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My name is Sam. I live in a small town in Washington; trust me, you have probably never heard of it, so that part doesn’t matter much. I don’t love sports, art, or music. I tend to chill in the background. Out of all the things I could be good at, I only seem to find school as a talent. Because I do very well. I’m almost finished with school though, and I’m nervous for my future. Growing up and getting ready to leave this old town has got me thinking a lot. Then I was forced to think even more. Not something I needed, I’m already stressed as is. Recently in AP Psychology, all the seniors in my class were asked to reflect on our lives. Is there anything we miss? Anything we loved? Anything we regretted ? Well, the last question struck me. And just like that I found myself aching over the memory of “Just” Bridget.
“Tell them to stop, Sam.” Bridget’s voice pleaded. The day had been going so well, why was it ending like this? I had finally worked up the courage to talk to the quiet girl who sat in the front row of Mrs. Jones classroom. I had been noticing her for weeks. She was short, and a little stocky. Her long brown hair fell far past her shoulders, and hundreds of freckles framed her bright blue eyes. She was almost awkward looking. But pretty in her different way. Before the bell rang for my fifth grade class to start, I walked to her seat. Stretching out my hand while looking at the floor I managed to choke out a few words.
“Sam. Sam Eriks.”
“Hi, Sam.” Her voice was different too, also awkward.
“Well won’t you tell me your name? I mean you don’t have to, but I guess I’d like to know.” I could feel my cheeks burning. This was not going as planned.
“Bridget, Just Bridget.” Right when she said this, the bell rang. This then sent me running to my seat, face still red hot. The rest of the day I was miserable, I couldn’t focus on my fractions and my spelling seemed awful. All I could think about was Just Bridget. Why was her name so strange? Didn’t she have a last name? Did she just not want me to know? It wasn’t till the end of the day that I got my answer.
While I was walking home, I noticed chalk drawing after chalk drawing. They kept going every few feet creating a trail of art, really good art. I followed the trail until I found its culprit. There, down on hands and knees, covered from head to toe in bright pastels, was Just Bridget.
“Just Bridget.” I said, startled.
“Sam Eriks.” She replied. She just kept working, her hands tracing out an old oak tree, in autumn. This girl was strange.
“Did you draw all these? School just got out, shouldn’t it have taken awhile?” I was just so curious.
“Yes, I left.” Just Bridget seemed to be a girl of very few words.
“Left? Can you do that?”
“No.” I was more confused then ever. Are eleven year olds allowed to leave school in the middle of class? Is anyone? Just Bridget was different, I could already tell. I spent the next hour talking to her. Watching her fingers spread color and magic across the dull pavement. I was amazed at the talent. Looking back, I don’t know if Just Bridget really was an outstanding artist, or if it just seemed so to my young eyes. But if I had to guess, I’d say she really was outstanding, her art work caught and held the attention of many by passers.
In that hour that I talked and watched, she hardly said a word. The conversation almost felt one-sided. Almost. I managed to wriggle out her favorite color, animal, subject in school, all the basics, really. But at one point in the conversation, she linked more then a couple words together. In fact she talked for a few minutes straight. I guess she had needed someone to listen, and listen is what I did. I let her explain, complain, and everything in between. And I learned she was a foster child, and did not have a last name because the state could find no record of one. Just Bridget is what she had been going by since she could talk. She didn’t remember her family, and she doubted she ever had one; she liked to think she fell from the sky like a raindrop. Or was born from the earth like a carrot or potato. She didn’t like her foster family right now, she hardly ever liked any. And they didn’t seem to like her either. But to her it was okay, she shrugged it all off. That’s where the conversation went back to being one-sided. Almost.
I felt like I had made a new friend that day. A new friend that, unfortunately, only lasted one day. I think I would have liked for that friendship to last, and who knows maybe I would have even wanted it to be more someday. Just Bridget was so unusual, so rare. I knew that was something unique and I would have liked her, I’m sure of it. The real question is if she would have liked me back, I was so plain. And honestly, who would like someone that didn’t come to their aid in a time of need? Yup, that’s right, I said I didn’t. This is what I thought of when my AP Psychology teacher asked me if I had any regrets. Because I know that everything about my life would be a lot different if I hadn’t turned my back.
“Tell them to stop, Sam.” Bridget’s voice pleaded. Our sweet and simple conversation had been interrupted. A group of older students had gathered around. It was obvious they were jealous of Just Bridget’s artistic ability, and to add to it, they were against her strange looks and ways. I try not to blame those kids, we were all so young.
“Please Sam.” Tears were welling up in Bridget’s freckle-framed, bright blue eyes. The older kids were laughing, all joining in and taking turns mocking Just Bridget’s art, making fun of her too “soft” body for her small frame. I know I should have said something. She asked for help, and did I answer? Did I stand up for my new friend? No. I couldn’t. Like I said before, I just blended with the background, I wasn’t outgoing at all. And I was sure those kids wouldn’t have listened to me, or would they have? Were a couple timid words from my quiet mouth all that was needed to save Just Bridget? I know we were young, and I don’t blame the other kids. But I do blame myself. Because instead of speaking up, I turned on my heel and ran. I kept running and running, until I was lost in the town streets. Sitting on the curb I buried my face in my hands and started to cry. Cry, that was all I could do. And I am still not exactly sure why I was crying. But you and me both know plenty of reasons, what I had done was wrong, and I was deeply confused. Yet I still blame myself.
The next day Just Bridget wasn’t in her usual front row seat. And it remained like that for the next few days. I found myself staring, hopelessly, at the empty seat on the front row. The weekend passed, my parents were acting very strange, in fact all the adults were. And like usual, I found myself confused, it wasn’t until Monday that I got all the answers.
“Class, before we start I’m afraid I have news to share. Do not get excited, this news is not well.” Mrs. Jones said, standing at the front of the class. She was reaching for a box of tissues, and that’s when I knew. Immediately, tears started streaming down my face. I knew it was my fault.
“Bridget will not be returning to class. There has been an accident, Bridget has passed away.” Mrs. Jones was trembling. But I could tell, from the way Mrs. Jones stumbled over the word “Accident” I knew. Some kids were asking who Bridget was. I couldn’t help myself; I kept whispering her name, Just Bridget, as an answer to their questions, or was it to answer my own?
The rest of the day went by slowly; I spent it in an exhausted blur. Yet I somehow managed the strength to race home as fast as I could once the bell rang. I needed to know the answer to my questions. Sitting on the front steps, was the daily news paper. I slowly unfolded it, but I didn’t have to look far. Something this big made first page news in a small town like ours. And there was the story of Just Bridget, my Just Bridget.
Last week, a local eleven year old foster child, by the name of Bridget, took her own life……. I couldn’t read anymore. I had guessed correctly, and let me tell you, it was the worst feeling in the world. I don’t remember much after that. My mind has seemed to block it out, but I do remember the worst of it. My name is Sam; I’m a high school senior in a small town. And like most people, I have regrets.
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