Bridge: a shade short story by Jeri Smith-Ready Page B

me,
    drunk,
    half naked,
    high school behind them,
    the future ahead.
    Do they know how lucky they are?
     
    Some do,
    those who’ve lost a friend,
    a brother,
    a sister,
    a boyfriend,
    a girlfriend,
    or even a secret fuck buddy.
     
    But tonight they want to forget.
     
    Those who aren’t drinking,
    and some who are,
    take part in Ocean City’s
    “Play it Safe” activities—
    free fun in the form of
    midnight bowling,
    rock climbing,
    volleyball,
    karaoke,
    laser tag,
    etc.,
    etc.,
    etc.
    Things that won’t get you arrested
    or pregnant
    or killed.
     
    Three girls walk straight toward me,
    platform flip-flops thunking the boardwalk.
     
    The one on the right,
    with a dark ponytail and glasses,
    suddenly lags behind,
    pretends to focus on her
    giant tub of Thrasher’s fries.
     
    I pretend too,
    stepping aside,
    then,
    at the last second,
    I enter her path.
     
    She swerves.
     
    I point at her. “Ha!
    I knew you could see me.”
     
    “Go away.”
    The girl keeps walking.
     
    I zoom up to her.
    “I know this is weird,
    but I need your help.”
     
    She shakes her head,
    munches another fry.
     
    “I need you to talk to my brother Mickey.
    If it helps, he’s really cute—
    like me, only with dark hair and a pulse—
    and his girlfriend isn’t with him this week.”
     
    She rolls her eyes, like I’m a total asshole.
    (Which I am.)
     
    “I’m scared he might kill himself.”
     
    She stops.
     
    ♪
     
    Mickey drifts
    through our favorite cheesy gift shop,
    as always
    drawn to the aisle
    with the religious stuff.
    Candles for saints
    or Hindu gods
    or voodoo spirits.
    Light a match,
    summon the divine,
    like it’s that easy.
     
    Mickey stops,
    picks up a
    white
    porcelain
    Pietà —
    that Michelangelo statue
    of Mary cradling Jesus’s
    thin
    limp
    corpse.
     
    I tell Krista what to say
    so he’ll know she’s for real,
    so he’ll know I’m for real.
     
    She doesn’t sidle.
    She doesn’t shift.
    She stalks, right up to him.
     
    “It reminds him of you,” she says,
    “the way you held him the night he died.”
     
    The statue shatters on the floor.
    Jesus’s head pops off,
    shoots through my feet,
    rolls under the shelf across the aisle.
     
    Mickey brushes past Krista,
    making another escape.
     
    She grabs his wrist,
    her fingers a handcuff.
    “Look! I don’t have time to chase you
    while you pretend you don’t want to talk to him.
    So let’s just do this, okay?”
     
    He scowls down at her.
    “Who are you?”
     
    “I’m no one.”
    She lets go of his wrist.
    “I think that’s the point.”
     
    ♪
     
    The ocean’s rhythm
    isn’t.
    I count the seconds between waves
    and realize that
    they crash when they crash,
    with no regular timing,
    like our ex-drummer
    when he was drunk.
     
    Like my heart’s final beats,
    1,000
    in three minutes.
     
    The waves’ arrhythmia
    is all I hear in my brother’s silence.
     
    We sit side by side on the pier,
    our legs dangling over the edge.
    He and Krista pass a cigarette
    back and forth
    through me.
    Mickey has quit smoking
    six times in two months.
     
    I splay my fingers,
    admiring how the smoke curls
    around and within
    their violet glow,
    like dry ice at a rock concert.
     
    Mickey drops the cigarette butt
    into his can of Pepsi.
    It sizzles as the fire dies.
     
    “He was so heavy.”
     
    He presses the back of his hand
    against his mouth,
    as if those four words
    are the first drops in a flood
    that will drown us all.
     
    “Heavy, like a sandbag,
    in my arms.
    And behind that door.
    It took both of us,
    me and our sister, Siobhan,
    to push it open.
    I thought, What idiot got so wasted
    they passed out on our bathroom floor?
    And probably puked all over
    Mom’s favorite guest towels,
    and we’ll have to clean it up,
    and I swear to God
    this is the last party
    we’ll ever have.”
     
    He shakes the Pepsi can,
    the cigarette butt rattling
    staccato.
     
    “So the door finally opens,
    and there’s no puke,
    no blood,
    no