Page 178 of Bridge of Clay

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“You’re—”

“I’m eighteen.”

It didn’t need to be justified, given I looked a little older, or maybe that’s just my perception. To me, Clay and Tommy always looked younger than they were. Even now, all these years later, I remind myself Tommy’s not six.

In her classroom, we talked on.

She told me it was only two days.

But then, of course, the other business:

They were certainly something to see—her calves, her shins—but not what I’d first imagined. They were just, I don’t know, hers. There’s no other way to say it.

“So you’ve seen the principal?” she interrupted, for I was lost in my glance down floorwards. When I looked up, I saw the writing on the board. It was neat and looped, in cursive. Something about Ralph and Piggy; the theme of Christianity. “You’ve spoken to Mrs. Holland?”

Again, I nodded.

“And, you know—I have to ask. Is it…do you think it’s because—”

I was caught in the warmth of her eyes.

She was like your morning coffee.

I recovered.

“Our mother dying?”

She didn’t say anything else then, but she didn’t look away from me, either. I spoke to the desk and its pages:

“No.” I even went to touch one, to read it, but stopped myself in time. “He’s always been like this; it’s just now I think he’s decided.”

Twice more he would be suspended; more visits for me to the school—and to be honest, I wasn’t complaining.

It was Rory at his most romantic.

He was Puck with a pair of fists.

* * *


Next Henry, and Henry was on his way.

He was stick-skinny. A sinewy mind.

His first touch of genius was making money at the Naked Arms. It was all the middle-aged drinkers there, standing out the front. He noticed they all had dogs with them, and the dogs were overweight; as diabetic as their owners.

When he, Clay and Rory came back from the shops one night, he put his shopping bags down on the ground.

“What the hell are you doin’?” said Rory. “Pick those bloody bags up.”

Henry looked over. “Check that bunch of blokes out.” He was fourteen years old, and a mouth. “Look—they’ve all told the missus they’re walking the dog.”

“What?”

“Look there, are your eyes painted on? They go out for a walk, but come to the pub and drink. Look at the state of those retrievers!” Now he walked over. He gave them a turn of his smile, for the first but not the last time. “Any of you lazy bastards want me to walk your dogs?”

Of course, they loved him, they fell for him.


Tags: Markus Zusak Young Adult