Chapter 2
Bridger’s first day at work was going about as well as his interview had.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true.
He was allowed to use the front door. But even that had been weird. A shiver had crept down his spine when he stepped over the threshold as though an electrical field had buzzed his skin. Even the hair on his arms stood up. His grandmother would say that bunnies had hopped over his grave, but Bridger didn’t want to think about graves or bunnies, especially in the creepy house that his employer used as his office. He hadn’t ruled out the possibility of a morbid newspaper article stemming from this job venture.
Bridger didn’t like the eerie sensation. He also didn’t like that he hadn’t been able to see his mom that morning before he left for school. She had texted that morning that she was late getting off work at the hospital and then hit traffic on the interstate because of a disturbance. She didn’t know he had a job yet, which was vital information.
Lastly, he didn’t like that Mindy had sent him into an adjoining room to sort books. Sorting books wouldn’t have been a problem. Bridger was certain he could sort books and be a rock star at it.
These were not books.
There was way more to do than sort.
The room that Mindy had referred to as the library was a room with empty shelves and books and pamphlets and scrolls and leather-bound tomes and dust.
So much dust.
It was a room full of shelves built into the walls and a table and a floor full of books with bizarre titles and even weirder subject matter. It featured no discernible organizational system, which was also great. He would’ve gone with the old sort-by-author method, but half the books didn’t have authors. Those that did had long and bizarre sounding names, reminiscent of Pavel’s, where Bridger couldn’t discern the first name from the last name, and well, scrolls didn’t fit on bookshelves.
Bridger rubbed his nose with his sleeve. He sneezed again, and his eyes watered as he hefted History of Fairy Culture on the North American Continent, which was less book and more gym weight. He grunted as he hauled it to a bookcase and shoved it onto the middle shelf.
Then he sneezed.
“Money,” he said. “You need money.”
He hefted another book about fairies—maybe Pavel was a folklorist?—and he lugged it over to the other one. The shelf wobbled, bowing under the two volumes.
“I hear you,” he said.
He went back to the table and found a yellowed newspaper from forty years ago. Splashed across the front was a headline about a local man chaining himself to a giant oak to protect a cluster of stones. Squinting, Bridger studied the accompanying picture and noted the figure tied to the tree resembled Pavel. Maybe a parent or a grandparent?
“Freaking weird,” Bridger muttered.
“Aw, he talks to himself. He’s so cute!”
Bridger froze. Spinning on his heel, he surveyed the room. There were the shelves, a portrait of a random guy, and a floor length mirror. A chandelier hung from the ceiling. The crystal drops sent refractions of light all along the walls. The carpet under the table was shaggy, the wallpaper was appropriately ugly, and the wooden floor creaked when he walked.
“Is someone there?” he called. “Hello?”
“He’s not too bright, is he?”
“Oh, shut up. He’s adorable. I want to keep him.”
“You want to keep everything.”
Bridger left the corner near the bookcase and walked the length of the room. He stood in front of the portrait, in which a stern-looking man with flowing white hair and wrinkles so deep they were trenches sat at a writing table with a small dragon on his shoulder. Bridger squinted at it and while the picture was unsettling, he didn’t think there was a way for someone to watch him—definitely no slits in the fabric where eyes should be.
And great, he was in an episode of Scooby-Doo.
The loud slam of a door made Bridger startle. Screw this. He fled, tripping into the foyer, where Mindy sat at the desk painting her nails.
Pavel was there, too, standing in the middle of the room… dripping, drenched in green goo—that smelled horrible.
Bridger gagged, slammed his arm over his nose and mouth, and greedily inhaled the scent of days-old fabric softener.
“What the hell is that?”
Pavel blinked. A large blob of goo slid down his pants leg and glopped onto the floor. It oozed into a puddle. The wood floor smoked and bubbled.
Mindy continued to paint her nails. Today, she had draped herself in eye-melting electric blue from her eyeshadow down to her toes. Bridger had to squint to look directly at her.
“Mindy, any messages?” Pavel asked.
“You have a letter from Mr. Ogopogo, who needs assistance getting in touch with his cousin in Scotland. The lovely folk under the hill sent you this bouquet for the help with protecting the clearing,” Mindy said, gesturing at the beautiful array of sparkling flowers on her desk. “The toaster is acting up again, and Elena called to set up an appointment for this week to talk about the report of a disturbance in the complaint section of the Sentinel and Review.”
Pavel wiped the gunk from his forehead and shook his hand. It splattered on the bench and the wall. The wallpaper blackened and curled. “Since when does Elena schedule an appointment?”
Mindy shrugged and blew on her nails. “She mentioned something to do with the moon.”
Pavel’s frowned deepened. “It’s waning.” He shook his head. “Thank you, Mindy.”
“I take it the meeting with the…” She trailed off; her gaze flicked to Bridger, “…individual under the interstate bridge did not go well.”
Pavel shrugged. “Understatement. I’ll need something a bit stronger than persuasion to convince the… individual to move on, or at least make a little less trouble.”
Mindy handed Pavel the rest of the mail, and he flipped through it. “Bill. Junk. Bill. Bill. Ah, good old Og using mail instead of a mirror. He tries so hard. I hope he didn’t give anyone an accidental sighting.” He handed the stack back to Mindy. “Pay those. And dispose of the flowers in a safe place. Never trust goodwill from the folk. They are notorious for hidden motives.” Pavel turned to Bridger and pointed to the soft pink petals of an open rose, which glittered and… hummed? “Don’t touch those.”
Bridger watched the exchange with a growing sense of unease and frustration. Ogopogo? Folk? Acidic goo? “What the hell is going on?”
“Oh, Bridger, is it?” Leaving a trail of slime, Pavel headed for the stairs. “Did you finish sorting the books?”
“No!” he blurted. “I mean, I heard voices, and then there was the smell.”
Pavel sighed, and he and Mindy looked to the ceiling with barely suppressed annoyance.
“I’ll deal with the voices,” Pavel said, teeth gritted.
Bridger sidestepped the smoking goo trail and craned his neck to look up the stairs. “Is someone up there?”
“First floor only.” Pavel’s strangely accented voice was firm, and he pointed to the library. “Sort.”
“In what order? Honestly, I can’t make heads or tails of those things. And seriously, for the thousandth time, what do you do here?”
Pavel cocked his head. He descended the two steps he had managed and met Bridger’s fierce gaze. Bridger was tall and met Pavel’s stare straight on, but Pavel exuded a strength that belied his willowy body. He reeked, and his tweed pants and button-up shirt had holes that slowly grew as they stood there, but he merely pressed his lips together; his green eyes sparkled and everything about his demeanor issued a challenge.
“I help,” he said, voice clipped, “people. And maybe, if you stick around, you could learn how to help people as well. Until then, books. I don’t care how you do it as long as I can find them when I need them.”
Bridger lifted his chin. His mother could tell anyone that when Bridger wasn’t being flippant, he was stubborn. He breathed deep, clenched his teeth against the bile that wanted to spew from his throat, and nodded.
“Fine.”
“Good.”
“Awesome.”
“Excellent.”
“I’ll get on that, then.” Bridger said, taking a small step back. His heel slipped in a puddle, and, after intense flailing, he fell and landed on his butt. “Ow!”
Bridger expected Pavel to laugh—okay, not laugh, because he didn’t think Pavel was the kind of guy to bust out in guffaws, but maybe smirk or chuckle. He didn’t expect Pavel to launch himself forward and start barking orders to Mindy. He grabbed the shoe with the green glop and slipped it from Bridger’s foot and tossed it to the other side of the room. Mindy stood; her massive chair scraped the floor. She grabbed the toe of Bridger’s shoe and ran into the other room with it; her thick heels scuffed the hardwood.
“Is it on you?” Pavel demanded. He hovered, but didn’t touch, didn’t come any closer. “Did you get any on you?”
Bridger watched with detached confusion, because there was strange and baffling—and then there was terrifying. This was the latter.
“Bridger!” The urgency of Pavel’s tone scared him into action, and Bridger patted down his body and squirmed to look at the floor. “No,” he said, scanning the area to make sure he hadn’t landed in any goo. “No, I don’t think so.”
Pavel heaved a sigh and straightened, backing to the base of the stairs once again. “Good.”
“What the hell is that stuff?”
Pavel frowned. “An experiment in diplomacy gone very wrong. Don’t touch it. And please, don’t go near the flowers, either.”
“You’re covered in it! How is it not dangerous to you?”
Pavel wrinkled his nose. “I… you… um… you could be allergic? Yes. Allergic! Are you allergic to bees or pollen? Yes, that’s it. Anaphylactic shock.”
Pavel was the worst liar. But whatever. “Okay. I trust the fact that you don’t want me to be injured by the toxic green slime.”
Pavel’s whole body relaxed, the tension he had carried since he walked in melted off him, and his shoulders slumped. “Good. Now, please. Books.”
Bridger hauled himself to his feet and, mindful of the goo, stepped to the library door. “Yeah, got it, boss. But… um… what about the mess?”
“I have someone in mind to clean it up,” Pavel said, looking up the stairs, lips curling at the corners. He gave Bridger a nod and disappeared up the staircase; his steps were light, the total opposite of Mindy’s.
Mindy appeared from one of the many hallways. She plopped into her chair. She frowned at her nails and looked thoroughly unimpressed. Bridger opened his mouth to ask her about his sneaker, but she narrowed her eyes. He snapped his mouth shut. Later. He could ask her later, after he tackled the books and scrolls and other reading material piled in the disaster masquerading as a library.
Wait. Library.
“Hey, Mindy, do you have any notecards?”
Bridger smelled like city bus, and his shoe had a hole in the bottom, and who knew that a few hours of toting books that smelled like must and weighed about the same as baby elephants was such a work out? By the time he got home, Bridger’s arms ached, and he was exhausted.
He shrugged off his backpack onto the nearest kitchen chair. A pizza box sat on the table, and Bridger flipped it open; his stomach growled. Pineapple and ham.
“Yes, there is a God.” He grabbed a slice and shoved it into his mouth.
“I usually go by Susan, but God is nice.”
His mom appeared in the doorway from the living room. She was in her scrubs. Her blond hair was pulled up in a messy bun; a few streaks of gray highlighted her temples. She had worry lines on her forehead and smile lines around her mouth and at the corners of her eyes. She exuded warmth and love, and Bridger was glad she was there. He missed her when they went days without seeing each other, and when she worked nights, the house was oppressive with silence. If he wasn’t busy shoving food into his mouth, he’d go for a hug.
“Hey,” he greeted, words awkward around a mouthful. He took another bite and garbled out, “thought you had work.”
She made a face. “Plate,” she said.
Bridger rolled his eyes, but reached into the cabinet to grab one.
“And you’re lucky I speak hungry teenage boy. I was scheduled, but was called off. The census is low on the floor tonight. I’m on call, but for now, I get to spend time with my favorite human.”
Bridger put two more slices on the plate. He kicked his shoes off, crossed to the fridge, and pulled out a can of pop.
“I’m glad I’m someone’s favorite.”
“Yeah?” She crossed her arms and leaned her shoulder against the door. “Trouble at school? It’s only the first month.”
“No,” Bridger ducked his head. “Nothing like that.”
“Good. I wouldn’t want to have to go down there and turn all mother bear on anyone.” She smiled. “I’d do it too. You know I would.”
“I know, Mom. No need to kick ass and take names.”
“Good. And I hate to be the overbearing parent.” Uh oh. It was the mom voice. “But it’s kind of late for you to be coming in. And you smell. What is that stench, kid? Do we have to have the middle school hygiene talk again?”
“Crap, no, Mom. Jeez,” Bridger said, flushing. Heading for the couch, he moved past her and ignored the sniff and the flinch. Jeopardy was on. “No, oh, my God, I’m inwardly cringing.”
“So where have you been?”
“The twilight zone.”
“Is that code for with Astrid? You can just say her name. I’ve known her for years.” She gestured at her face. “You weren’t getting anything pierced, were you?”
“Is that a judgmental remark on the amount of hardware Astrid wears in her nose and lip and ears, because I seem to remember a picture of teenage-you with a belly button ring.”
His mom followed him into the living room. Double Jeopardy was in full swing. Dammit. He had missed most of it. He’ll have to leave work earlier next time. Speaking of which…
“You have too much dirt on me,” she said. She sat next to him and curled up on the cushion. “Do I have to drag it out of you?”
“No.” He grinned.
She rolled her eyes to the ceiling when he didn’t elaborate. “Were you with a girl? Is that where the reluctance is coming from? Is she cute?”
“Mom,” he groaned. “Ugh. No.”
“What?” She shrugged. “You’re a handsome kid. You’re tall and lanky. And blond hair and green eyes used to be what all the girls wanted.”
Could it be the thing certain boys wanted, too? That would be nice. “You’re killing me. No, I wasn’t on a date.”
She laughed then nudged his thigh with her toe. “Come on then. Spill.”
Bridger put the plate on the low coffee table. “I got a job.”
His mother was easy to read. He could see pride warring with frustration at his actions, but also a tinge of sadness because she alone couldn’t provide everything for him.
“Bridge,” she said softly. “I don’t know, kid.”
“It’s only a few hours after school a few days a week. I get paid a decent amount. Today was my first day, and all I did was create a card catalogue and shelve the guy’s books.” Bridger didn’t feel a need to mention the acidic green sludge. He was a pro at lying by omission. “And it would help with expenses. Traveling. Books. Snacks not from the dining hall.”
His mother placed her chin on her knees and brushed back a few hairs that had escaped from her bun. “You’re really set on it, huh? On leaving here?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I know you think its drastic or whatever, but there is a lot to see other than windmill farms, Mom.” Half-truth. There was more to see, but Bridger would be perfectly happy in Michigan if he wouldn’t have to explain himself to everyone for the rest of his life.
“Well, you got me there.” She bit her lip. “This… this doesn’t have to do with your dad, does it?”
“Not everything is about him.” Bridger was quick to respond and could hear the strain in his tone, but his mom merely raised her hands.
“Okay. Okay.” She blew out a breath. “You can keep the job. But there will be ground rules. It doesn’t interfere with schoolwork. You come straight home after work, and if you’re going to be later than Jeopardy, you text, even if I’m at work. And I know your instinct will be to save every penny, but, please, this is your last year of high school; have a little fun, okay?”
Bridger grinned. “Is that a yes? On the job and college?”
“Lord help me, but I guess so.”
The relief and elation was so raw and real, Bridger launched himself at his mom and hugged her, hard. Her knee ended up in his stomach, and her hair was in his mouth, and he may have elbowed her in the chin, but it didn’t matter.
He squeezed. She laughed.
“I love you, kid, but you smell so bad. Please, go take a shower.”
He pulled back, laughing. “Yes, ma’am. Right after Jeopardy and pizza.”
“What is that? It’s horrible. Mutated-gym-sock horrible.”
“I know, right? It’s a stunning combination of old books and city bus.” Bridger grabbed his plate of pizza. He took a large bite.
He was so happy he was bursting. He needed to text Astrid. He needed to send in his early acceptance. He needed to shower and maybe burn his clothes and buy a new pair of shoes.
But everything was coming up Bridger for the first time in a long time, and this even eased the sting from yesterday’s heartache.
It was amazing.
And he hoped this luck would hold out for the rest of the school year.
After a shower, Bridger did his homework and then played around on his laptop. Remembering something Mindy had said, Bridger pulled up the site for the local paper. He clicked through to the complaints section and scrolled. Seriously, how weird was his town that they actually printed complaints in the paper? Mindy’d said one of Pavel’s clients wanted to talk with him about a disturbance—a woman named Elena who needed to make an appointment.
Bridger read through a few of the small blurbs. He rolled his eyes about the guy complaining about the pink flamingos on his neighbor’s yard, the woman who wanted the speed limit lowered all through town, the person who wanted children banned from restaurants on Tuesdays, and yet another person complaining about the weather. Because yes, it was a valid concern that sometimes the clouds blocked out the sun. Town council should get on that.
Bridger’s faith in humanity wavered as he clicked through a few days of bitching and noted there wasn’t anything about a big disturbance. The only thing close was someone writing about loud howling from a local animal. An illegal wolf, maybe?
I’m writing to complain about whomever owns the dog in the Green Meadow neighborhood that howled all night Sunday. It was loud and annoying and a noise disturbance. My wife and I couldn’t sleep and that was with all the windows shut. I almost called the police but I’m giving the owner a chance to rectify the situation. If they don’t, I’ll take care of it myself.
Sincerely,
Drowsy, Annoyed, and Armed.
Wow, that was fairly hostile. Must have been a hell of a loud dog. Was Elena the writer, or was it her dog going nuts a few nights ago? Bridger’s money was on the dog owner, simply because the writer seemed to have a planned solution if the howling started again.
Bridger heard a soft knock and the door creaked open. His mom poked her head in.
“I got called in. I’ll see you in the morning as long as there aren’t any more interstate problems.”
A pang of disappointment hit Bridger in the chest, but he ignored it as usual and smiled. “Okay, Mom. Have a good night.”
“You too, kid. And don’t stay up too late. Okay?”
Bridger nodded and checked the clock on his nightstand. He closed his laptop. “Night, Mom.”
“Night, Bridge. Love you.”
“Love you, too,” he called to her as she closed his door. He fell back on his pillows and sprawled there listening as his mom left for work—the sound of the door closing, the rumble of the engine as she started the car, the sound of the tires on the asphalt as she backed up and pulled away—all of it replaced by the deafening silence of being alone.
As he drifted on the edge of sleep, he thought he wouldn’t have minded a little howling.