sandwich.
“Stop!” Bridge said. “What are you doing?”
Sherm’s hand froze. “Eating my cinnamon toast?”
“You can’t eat it like that! You have to eat one piece at a time, faceup, so that the cinnamon and the sugar hit the roof of your mouth.”
Separating the two sides of his toast, Sherm muttered, “You’re lucky I’m used to living with bossy women.”
“Very funny.” Bridge felt herself go red. “I’m just trying to give you the real experience here.”
Sherm took a bite of the cinnamon toast.
“Well?” Bridge said.
“It’s delicious,” Sherm said. He bowed his head. “Thank you for showing me your planet.”
“You’re hilarious.”
“I especially enjoy the way the cinnamon and sugar feel against the roof of my mouth.”
“Double hilarious. Just go ahead and pretend this isn’t the best thing ever.”
“It is, actually,” Sherm said, looking her straight in the eyes, the way he had during the intruder drill. “Best thing ever.”
Bridge pushed his glass toward him. “And you haven’t even tried it with the shake!”
There were no awkward silences. When the check came, they each paid four dollars. Bridge never left less than a twenty percent tip. Her mom said that was the definition of a good New Yorker.
“Nice wallet,” Bridge told Sherm. “Looks about a hundred years old!” She grabbed it. “Check out all the secret pockets!” She turned it upside down, and something fell to the table.
It was a worn square of paper with a date written on it in big letters.
“What’s February fourteenth?” Bridge asked, reading upside down. She felt bad all of a sudden, about grabbing the wallet and shaking it like that. She closed it and held it out to Sherm.
He took the wallet and then picked up the slip of paper from the table.
“It’s Valentine’s Day, dummy.”
“And you just like to carry that piece of information around so you don’t forget?”
“Actually, this was my grandfather’s wallet. And this”—he held up the paper—“is his birthday.”
“Oh God, sorry,” Bridge said. “I didn’t—”
“He’s not dead,” Sherm said quickly. “He moved out over the summer. My grandparents always lived with us, but now it’s just my grandmother. He left her, after fifty years.”
“Oh. Wow. Where did he go?”
Sherm made a face. “He moved to New Jersey.”
Watching Sherm tuck the slip of paper into his wallet so carefully, Bridge felt even worse. “I’m sorry,” she said. “That really sucks.”
“I write to him sometimes,” Sherm said. “Letters. Do you think that’s weird?”
“It’s not weird. It’s nice. Does he write you back?”
Sherm looked up. “I haven’t actually mailed any of them.”
“Why not?”
He shrugged. “He doesn’t deserve letters. He just left. My dad says he’s moving in with some woman he met. Which feels kind of crazy, to tell you the truth, because he’s a great person. I mean, he was. We don’t really talk about it much. That’s another crazy thing, not talking about it. But my parents are really busy and my grandmother only likes to talk about happy things. Happy things, or books.”
Bridge nodded. “I get that.”
Sherm rubbed the worn leather of the wallet with his thumbs. “I remember when you got hit by that car,” he said.
There was a funny feeling that traveled down Bridge’s legs sometimes—a zinging rush to her feet. “You do?”
“Yeah. It was right at the end of my block.”
“Your block? That’s so random. I didn’t realize you even knew about that.” She laughed. “Even I forget about it sometimes.”
“Everybody knows about it.” Sherm raised his head and the light hit his eyes. Now they looked greenish-blue mixed with light brown. Bridge thought they looked like tiny planet Earths. “What was it like?” he asked.
“The accident? I don’t remember it. All I remember is the hospital—the nurses, and stupid stuff like these paper menus they had with pictures
“Stop!” Bridge said. “What are you doing?”
Sherm’s hand froze. “Eating my cinnamon toast?”
“You can’t eat it like that! You have to eat one piece at a time, faceup, so that the cinnamon and the sugar hit the roof of your mouth.”
Separating the two sides of his toast, Sherm muttered, “You’re lucky I’m used to living with bossy women.”
“Very funny.” Bridge felt herself go red. “I’m just trying to give you the real experience here.”
Sherm took a bite of the cinnamon toast.
“Well?” Bridge said.
“It’s delicious,” Sherm said. He bowed his head. “Thank you for showing me your planet.”
“You’re hilarious.”
“I especially enjoy the way the cinnamon and sugar feel against the roof of my mouth.”
“Double hilarious. Just go ahead and pretend this isn’t the best thing ever.”
“It is, actually,” Sherm said, looking her straight in the eyes, the way he had during the intruder drill. “Best thing ever.”
Bridge pushed his glass toward him. “And you haven’t even tried it with the shake!”
There were no awkward silences. When the check came, they each paid four dollars. Bridge never left less than a twenty percent tip. Her mom said that was the definition of a good New Yorker.
“Nice wallet,” Bridge told Sherm. “Looks about a hundred years old!” She grabbed it. “Check out all the secret pockets!” She turned it upside down, and something fell to the table.
It was a worn square of paper with a date written on it in big letters.
“What’s February fourteenth?” Bridge asked, reading upside down. She felt bad all of a sudden, about grabbing the wallet and shaking it like that. She closed it and held it out to Sherm.
He took the wallet and then picked up the slip of paper from the table.
“It’s Valentine’s Day, dummy.”
“And you just like to carry that piece of information around so you don’t forget?”
“Actually, this was my grandfather’s wallet. And this”—he held up the paper—“is his birthday.”
“Oh God, sorry,” Bridge said. “I didn’t—”
“He’s not dead,” Sherm said quickly. “He moved out over the summer. My grandparents always lived with us, but now it’s just my grandmother. He left her, after fifty years.”
“Oh. Wow. Where did he go?”
Sherm made a face. “He moved to New Jersey.”
Watching Sherm tuck the slip of paper into his wallet so carefully, Bridge felt even worse. “I’m sorry,” she said. “That really sucks.”
“I write to him sometimes,” Sherm said. “Letters. Do you think that’s weird?”
“It’s not weird. It’s nice. Does he write you back?”
Sherm looked up. “I haven’t actually mailed any of them.”
“Why not?”
He shrugged. “He doesn’t deserve letters. He just left. My dad says he’s moving in with some woman he met. Which feels kind of crazy, to tell you the truth, because he’s a great person. I mean, he was. We don’t really talk about it much. That’s another crazy thing, not talking about it. But my parents are really busy and my grandmother only likes to talk about happy things. Happy things, or books.”
Bridge nodded. “I get that.”
Sherm rubbed the worn leather of the wallet with his thumbs. “I remember when you got hit by that car,” he said.
There was a funny feeling that traveled down Bridge’s legs sometimes—a zinging rush to her feet. “You do?”
“Yeah. It was right at the end of my block.”
“Your block? That’s so random. I didn’t realize you even knew about that.” She laughed. “Even I forget about it sometimes.”
“Everybody knows about it.” Sherm raised his head and the light hit his eyes. Now they looked greenish-blue mixed with light brown. Bridge thought they looked like tiny planet Earths. “What was it like?” he asked.
“The accident? I don’t remember it. All I remember is the hospital—the nurses, and stupid stuff like these paper menus they had with pictures
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