Bridge to Terabithia

by Katherine Paterson

It was not the kind of best that counted either at school or at home, but it was a genuine kind of best. He kept the knowledge of it buried inside himself like a pirate treasure. He was rich, very rich, but no one could know about it for now except his fellow outlaw, Julia Edmunds.

She probably was. Jess wouldn’t argue that, but he saw her as a beautiful wild creature who had been caught for a moment in that dirty old cage of a schoolhouse, perhaps by mistake. But he hoped, he prayed, she’d never get loose and fly away.

It made Jess ache inside to watch his dad grab the little ones to his shoulder, or lean down and hug them. It seemed to him that he had been thought too big for that since the day he was born.

“Why’d you come here?” “My parents are reassessing their value structure.” “Huh?” “They decided they were too hooked on money and success, so they bought that old farm and they’re going to farm it and think about what’s important.”

He tried to figure out later what had made him so angry. Partly, of course, it made him furious that anyone as dumb as Brenda would think she could make fun of Leslie. Lord, it hurt his guts to realize that it was Brenda who was his blood sister, and that really, from anyone else’s point of view, he and Leslie were not related at all.

It didn’t seem fair with all their money that they’d gotten rid of the TV. It wasn’t as if Leslie would watch the way Brenda did—with her mouth open and her eyes bulging like a goldfish, hour after hour. But every once in a while, a person liked to watch. At least if she had one, it would be one less thing for the kids at school to sneer about.

“It’s not a great present like yours,” she said humbly, “but I hope you’ll like it.” He wanted to tell her how proud and good she made him feel, that the rest of Christmas didn’t matter because today had been so good, but the words he needed weren’t there. “Oh, yeah, yeah,” he said, and then got up on his knees and began to bark at Prince Terrien.

Jess wanted it to be OK. He wanted so much for his dad to be proud of his present, the way he, Jess, had been proud of the puppy. “It’s really great. Really. I just ain’t got the hang of it yet.” His face was red, and he kept shoving his hair back out of his eyes as he leaned over the plastic figure-eight track. “Cheap junk.” His father kicked at the floor dangerously near the track. “Don’t get nothing for your money these days.”

Parents were what they were; it wasn’t up to you to try to puzzle them out. There was something weird about a grown man wanting to be friends with his own child. He ought to have friends his own age and let her have hers.

They painted the living room gold. Leslie and Jess had wanted blue, but Bill held out for gold, which turned out to be so beautiful that they were glad they had given in. The sun would slant in from the west in the late afternoon until the room was brimful of light.

When parents were poor or ignorant or mean, or even just didn’t believe in having a TV set, it was up to their kids to protect them. By tomorrow every kid and teacher in Lark Creek Elementary would be talking in half snickers about Janice Avery’s daddy. It didn’t matter if their own fathers were in the state hospital or the federal prison, they hadn’t betrayed theirs, and Janice had.

“Thanks to you, I think I now have one and one-half friends at Lark Creek School.” It hurt him for it to mean so much to Leslie to have friends. When would she learn they weren’t worth her trouble? “Oh, you got more friends than that.”

“You gotta believe the Bible, Leslie.” “Why?” It was a genuine question. Leslie wasn’t being smarty. “’Cause if you don’t believe the Bible”—May Belle’s eyes were huge—“God’ll damn you to hell when you die.” “Where’d she ever hear a thing like that?” Leslie turned on Jess as though she were about to accuse him of some wrong he had committed against his sister.

He wondered what it would be like to have a mother whose stories were inside her head instead of marching across the television screen all day long.

When she mentioned lunch, he realized with horror that he would need money, and he didn’t know how to tell her that he hadn’t brought any—didn’t have any to bring, for that matter. But before he had time to figure anything out, she said, “Now I’m not going to have any argument about who’s paying. I’m a liberated woman, Jess Aarons. When I invite a man out, I pay.”

It didn’t matter how angry his mother was. She’d get over it. And it was worth it. This one perfect day of his life was worth anything he had to pay.

He ran until he was stumbling but he kept on, afraid to stop. Knowing somehow that running was the only thing that could keep Leslie from being dead. It was up to him. He had to keep going.

Some dream must have awakened him, but he could not remember it. He could only remember the mood of dread it had brought with it.

It came into his mind that someone had told him that Leslie was dead. But he knew now that that had been part of the dreadful dream. Leslie could not die any more than he himself could die. But the words turned over uneasily in his mind like leaves stirred up by a cold wind.

Perhaps it would be better not to think about Leslie right now. He would go to see her the first thing in the morning and explain everything. He could explain it better in the daytime when he had shaken off the effects of his unremembered nightmare.

Jess was only dimly aware that his parents were looking at each other and then at him. Mrs. Aarons gave Brenda a hard look and gave Mr. Aarons a look which was to say that Brenda was to be kept quiet, but Jess was only thinking of how good the pancakes had been and hoping his mother would put down some more in front of him.

Would they bury her in blue jeans? Or maybe that blue jumper and the flowery blouse she’d worn Easter. That would be nice. People might snicker at the blue jeans, and he didn’t want anyone to snicker at Leslie when she was dead.

Why wasn’t Leslie here to help him out of this? Why didn’t she come running in and make everyone laugh again? You think it’s so great to die and make everyone cry and carry on. Well, it ain’t.

Cremated. Something clicked inside Jess’s head. That meant Leslie was gone. Turned to ashes. He would never see her again. Not even dead. Never. How could they dare? Leslie belonged to him. More to him than anyone in the world. No one had even asked him. No one had even told him. And now he was never going to see her again, and all they could do was cry. Not for Leslie. They weren’t crying for Leslie. They were crying for themselves.

they’d cared at all for Leslie, they would have never brought her to this rotten place. He had to hold tightly to his hands for fear he might sock Bill in the face.

She had made him leave his old self behind and come into her world, and then before he was really at home in it but too late to go back, she had left him stranded there—like an astronaut wandering about on the moon. Alone.

They went into the castle stronghold. It was dark and damp, but there was no evidence there to suggest that the queen had died. He felt the need to do something fitting. But Leslie was not here to tell him what it was. The anger which had possessed him yesterday flared up again. Leslie. I’m just a dumb dodo, and you know it! What am I supposed to do? The coldness inside of him had moved upward into his throat constricting it.

A cardinal flew down to the bank, cocked its brilliant head, and seemed to stare at the wreath. P. T. let out a growl which sounded more like a purr.

Of course, by Monday Jess knew; but still, but still, at the bus stop he looked up, half expecting to see her running up across the field, her lovely, even, rhythmic run. Maybe she was already at school—Bill had dropped her off, as he did some days when she was late for the bus—but then when Jess came into the room, her desk was no longer there. Why were they all in such a rush to be rid of her? He put his head down on his own desk, his whole body heavy and cold.

He was suddenly ashamed that he’d thought he might be regarded with respect by the other kids. Trying to profit for himself from Leslie’s death. I wanted to be the best—the fastest runner in the school—and now I am. Lord, he made himself sick. He didn’t care what the others said or what they thought, just as long as they left him alone—just so long as he didn’t have to talk to them or meet their stares. They had all hated Leslie. Except maybe Janice. Even after they’d given up trying to make Leslie miserable, they’d kept on despising her—as though there was one of them worth the nail on Leslie’s

Maybe some day when he was grown, he would write her a letter and tell her that Leslie Burke had thought she was a great teacher or something. Leslie wouldn’t mind. Sometimes like the Barbie doll you need to give people something that’s for them, not just something that makes you feel good giving it. Because Mrs. Myers had helped him already by understanding that he would never forget Leslie.

Wasn’t king the best you could be? Now it occurred to him that perhaps Terabithia was like a castle where you came to be knighted. After you stayed for a while and grew strong you had to move on. For hadn’t Leslie, even in Terabithia, tried to push back the walls of his mind and make him see beyond to the shining world—huge and terrible and beautiful and very fragile? (Handle with care—everything—even the predators.)

Now it was time for him to move out. She wasn’t there, so he must go for both of them. It was up to him to pay back to the world in beauty and caring what Leslie had loaned him in vision and strength. As for the terrors ahead—for he did not fool himself that they were all behind him—well, you just have to stand up to your fear and not let it squeeze you white. Right, Leslie?

“I meant to give you P. T.,” he said. “But”—he looked at Jess and his eyes were those of a pleading little boy—“but I can’t seem to give him up.” “It’s OK. Leslie would want you to keep him.”