set the table while his grandfather cooked. He brought out his mother’s favorite tablecloth they used only for special occasions. He cleaned and filled the salt and pepper shakers, and set them at the center of the table with the napkin holder. By the time he had the utensils and dishes in place, his grandfather had finished the salad. He helped his grandfather boil the pasta and mix the sauce. The doorbell rang while Everett was pouring the pasta into the serving container.

“Put the sauce in the gravy bowl,” his grandfather said, then went to answer the door.

Everett set the pasta bowl and sauce bowl on the kitchenette’s counter.

An olive-skinned man in business casual walked into the dining room and shook his head. “You didn’t have to.”

“You’re our guest,” Everett’s grandfather said.

The man skimmed his hand over his slicked-back hair and looked at Everett as if noticing him for the first time. He had the professional and knowledgeable presence of a professor or a successful business owner. “Everett Hallman?”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Everett rubbed the gravy bowl’s warmth onto his pants and shook the man’s hand.

“Has your grandfather informed you of why I’m here?”

“Not really.” Everett looked at his grandfather. “But I’m beginning to think it’s a big deal.”

“It is.” The man took a seat at the table. Everett brought the salad bowl to the table, and his grandfather brought the dressing. “Your grandfather told me you’re an avid reader of witchtales.”

His grandfather watched them as if he was wary of what would transpire.

“I was as a child. I don’t remember all of them, but I reread one volume today.”

After everyone filled their bowls with salad, the man asked, “Did it include the tale of the Bridge Master?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Have you read any tales about a witch associated with the art of bridging?” The man spoke quietly, as though speaking of a secret.

Everett forked through the lettuce in his bowl, letting the dressing seep through. “As a main plot point or a small mentioning?”

“Anything.”

“There were a few tales that mentioned bridging.”

“I assume you know what bridging is.”

“It’s the creation of bridges between the material and spirit world.”

The man put a whole pepper in his mouth and bit it clean at the stem. Everett could feel the spicy juices burn down his own throat.

“Bridge Masters or Bridge Guardians—whatever you prefer to call them—are special witches. They are rare and have abilities other witches don’t. An example would be an abnormally large energy force—” The man ate another full pepper. “—or sensitivity to the weakest of paranormal spirits.”

Everett chewed the man’s words in his mind while he chewed a mouthful of lettuce. He didn’t want to speak. He wanted to shovel food in his mouth so he could keep his thoughts to himself. The man watched him, something like impatience tugging at his thick eyebrows.

“Bridge Masters,” his grandfather finally said, “have increased power. They can create more, but they can also destroy more—this includes themselves.”

Everett swallowed his lettuce half-chewed. “You think I’m a Bridge Master, so you had Mr….”

“Pendley,” the man said.

“Mr. Pendley come over to explain it to me.”

His grandfather replaced the salad bowl with the pasta bowl. “That’s right.”

“But my energy pool is small. I have terrible endurance.”

“You can fix that with practice, and not all Bridge Masters have the same abilities,” his grandfather said.

“How do you know I’m a Bridge Master?” Everett said.

“Your aura,” Mr. Pendley said.

“As a Bridge Master, do I have any… obligations?”

“You must register with the Order and train with an approved mentor. Your major obligation is to protect the bridge between the living and dead. I understand you occasionally send lost spirits to the afterlife, correct?”

Everett nodded.

“Bridge Masters have the ability to cross the bridge. That is the sole ability that separates a Bridge Master from an ordinary witch. Who better to protect the bridge than someone who can cross it?”

“I can cross the bridge?” Everett had never heard of such a thing. He had read of witches who communicated with and raised the dead, but never of a witch who traveled to the other side. He hadn’t ever heard of anything like a Bridge Master. “Wouldn’t that go against the moral code?”

“It does, but in special cases, with the Order’s permission, you can break the code,” Mr. Pendley said.

“Tell me if I have this down. Essentially, you want me to register as a Bridge Master, get training, and protect the bridge.”

Mr. Pendley and his grandfather nodded.

“How do I protect the bridge?”

Did they expect him to travel into the various spirit worlds? The aftertaste of the salad dressing was awful when he thought of the hellish spirit worlds reserved for evildoers.

“You haven’t fully grown into your Bridge Master abilities, but when they develop, you will be able to sense disturbances within the bridge. As part of your training, you will learn how to use your sensitivity to your advantage,” Mr. Pendley said.

And then what? Did he report them to the Order? Take care of them himself? He had so little energy. How could he be expected to do anything as significant as protecting the afterlife?