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“I was there. But I wasn’t in any trouble.”
“If you say so.” She shrugs and then grins. “So. You and Beltran, huh?”
“Yup. Me and Beltran.”
She’s still grinning. “That’s cool. Better you than one of those Black Mountain rich bitches.”
The Black Mountain girls are not all rich. Nor are they all bitches. I have a feeling Bridget does not wish to hear this.
She stretches and grimaces in the direction of her house. “Fuck. I don’t feel like going in there. Mom’s probably passed out in a puddle of her own puke. Let’s go down to Imogen’s and score some breakfast.”
Of all the bizarre things that have occurred in the last eight hours, being invited to breakfast with Bridget Spinelli just about takes the cake.
“Thanks, but I can’t.”
She pouts, which can be dangerous. “If you don’t want to hang out just say so.”
“Okay. I don’t want to hang out with you.”
I’m expecting to be cursed out or perhaps punched but Bridget’s eyes drop and she kicks at a mound of dirty slush with her suede boot, which is already ruined from traipsing around in the snow.
“Fine,” she says and starts plodding back to her house, where a long time ago we used to have Saturday night sleepovers and experiment with her mother’s massive makeup collection. Since then we’ve taken completely different directions. That was likely always going to be the case, whether or not I left her behind and went to BMA.
“Hey, Bridget?”
She turns around at the sound of her name.
“Happy New Year.”
She stares for a few seconds and then nods with a small smile. “You too, Camden.” Her gaze shifts to the empty street and she chews her lip. “I guess you’re graduating this year.”
“And you’re not?”
“Doubt it.” She turns around once more. “See ya.”
“See ya,” I whisper. Bridget hasn’t been part of my life for years. And yet a hollow sadness fills me as I watch her trundle up the crooked steps of her house. I don’t mistake her breakfast offer for a return of our friendship. Yet I feel sorry for her. She’s lonely. I know the feeling.
Back inside the house, Frankie is awake and eating a huge bowl filled with cereal that looks like pink candy mixed with marshmallows. He talks to me with his mouth full.
“Were you talking to Bridget Spinelli?”
“Just for a minute. What the hell are you eating?”
“Breakfast. Sit down. I’ll get you some.” He grabs a bowl and pours a generous amount from the open cereal box. To complete the meal he slops a big helping of milk into the bowl and hands it over with a spoon. “Here. The Francisco Galway special.”
“Wait, what? Francisco Galway?”
He takes a seat again and gives me kind of a bashful look. “I was testing it out. I was going to surprise your dad for his birthday next month. My mom has a paralegal friend who is going to use her connections to draw up the paperwork.” He stirs his cereal and gazes out the window. “You know my real dad has never had any interest in me. It’s Bill who’s always treated me like a son. I should have agreed to take his name when our folks got married but I was stubborn about it. So what do you think, Cam? You think your dad will be happy?”
It’s nice to feel tears in my eyes for the right reason. “Frankie, I know our dad will be over the moon.”
Frankie does his best to distract me from worrying about Ben but I’m sure he doesn’t miss the way I check my phone every ten seconds.
“He’ll call,” Frankie promises.
“I know. But waiting sucks.”
Frankie wants to go for a brisk five mile run through the center of Devil Valley and back. I’m not exactly in the same athletic league as him so I decline.
