Paige Harbison - Here Lies Bridget

I ducked into the bathroom, hoping to renew my self-confidence with the reapplication of lipgloss. And there she was.

Miss Anna Judge, the Super-Nice, Surprisingly-Good-Soccer-Player from Maine. Washing what looked like ink from her fingers.

What could be more awkward for me than to stand elbow to elbow with the girl who I had only seen from a hundred yards away but had already devoted so much thought to? Not awkward for her, of course; she didn’t even know who I was.

Oh, my God, she didn’t even know who I was.

I felt the petty, obsessive, desperate-to-be-liked feeling that had been living in my stomach since I was in elementary school. That was always ready to jump out and whine, But what about me? Whenever I felt it, I’d usually try to say or do something to draw the attention to myself.

And keep it there.

I walked to the other sink, next to her, and started to dig through my bag for my NARS lipgloss.

There was no one at the school who didn’t know who I was. I’d worked hard to make it that way. At this point, half the guys were trying to get with me, and half the girls were jealous of that fact or trying just as hard to be part of my inner circle.

I had parties all the time, and everyone knew I only invited the people I wanted to. It didn’t hurt that I had the best pool in Potomac Falls.

Though my dad and Meredith were strictly against alcohol at the parties, we usually managed to spike the punch. Then we’d just claim it was a slumber party, and that’s why no one drove home ‘til morning. Meredith would spend days planning the decorations, themed music, (temporarily) virgin drinks and anything else she or I could think of. It was pretty cool of her—not that I could ever get over my issues with her enough to tell her so.

It was even cooler that she would then spend the whole time in her room or out with my father, out of our way.

I redirected my thoughts back to figuring why Anna simply must know whom she was standing next to. Surely she’d heard someone talk about me, or something. Maybe someone had pointed me out to her while I was too busy to notice. I pulled out the lipgloss and started applying it, still considering other probable reasons why she simply must know who I was. She was just pretending not to.

I risked a glance at her reflection.

She had short, silvery-blond hair, which seemed to me like an obvious effort to look spunky and fun. She had long eyelashes, and the smooth skin I had always assured myself was just airbrushing in magazines and pictures of celebrities. Her arms were thin, just like the rest of her. She was wearing a dress that was bound to be “in” soon. She was still scrubbing her hands.

Then she spoke, taking me off guard. It was like I’d forgotten she could see me, too.

“Pen exploded. I didn’t kill a squid or anything.” She smiled, exposing straight, white teeth.

“I’m Anna, by the way.”

I nodded curtly and smiled back.

“Hi, Anna.”

I didn’t tell her who I was. I had to see if she already knew. Had to.

“And you are … Bridget Duke?”

My mind eased. What had I been worried about?

“Yes, I am.” I waited a moment before deciding that, yes, I needed validation.

“How did you know that?”

“Oh, sorry, that must seem creepy. I saw the name on the corner of the paper sticking out of your bag. I’m new here.”

I paused as the disappointment set in.

“Okay, then.” I turned back to my mirror and started fussing over my eye makeup.

I tried desperately to think of something cool to say while she nonchalantly applied ChapStick to her lips (which didn’t seem to need it).

“Actually,” Anna started, still not looking at me, “I think Liam mentioned your name. Do you know Liam?”

I mused over the simplicity of the question, and the understatement that would be my answer.

“Yes, I know him.”

“Hmm. He told me to look out for you.” She glanced at me, smiled again and waved goodbye.

My face was frozen in shock as I stared at the doorway until she was gone and her footsteps faded. It felt like she’d just pulled the pin out of a grenade, and I had no idea how to stop it from exploding.

I LEFT THE BATHROOM—the scene of the crime—in a daze.

I was analyzing, picking at and utterly disassembling what Anna had told me Liam had said. I’d done this many times with things he’d said to me, each time shredding his words so thoroughly that I worked myself into a fit. Sure, this was she-said he-said, but it didn’t matter. Liam said a lot of cryptic things, seemingly not on purpose.

I’d particularly agonized over what he’d said when he broke up with me. He’d said that of course it wasn’t what he wanted, and that maybe sometime in the future.

Oh, he’d given me plenty to mull over that night.

So, there I was, putting on the familiar thinking cap specifically designed for figuring out what the hell Liam meant by what he said.

He told me to look out for you.

Because she should get to know me, or because I am someone to avoid?

I decided I would definitely have to use one of my other favorite techniques: bringing Liam up into every single conversation and asking what everyone else thought he might have meant.

I had just decided to go to the nurse’s office because of imaginary cramps and say that I was really not able to stay the rest of the day when Brett popped up out of nowhere.

“Hey, Bridget—ready for this test in NSL?” I always hated small talk about classes, particularly National, State and Local Government. Blech.

“Ugh, Brett, what are you—” Wait.

“What test?”

“What test?” He repeated my words with an entirely different inflection, one that implied that I was very, very stupid.

“The midterm, Bridget. You studied for it, right?”

“No? When is it?”

“Today, in like—” he looked at his watch—which, incidentally, looked like it was taken from the personal wardrobe of Inspector Gadget “—forty-six minutes.”

He was still looking horrified at my unpreparedness.

“How much is it worth?” I asked, feeling a little breathless. Today sucks, I thought.

“Thirty percent, just like the final, and then the other forty percent is homework and the other quizzes and stuff.”

Oh, no. I had gotten a D on the last quiz and forgotten about three homework assignments. On last week’s progress report I’d had a seventy-two percent in the class. I had to pass.

“Brett, there’s no way I can study enough during this lunch period. You have to help me.” I said this last part like it was obvious.

“I can’t help you study, Bridget, I have no time—” “No, not study, Brett, you have to help me during the test.”

Technically, I was asking for a favor and, really, one shouldn’t treat the person she wants a favor from like he’s stupid. But Brett didn’t seem to notice. His expression just turned from worry for me to worry for himself.

He understood exactly what I was saying.

“I can’t, Bridget. If we got caught, I’d fail this test, then my grade would drop down to a sixty-six percent. I have to work really hard to keep my grades high enough to get into college.” He shook his head.

“There’s no way.”

“Oh, my God, we’re not going to get caught.” I had no idea if we’d get caught, but I tried to sound confident.

“This’ll be so simple, she’ll never notice. Okay, are you right-handed?”

“Yes?”

“Okay, then you sit to my left, and I’ll sit behind Walco, he’s huge, Mrs. Remeley won’t be able to see me look at your paper. All you have to do is write really clearly and keep your paper diagonal toward me. It’ll be no problem, it’s how most people write, anyway.”