Bridge to Terabithia

by Katherine Paterson

He had never learned to run properly, but he was long-legged for a ten-year-old, and no one had more grit than he.

They weren’t crying for Leslie. They were crying for themselves. Just themselves.

His mother had never allowed him to have a dog, but she made no objection to P. T. being in the house. P. T. jumped up on his bed, and he slept all night with P. T.’s body curled against his chest.

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.

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? Right.

And when he finished, he put flowers in her hair and led her across the bridge—the great bridge into Terabithia—which might look to someone with no magic in him like a few planks across a nearly dry gully. “Shhh,” he said. “Look.” “Where?” “Can’t you see ’um?” he whispered. “All the Terabithians standing on tiptoe to see you.” “Me?”