“Will you be going to camp, Bridget?” Sophie said, with such articulation that it was clear she was taxed by her own politeness.
“No,” I said.
Isabella laughed. “Briddie doesn’t have any interests.” My cheeks filled with blood; my shoulder knocked against the handle of a locker. Isabella gave me a theatrical wink. “Like me.” She tapped her yearbook.
Sophie frowned at Isabella. “You have interests.”
“I’m interested in getting out of St. Cyrus for the summer,” Isabella said with a toss of her wrist, her charm bracelet jingling.
They laughed and began to talk between themselves about the Fourth of July, about the correct lotions for lightening freckles. And as Sophie and Isabella filed into the library, I hung back. I pulled my yearbook from my satchel. It still had the glorious fresh yearbook smell, like a new plastic tablecloth. I flicked it open to our junior class photos, and true enough, there were only two girls with blank spaces where clubs and activities should be: under Isabella’s photograph, it simply read “Izzy,” and under mine, “Bridge.” Even Sophie was a member of the Riding Club. I closed the book with a snap. Was that all I had to offer Isabella? Nothing?
* * *
That week I watched Isabella as she sunbathed on the tennis court during recess, as she doodled in the margins of her textbook during religious education. And in the evenings after school I sat on my bed and dreamed up scenarios for coaxing her friendship. It had shimmered before me, the day of detention. The promise of acceptance into a realm of hearty constitutions and fearless stunts at the country club. But now a long, Isabella-less summer vacation was looming ahead. Me and Rhona would lay out in the backyard on an old sheet Mama had darned too many times to be usable. Me and Flora would go to the community pool and paddle in the shallow end, since Flora was afraid whenever she couldn’t touch the bottom. And by fall, Isabella would have forgotten we were ever close to being close.
And so, on Thursday morning, our final proper school day before vacation, I took destiny into my own hands. As the girls ran out for tennis, I faked an untied shoelace and lingered in the locker room. My heart crashing through my skull, I slipped my hand into Isabella’s satchel and withdrew the cool, jangling chain of her charm bracelet. My fingers were numb, my heartbeat splashing against my eardrums. If anyone was to come in now, I’d be done for. I threaded the bracelet through the grate at the top of my locker and then ran onto the court, squiggles of white vapor creeping over my vision.
After tennis, I scratched myself across the ribs racing to change back into my uniform. Only as I was leaving the locker room did I risk a peek at Isabella. She was sitting on the bench and had begun to rummage through her satchel, pulling out barrettes and pens and tossing them onto the floor. Giddy, almost tearful, I ran straight home after school, convincing myself all the way that I could hear a telltale tinkling inside my bag. At home I locked my bedroom door, pulled the curtains, and withdrew the bracelet. With shaking hands, I examined the charms for clues to decipher Isabella’s magic: the ballet slipper, the butterfly, the heart-shaped locket with the tiny, stiff key.
* * *
Friday was a half day on account of the summer vacation, and everyone was antsy, undoing their top blouse buttons as a concession to recklessness. Roll call was a scrimmage of girls inscribing yearbooks and exchanging bags of peppermint hearts from the drugstore. Isabella was in high demand, signing autographs and writing the address of her summerhouse on slips of paper for urgent vacation missives. Patiently, I waited until she was released from the melee and stopped at the drinking fountain.
I approached her as casually as I could manage. “Hi. So, did you leave a bracelet behind in the locker room?”
Isabella wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Yeah,” she said slowly.
“It’s just, I found one, and I wasn’t sure if it’s yours or not,” I said airily, as if I hadn’t traced its contours until the silver got warm.
With a yelp, she reached out and hugged me, her yearbook jabbing me in the chin. “I musta looked everywhere. Where was it?”
I licked my lips. “Between the slats in the bench.”
Isabella raised her eyebrows. “Jeez. Close call. Thanks, Briddie.” Her eyes traveled over the line of my pockets, her interest slipping.
“Oh, I don’t have it on me,” I said. “I took it home in the end, for safekeeping.” Now was the moment for my triumph. “I’ll meet you tomorrow so I can give it to you,” I said. “Maybe at the park?”
Isabella chewed her thumbnail. “Tomorrow? Tomorrow is the club mixer.”
“Oh.” I had forgotten about the monthly St. Cyrus Country Club Mixer. The other girls were always restless on the Friday before, forsaking lunch for slices of grapefruit packed into their satchels while I drank my cafeteria milk. Members were allowed to bring their dogs, and even from the bench on the other side of the street, I could hear a symphony of barking that lasted long into the evening. “Sunday, then, after church?”
Isabella screwed up her nose. “I’ll just come over tomorrow and pick it up.”
“Come over?” I blinked at her.
“Yeah.”
“To my house?”
Isabella rolled her eyes. “Yes, Briddie.”
My gut was tight. I tried to place Isabella in my house. It was like setting a chess queen on a game of tic-tac-toe. “Why don’t I just meet you somewhere? The Creamery?”
“But I don’t know when the mixer will be done.” Isabella batted me on the shoulder with her yearbook. “Leave the bracelet with your mom if you’ll be out.”
“OK,” I said. My stomach was churning. Isabella wanted to come over; she offered to come over. Her willingness was surely a good sign. But then why did she mention Mama especially? I observed her as she scribbled in Minty Walsh’s yearbook. Only Flora had ever been to my house. What if Isabella was just coming to investigate? Or worse, what if she was an envoy from the rest of the class? Isabella caught my eye and gestured for my yearbook. I watched over her shoulder as she wrote, Briddie saves the day again! See you soon, love Isabella. I stared at her inscription, at our names nestled there together. I allowed myself the luxury of hope.
* * *
On Saturday after lunch, I rearranged my bedroom with a curatorial fervor. My mermaid night-light I pulled out and wedged into a drawer between my jeans, along with a goofy photo of me and Rhona in matching Easter bonnets. Then I began a deliberate messening, selecting tokens of slovenliness that might indeed prove I was a real person. A tube of Mama’s Rose Sunset lipstick, discarded just so under my mirror. I draped a white cashmere sweater from Granny by the window seat even though it was far too hot to be out of the closet. I stood by my vanity and assessed. It could have been worse. At least I didn’t have cross-stitched Bible quotes framed above my bed like Flora. I positioned Isabella’s bracelet on my dresser at a nonchalant angle and then, for the final touch, pulled a book about Italy from my shelf and cracked the spine, laying it on the bed. When the doorbell rang, I flew down the stairs, yelling, “I’ll get it, Mama.”