Here's an icky bridge section. It is icky because, well, it paints a picture of Lucy that, if I were not trying to stick to a certain amount of output of pages, I wouldn't have kept. If I ever do a massive edit for publication, this section will either move earlier, to help show how she grows, or be cut entirely. The point is that it does help us see how she is passive, proud and in some ways difficult. It is a good section, but it feels weird coming at the end when she is supposed to be growing into an active, forceful person.
Oh well. Table of Contents here.
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I’m not sure what had gotten into Sam, but I wasn’t sure if I liked it. I had many times explained to boys that if I was angry, and they did not know why, that was their own problem. Then I would cross my arms and insist everything was fine, because, I guess, they thought it was. Otherwise, they’d put a few minutes into figuring out why I was upset. The answer was usually because they were big jerks.
Christine always approved of this method of handling boys. My mother always told me that you should communicate more; cold, unyielding staring is a form of communication I had argued. The end result was either a messy, but expected break up, or begging for forgiveness. Win-win, really. To take my mind off his little stunt with the knives, I had tried to call Jon. The conversation went something like this:
“Hi Jon, how is the speech coming?”
“Fine. Do you think shrew or harpy is the better descriptor?”
“I don’t like to be called either.”
“I think I’ll go with harpy; harpies are universally condemned as evil,” He had said. “Some people hear ‘shrew’ and think ‘tiny mouse,’ and some people like mice. No one likes harpies.”
“That is logical. Roger wants to know if you need anything from us here.”
“Just your undying support and adulation,” He said. Then he hung up. Which was rude, since he did not say goodbye.
When I got home, I carefully searched through the apartment first to make sure Peter wasn’t lounging about waiting to jump out unexpectedly. Satisfied that there was no one around, I locked myself away in my room and started going through the few fancy dresses I had for tomorrow night.
I decided on something classy and long; I liked classy and long. It also sparkled, another plus. I tried it on, was happy with how it still fit, then hung it back where it belonged. Then I sat down to go through my plan for tomorrow night. I had the puppets, and I would have Christine. Sam would be there too, but he was sort of an unwitting pawn in this whole scheme.
I heard Christine come breezing into the apartment and the door swinging shut behind her. I pulled my pajamas back on and went out to meet her. She was still in her work clothes, and looked a bit tipsy. I helped her on to the couch, where she collapsed against my shoulder.
“Hi there Lucy.”
“Hi there Christine.”
“I saw Peter tonight. He wanted me to do something with him late tomorrow night; how long is your little party?”
“It’s not my party,” I said. “But the part I need you for should be over fairly early. After that, it’s just a bunch of milling and dancing.”
“I like dancing,” She said. “I want to stay and dance.”
“You need to go to bed,” I said. Christine stood up with me, and I helped her to her room. I just let her flop on the bed; I grabbed her comforter and tossed it over her. Sleeping in work clothes was uncomfortable, but that was her own fault. Tomorrow was going to be a long day, and she needed her sleep.
So did I; there was just one more thing I needed to do first.