Ollie hung back. Despite her bravado, she hated heights. Yes, this bridge wasn’tthathigh, but the timbers were soft and black, slimy and splintery, and Ollie could see the gray water rushing below.
Coco was already at the middle of the bridge. Brian got to the other side and turned to watch the girls. Coco put a foot through a rotten plank, squeaked, and skipped over to the next plank. It groaned under her weight. “I’m scared,” she said so that only Ollie could hear.
Ollie was still on the far side. She forced herself to take a step. It was that or stay alone on this side of the bridge with nowhere to hide and night coming on.
Step. The rotten wood bent under her feet. Step. Don’t look down.
She hadn’t always hated heights. Her mother used to take her flying on weekends. Ollie had loved it, the rumble and soar of the plane, bright sunshine all around, clouds like giant fish, the ground falling away.
Step.
At the funeral, they had her mother’s casket closed. It was easy to believe that her mother wasn’t in there at all, that she was just—at a conference or something—and would come home any minute, kiss Ollie’s dad, and say,Good adventures today, Olivia?
Easier to imagine that than to imagine the ground coming up, big bigger biggest. Falling.
Ollie was halfway across the bridge, high above the creek, and memory had paralyzed her.Mom fell. I could fall.
“Ollie!” Coco called. “Ollie, come on!”
She had to move. She had to. But she couldn’t.
“Ollie, hurry!”
Ollie tried to lift her foot. Failed.
Voices at the other end of the bridge. Arguing. She could barely hear them over the roaring in her own head.
The water gurgled below. In her head was the rush and surge of ground coming up to meet her. She couldn’t see anything else.
Then a face thrust itself between her and memory. A ridiculously pretty face, with angelic blue eyes and pinkish hair. Coco. Hot Cocoa, Cocoa Puff. She of the dumb name and the ridiculous hair. She who cried all the time. Coco was taking Ollie’s hands, standing light as—as a climber on rotten wood.
“Come on, Ollie,” she said. “Come on. Step. Just one step. We can’t stay here.”
Ollie stepped.
Coco stepped back. “Now another one. Come on.”
Ollie took another step. She wasn’t falling. She wasn’t going to fall. Coco’s blue eyes promised it, and her thin hands. Strong hands, Ollie realized. Coco didn’t cry because she was weak. Coco cried because she felt things. Ollie never cried because she didn’t feel things. Not anymore. Not really. She tried not to feel things.
Step and step. One more.
And then the bridge ended. Ollie stumbled off, blind, and realized that she was crying now, hands over her face. She knelt on the stony path at the mouth of the covered bridge and she cried. She didn’t even know, really, what she was crying for, whether it was from fear, tiredness, or for her mom at last.
“It’s okay,” Coco said. “Don’t feel bad. When I went climbing the first time, I froze at the top of a wall. They had to pry me down. Please don’t cry.”
“I’m not,” said Ollie weakly.
Then she scrubbed her hands down her face. “I’m not,” she repeated, more firmly. She stood up. “I’m okay now. Thanks, Coco. You saved me back there.”
Coco beamed. “Don’t mention it.”
Ollie looked around. “Where’s Brian?”
Startled, Coco said, “I don’t know. He was just—”
“Guys, get over here now!” Brian’s shout came from the direction of the vegetable garden.
Ollie and Coco hurried up the sloping path. The first of the scarecrows stood right on the edge of the fenced-in dead garden, head a little flopped to one side. Brian was standing in front of it, his hand over his mouth.
