AT THE BRIDGE

His legs hang over the side of the bridge, dangling a twenty or so feet above the fresh water. Small minnows swam among the current, scattering with every swoop of the birds. The smell of gasoline lingered in the air—the source being the cars that zoomed on the bridge over. Sitting on the concrete ledge, the boy held a crumpled piece of paper between his hands.

He was hunched over, his spine popping out of the back of his t-shirt. He nervously rolled the paper between his hands, biting his lips and sighing quietly.

Summer school. He was going to need to go to summer school again. Last year, it was for his failing math grade. This time, he would have to retake English and geometry. He barely had a sufficient grade to pass science. It didn’t matter that he did fairly well in Spanish or that Mr. Spinster wanted him to apply for a photography scholarship. He failed two more subjects and his father was going to kill him.

For a while, as he sat there on the bridge, he thought about letting the paper go. It could fall like rain out of his hands and plop gently into the water. The water would eat it up in an instant and there would be no tangible evidence of his poor grades left. The thought comforted him for a moment, until he remembered his father.

The side the boy mostly saw of his father was a tight and exact man. He could barely remember a day when the man was not wearing a crisp black suit. Every evening, he came home expecting the chores to be done and a hot dinner on the table. According to his sweet mother, his father was a warm person. Somewhere between his rough hands and bald head there was a side of sincerity to him. He’s never seen it. In his father’s eyes, he has yet to earn it.

The boy knew that if he told his father that he never got his report card or that he lost it on the way home the old man would straighten his tie—tight and exact—and go to the boy’s teachers himself. He could already see him adjusting his tie and asking how his intelligent young boy has done. Already, he could see his father’s face turn red with anger when he found out that his son has, once again, failed.

The boy chocked and placed a hand over his mouth. No matter what, he was sure that the end of his life was upon him. He was sure that his father would not listen to any defense he had to give. The last year, when his father learned that his son had flunked out of algebra, the boy could see the anger simmering on his skin. The boy had stood in a trembling silence for a whole hour, watching his father pace around the kitchen as he raged about his son. “I have never met anyone half as lazy as you,” he had scolded, his voice loud but never quite reached a scream. “You are a shame and you will never be anything if you don’t get off your lazy ass and study!” The boy had glanced back to his mother and pleaded with his eyes for her to rescue him. But she had merely ducked her head and hustled back to the kitchen. He was left alone to fend himself, to grit his teeth and bear through the lecture.

The very thought of repeating such an incident—the anger of his father and the idleness of his mother—consumed the boy with trepidation. Everything from his skinny arms to his knobby knees shook with fear. He did not want to repeat that. He would give God anything to avoid going through such torture again.

The boy sniffled as he noticed someone from the corner of his eye. A lean jogger who huffed and puffed as he jogged down the length of the bridge. The jogger wore red gym shorts with an unfamiliar school insignia on it. The boy swore that the jogger was a little older than him, old enough to be graduating. When he was a few yards away, the boy made sure to look away, wiping his nose on his arm. He swore. He had not realized that he was crying.

But what did it matter now? He would rather cry now than later—his father would call him a pussy if he did.

The boy stared down at the water, not lifting a finger to wipe away the tears. They created two straight lines down his face, like invisible war paint. At first, the boy thought that the jogger would just turn up the volume to his music and ran right past him and it seemed like he was going to do that at first. He slowed down as he pasted the boy, peering at his puffy red face. The jogger bit his lip and checked the time on his IPod. The boy gave him another side glance as he stopped completely, pulling out his ear buds and steadying his breathing.

The boy cursed his luck. Now he was going to get some unwanted attention from one of his peers. He quickly wiped his arm over his eyes, suddenly hating himself for breaking down into tears in the first place.

The jogger, meanwhile, whistled and stretched his arms. “Hey there, pal,” he said, taking a place right next to the boy.  He simply ignored him, concentrating his eyes on the water below. The jogger coughed, scratching his chin.  “Look—I know it’s not my business or anything, but it’s usually not a good sign when there’s a crying kid on the edge of a bridge . . . is there anything you wanna talk about?”

The boy tore his eyes away and looked down at his lap. There his hands were folded and there the paper was crumbled. “No,” he said, voice barely rising above a whisper.

The jogger looked down at the paper and sighed. “Alright then. Can you at least do me the favor of stepping away from the edge?” he asked. The boy could not help but to look at him with knitted brows. Despite the awkwardly casual tune of the jogger’s voice, the boy could see how uncertain he was—scared.

Still the boy shook his head and looked back down at his report card.

The jogger glanced back at his watch again and shook his head. He swiftly unbuckled his silver wrist watch and slipped in into his pocket. He pulled himself onto the ledge next to the boy, swinging his legs over the edge with him. Doing his best to put on a carefree smile, he extended a friendly hand. “I’m Tyler by the way,” the jogger said happily. “What’s your name?”

The boy looked between Tyler’s sweat-dripping hand and face. He was not sure what he should do. Part of him wanted to take his hand and make a friend of him, but the clear voice in his head ordered him to swallow his words. A blank stare would be his only reply.

Tyler held up his hand for a moment longer before slowly letting it fall. “Shaking hands is old fashion anyways.” He leaned back on his hands and they were silent once again.

Above them, a seagull cawed as it swooped over the heads.

Tyler looked down at the boy and his paper ball. For a moment, he picked at the dirt under his nails, keeping his eyes low. He asked, “So it’s the end of the year . . . kind of wondering if you got your report card—” The boy flinched and huddled closer into himself. Tyler stopped picking at his nails. He made a small ‘ah’ and nodded appreciatively, saying, “So it is. I hear ya pal, I hear ya.”

The boy looked up at him. “Did you get a bad grade too?” He asked quietly. Quiet, but hopeful.

A hearty laugh left Tyler’s mouth.

The boy grew smaller, cursing himself. Why did he say that? Now this Tyler kid thought that he was an idiot. It was bad enough he was a failure in his father’s eyes. The boy crunched the paper between his hands, creating a tighter and tighter ball. He looked up at the water. Down the blue current was the ocean and there he could see boats sailing among the waves.

He could hear his father’s voice in his head, criticizing him and his terrible social skills, his stupidity, lack of muscle, his everything.

Growling beneath his breath, the boy awkwardly rose to his feet. Tyler’s eyes went wide as a new wave of sweat dripped down his forehead. “Hey, don’t do that!” he said hurriedly, watching the boy crunch the paper into an even smaller wad. The boy could tell that it was taking him all of his will power not to shout. “C’mon—I’m sorry!”

The boy shook his head. Once he felt the paper ball turn as dense as possible, he raised his arm high into the air. In an instant, Tyler grabbed his other arm, trying to hold him back without pushing him further. “Don’t jump! I swear to God, don’t you dare jump! People care!”

The spark that possessed the boy left him, dripping and dragging off his skin like slime and pooling at his feet. It left in its wake a heavy arm and shaky knees. He felt so tired, yet he knew that no sleep would never quench it. The boy closed his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he lowered his arm and sat back on the deck. Tyler did not say anything as the boy closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. The boy muttered, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“No, it’s fine.” Tyler placed a careful hand on his back. “Just promise not to scare me like that again.” He hesitated.  Looking at the boy hopefully, Tyler asked, “And perhaps tell me what the problem is?”

The boy bit his lip. He owed it to him, right? “Fine . . .” He shoved the paper into Tyler’s hand. “Read it.”

The boy told himself that he was not going to look—not meet the eyes of his superior, but he could not help but to give a sidelong glance. He was amazed to see the revered looked in Tyler’s visage as he carefully plucked the ball from him, asking, “You sure?”

The boy nodded.

Carefully and delicately, the jock unraveled the ball, peeling away the paper with ginger fingers. There was a comfort in his movements. The way Tyler treated the ball like a museum relict made the boy feel as though someone else was as worried about his father as he was.

Tyler smoothed the creases of the paper on his leg, flattening it with his hands. “So what do we got here?” He asked, giving the boy a comforting smile before peering at the paper. His eyes scrutinized the smeared black words, registering their damned meaning. “So you failed math and English and—” He squinted his eyes a bit more. “And you’ll need summer school.” He looked up at the boy. “And you earned these grades yourself?”

The boy lowered his head, hiding his face under his bangs, and nodded.

Tyler placed a thought finger on his chin. “Well, be damn proud about it then,” he said.

The boy’s head snapped up, his mouth gaped. Tyler was still smiling his comforting smile, seemingly unaware of his offence. But his bright eyes beckoned at the boy, kindly asking him to talk, to explain why he was not right. The boy opened and closed his mouth a few times as he tried to think of the word. “I-I can’t be proud!” He squeaked at last. “How can I? I failed!”

Tyler nodded. “Yeah, but by your own means.”

“My dad is going to murder me!” The boy jammed a finger into his chest, saying, “He told me that I had to go to summer school again—”

“But you passed history.” Tyler stuck his nose into his paper, saying, “You have great grades in Spanish and you got through science. And hey! you earned an A in photography, but . . .” He shrugged. “I guess that’s an easy one anyways…”

The boy frowned. “I could earn a scholarship,” he said quickly. Tyler hummed and looked up at him with interest.

The boy could not help but to look down again. An itch appeared on his arm and he scratched at it until white lines appeared on his skin. “Mr. Spinster said that I could if I entered one,” he softly explained. “He thinks I have a career in it.”

Tyler smacked a hand on his back, saying, “Just tell your old man that you want to run away to be a photographer and I’m sure that he’ll be proud of you.”

He shook his head. “You don’t understand.”

“Then help me understand.”

The boy huddled into himself, hugging his legs to his chest. The tips of his sneakers were on the very edge, hiding his view of the water. A part of him screamed to stay silent, that there was no way Tyler would understand anything of what he’s going through. He did not see how anyone could understand the screams and yells. But Tyler had that comforting smile on his face. He looked attentive, ready to listen to every problem on the tip of his tongue. The boy could not help but to be frank with himself—he wanted to tell Tyler. He knew that once he showed his father his grades, he would have no chance to give his excuse. His father always thought that that excuses were flimsy and loose. The boy knew that this would be the only time anyone would want to listen to his side of the story.

After a long moment of dead air, the boy sighed, “My dad, he  . . . he wants me to have good grades. He says that without a sport scholarship, it’ll be the only thing that’ll get me into collage and I can’t throw a ball to save my life. I try—I really do, but math makes no sense and I no matter what I do, I can’t focus in English. The only thing that I want to do is take photos and that’s the only thing I’m good at, but my dad doesn’t think much of it.”

Tyler grimaced. “I see . . .” He drilled his fingers on the deck, tossing the idea around in his head. The boy looked up at him expectantly, waiting for the response. More than anything, he did not want to be rebuked. He did not want to be told that his father was right and he really would end up becoming nothing. He was not sure what he would do if someone as grand as Tyler thought poorly of him.

Just when the boy was positive that Tyler was never going to speak to him again, the jogger stopped his drilling and looked at him kindly. “Like I said, be damn proud—”

A growl twitched on the boy’s lips and he shot him a glare. “Why?”

Tyler held up his hand, not bothering to meet his eyes. It was calm, silently taming him like the owner to his scared dog. “Pal, you better let me speak before strangling me,” he ordered firmly. The boy opened his mouth again, but what was the point of arguing? He lowered his eyes. “Thank you. Now listen up since I’ll only say it once. I say be damn proud of your grades because you earned them fair and square. Yeah you screwed up math and English, but you earned them. You’re going to get that photography scholarship because you earned it. You have a skill, pal. Be proud of that. At least you have something.”

The boy didn’t need to ask him to explain. Tyler jammed a finger into his chest, saying, “And me? Well I have nothing. I’m like you, you see. Overly demanding father wants son to earn scholarship. You and me, we’re the same except I was too much of a stupid coward to earn them myself. I have three older brothers who aced everything they ever did and I’ve never been able to do right. But what does that matter to the old man? The youngest has to out do the oldest, doesn’t he? But I’m damn stupid and I couldn’t do it. So I cheated every assignment I ever did. I cheated on homework, projects, tests—everything just to get that A. I’m going to UCLA next year, but I still only got that scholarship because a sorry uncle put a good word in for me.”

Tyler looked down, revealing to the boy one thing—fear. His vivid green eyes were so wide, so full to the brim with an unspoken anxiety that the boy could see Tyler’s shell crack along the edges. He watched guiltily as Tyler’s smile dropped from his face. He ran a shaky hand through his hair. His voice came out like a weak breath. “I’m going to be an adult in three months and I know nothing.”

The boy was silent. He was sure that he should say something—anything—to comfort him, but nothing came to his brain. He felt sorry for Tyler and felt a sphere of sympathy well in his gut. But most of all, he felt selfish.

Tyler dropped his hand onto his lap, letting his mask cover his face once again. He played another smile on his lips as he chuckled. “You don’t need to say anything, pal. Just putting what you got into perspective.” He lightly punched the boy’s shoulders, a vain attempt to lighten the heavy atmosphere. “Hey, don’t look so down,” he said. “I mean, I came over here to comfort you and all.”

The boy looked down, not at his lap but at the water. The minnows were still moving on with their short lives and the stench of gas was pungent in the air. But there was now a light breeze, cooling his back and drying the sweat on his neck. The boy shook his head. “No, you did,” he said. The hush tone of his voice remained, but there was a sense of dignity to it now. “Thank you, Tyler.”

Tyler smiled, watching the boy rise to his feet. “Anytime. Where you going?”

The boy gave him a small smile. “I gotta go home and talk to my dad.”

“Then take this.” Tyler held out the report card. “This is really important, pal,” he said kindly, looking up at the boy. “Don’t want to forget it now.”

The boy nodded and plucked the paper from him. As he carefully folded it into a neat little square, he saw Tyler pull out his wrist watch once again. The jogger raised an eyebrow at the time, but said nothing. The boy rolled back his shoulders. “Thanks,” he said before finally turning on his heels and making his way back to his house. His gait was strong, his fist loose and steps sure.

The boy did not turn around, only continued to march back to his father.

Tyler did not look up from his watch, staring intently at the face. Then, without much though, he let it slip through his fingers and into the water below.

BISMARCK