Page 137 of Bridge of Clay

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He went on to say there was nothing that could be done but to mix it up with Jimmy Hartnell, and put the matter to rest. It was mostly just a monologue, and Penelope agreed. At one point she almost laughed.

Was she proud of him and his speech?

Was she happy for what I would go through?

No.

Looking back, I think it was more just a sign of life—to picture fronting the scary bits, which, of course, was the easiest part:

Imagining was one thing.

Actually doing it felt almost impossible.

Even when Michael finished, and asked, “What do you think?” she’d sighed, but was mostly relieved. There was nothing here to be joking about, but joking was what she did.

“Well, if fighting that kid will get him to the piano again, I guess that’s all there is.” She was embarrassed, but also impressed; I was completely, utterly dismayed.

My parents, who were there to protect me, and raise me the right way, were sending me, without a moment’s more hesitation, into imminent schoolyard defeat. I was torn between love and hatred for them, but now I just see it was training.

After all, Penelope would die.

Michael would leave.

And I, of course, would stay.

Before any of that could happen, though, he would teach me and train me for Hartnell.

This was going to be great.

Next morning, both Henry and Clay woke up swollen.

One of them would go to school, all bashed and quiet and bruised, and one would work with me, all bashed and quiet and bruised. He’d start the wait for Saturday.

This time, though, it was different:

The wait to see her race.

* * *


There was much to come that initial day, due mostly to Claudia Kirkby. But first Clay met with Achilles.

I was working close to home, so we could leave a little later, and Clay went out to the yard. The sunshine bathed the animals, but beat Clay up in the face. Soon it would soothe the soreness.

First he patted Rosy, until she lapped the grass.

The mule smiled below the clothesline.

He watched him, he said, You’re back.

Clay stroked him on the mane.

I’m back…but not for long.

He bent down, he checked the mule’s feet, and Henry came calling out to him.

“Hooves all good?”


Tags: Markus Zusak Young Adult