The Scattering. Kimberly McCreight

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       7

      I STUMBLE DOWN THE STEPS and run away from Jasper’s house. Bernham Bridge. You should be sorry. Bernham Bridge. You should be sorry. The bridge is not far, I don’t think, maybe less than a half mile. Only a couple of quick turns. But I need to get there now. I can feel it. And that isn’t about reading anybody’s feelings, not about simple Heightened Emotional Perception. There is no one there to read. This feeling is something more.

      But I have never been more certain of anything in my life: Jasper needs me, and he needs me right now.

      I look around for a taxi, a car, some other option, overwhelmed by the sense of the time I have already wasted. The things I should have realized. Should have said. But there is no one around to help. I have no choice but to run on. I look down at my stupid, useless flip-flops, tugging them off and sprinting barefoot, one gripped in each hand.

      My legs feel wiry and taut as I turn down Juniper toward Sullivan. Soon my feet go numb against the sharp, hot pavement as I race past the bigger, more beautiful houses. The only sounds are the rough heaving of my breath, and the slapping of my bare feet against the concrete. Don’t do it, Jasper. Don’t do it. Because I am thinking that he has gone there to jump. And I pray that I am wrong.

      Finally, I reach the place where the road curves and ends in a cluster of trees. After that, there is the bridge.

      I am running so fast now. I can barely feel the ground.

      Jasper.

      A bridge.

      And all that emptiness below.

      But I will be in time. I have to be. And somehow I will say exactly the right thing. And he will realize that he’s not thinking clearly. Because he may not care about what happens to him right now. At this moment. But he will—tomorrow, the next day. And I care now. So much more than I realized.

      I am almost at the bridge now, the span in clear view. My eyes scan the length of it, searching up and down. But there is nothing. There is no one to convince. No one to save. Maybe I was wrong. Wrong, and not late.

      I have to be.

      But then I spot something on the ground about halfway down, along the railing. A small, dark pile. I race ahead to see what it is.

      I am shaking when I finally stop in front of it. It isn’t until I crouch down that I realize it’s a sweatshirt. Blue and green. Any other colors would be better. Because blue and green are the ones worn by all the Newton Regional High School sports teams. I have to put a hand on the railing to steady myself as I pick it up. Before it’s even in the air I can see the arc of the words on the back: NRHS Hockey Team.

       No. No. No.

      This is not the way it ends. It can’t be. I should have—no. It’s not. Jasper is okay. He has to be. I press myself hard against the railing and over the water below, scanning for any sign of him.

      I need to calm down. Focus. Even if he jumped, there’s still time to get him out. It couldn’t have happened that long ago. My hips press against the railing like a gymnast propped up on uneven bars. Looking for signs of life. Praying I find something.

      There’s a loud sound behind me then. Wheels screeching to a stop, doors opening. Footsteps. I am afraid to peel my eyes from the water. Afraid I will miss some glimpse of Jasper.

      “Stop!” a man shouts behind me. Not quite angry. But very, very firm. “Come away from the railing.”

      The police? Jasper’s mom must have called them. Thank God.

      But I do not turn. I do not take my eyes off that water. I will spot Jasper if he surfaces—no matter what anyone says. “He’s down there!” I shout back instead.

      “Come away from the edge!” Even louder now. But a woman this time. “Miss, get off the railing now!”

      “But my friend Jasper—”

      “We aren’t listening until you come away from there!”

      I glance over my shoulder and see the two police officers coming slowly closer from either side of a stopped police car.

      “Someone has to go after him. Do you have a boat or scuba people or something?”

      “We can talk about that after you step over here, miss.” When I look quickly again, I see the female officer has curly hair pulled back in a ponytail. And she’s waving me toward her. “Take a step or two away from the edge, hon. Toward me.”

      The way she says “hon” has a warm ring to it, but she’s nervous. I can feel it. I see her look down at my shoeless, possibly bloody feet. I get it: I look unhinged. But she is trying to be patient, to give me the benefit of the doubt. Her partner, on the other hand—young and jumpy and overmuscular—seems like he is going to pounce. They are focused only on me, too. They don’t understand what’s going on. They’ve been misinformed.

      “You’re wasting time! It’s not me, it’s my friend! He jumped!” I shout back at them as I turn again to the water. “He is going to die down there if you don’t hurry!”

      “We want to help you,” the female officer says. She is calmer now, like she’s hit her stride. “But we can’t until you step away from the railing.”

      Help you. They are still not listening. СКАЧАТЬ