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    Bridgers: A Parable
    Bridgers: A Parable
    Bridgers: A Parable
    Ebook171 pages1 hour

    Bridgers: A Parable

    By Angie Thompson

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    About this ebook

    Three boys. One choice. No turning back.

    Peyton is a rising star in the church who is well on the way to reaching his biggest dreams. Levi is a pastor's son struggling to live up to his faith under pressure from all sides. DaVonte is a kid from the wrong side of town who would be content if he and his friends were just left alone.

    When an act of violence presents a sudden decision, each boy's answer will shake the community to its core and shape its future forever. Love and truth face off against fear and pride in this modern extension of one of Jesus' best-known parables.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherQuiet Waters Press
    Release dateNov 27, 2017
    ISBN9780999614419
    Bridgers: A Parable
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    Author

    Angie Thompson

    An avid reader and incurable story-spinner, Angie Thompson also enjoys volunteering in her church's children's program and starting (but not always finishing) various kinds of craft projects. She currently lives in central Virginia near most of her incredible family, including two parents, six brothers, one sister, and six siblings-in-law—plus five nieces, ten nephews, and several assorted pets! Get in touch with her by emailing contact@quietwaterspress.com. Love getting the behind-the-scenes scoop? You'll find it and more at quietwaterspress.com.

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      Book preview

      Bridgers - Angie Thompson

      ​ As an advanced reader from an early age, I understand the struggles of these children and their parents in finding books that are both challenging and free of inappropriate content. My goal has always been to write stories that are safe, not only for a teen audience, but also for younger children with the reading skills to enjoy and appreciate them.

      Because of the nature of the parable that inspired this book, it contains references to topics that may be inappropriate for younger readers. Drinking, gangs, and drugs are mentioned but not described. A main character smokes cigarettes, and this issue is partially addressed in a later scene. Tattoos are not specifically condemned but are shown to make others uncomfortable. The aftermath of a violent crime is described, but not in a graphic manner.

      Parents may want to preview the book or discuss these issues when giving it to a younger child.

      Chapter One

      ​I’m glad the guy’s probably dead by now, because if I ever met him, I’d punch him in the face.

      I’d never say that at school—the only place I ever think it. It’s the kind of thing that’d draw attention from teachers and counselors, Principal Orbison and Officer Clay—people that’d never put a face to the name DaVonte Jones unless they thought I’d make trouble. I guess I look like the kid you wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley, and they’d figure I’d really do it.

      The guys from my neighborhood would get a kick out of it. I’ve never hit anybody unless they were hurting a little kid, and when I get mad, a couple jabs at what’s left of the punching bag in the corner of the old rec center usually cools me down. But I look like I could do it, and that’s what counts to most people.

      The tattoos—sure, they could be intimidating, I guess. But there aren’t any gang symbols. Just pictures I thought were cool, style statements that don’t look like someone else’s trash, proof to the guys on the block that I belong, even if I keep out of some of the garbage they’re into.

      The cigarettes—well, I dare anyone to live in my neighborhood for sixteen years and not at least try them. I don’t use them as much as some guys, but they’re a big help when I get stressed. Besides, I’ve never seen anyone passed out in the street or whacked out of their mind from a cigarette, so I figure they can’t be that bad.

      And the way I dress—yeah, let’s just say I’d been wearing ripped jeans and frayed shirts long before somebody made them cool. Most of the money I get from my mama when she’s sober goes to more important things like school lunches or frozen dinners. And even if I could afford it, walking down my street in a collared shirt would just be begging for the fights I’d rather avoid.

      I don’t even know the guy’s name, and I guess he might’ve meant all right, but I can tell you one thing—he wasn’t from Graveside. Because anyone from this side of the river would’ve known right off that bussing the kids from my neighborhood over to Woodbridge High would be the worst idea in the history of the city.

      The names haven’t changed much in forty years. The rich kids call us deadbeats, which might be just a slap at our future or a dig at the cemetery where our neighborhood got its name. To us, they’re the bridgers, either because half of them live in Woodbridge or because you have to cross the bridge to get to them. That name’s the deepest insult you can give a Graveside kid.

      Why nobody on the school board ever redrew the lines again after that disaster is one of life’s unsolved mysteries. Nobody, but nobody wants the Graveside kids in this school—least of all us. Most days we pretty much manage to ignore each other, but some days we just can’t. Days like today, when Pete Hoffstedder and Ian LeBeau filled Jamal Lewis’s gym sneakers with some sort of rotten-smelling muck while he was in the shower.

      Jamal shoved Ian up against a locker and ended up with a black eye from Pete and two weeks’ suspension from the principal. Ian and Pete got three days’ detention and had to pay damages—a whopping ten bucks. Maybe Mr. Orbison never had to replace a pair of sneakers, no matter how torn-up they were.

      The rest of the day was electric. Guys jostled and pushed in the halls. Girls shot poison looks across the classrooms. Teachers scrapped group work and lectured with tight lips, keeping a worried eye on the Graveside kids and nervously shushing the whispered digs of the bridgers.

      I guess it’s a little like living over an ammunition plant. After forty years, nobody expects an explosion, but everyone still catches their breath when a lit cigarette falls on the floor. Next week, it’ll all be back to normal, just with one more inch carved into the gap that separates us. And as far as I can see, that’s a gap no bridge in the world will ever cross.

      Chapter Two

      ​Two weeks! They should’ve kicked him out for good. Peyton Emeric scowled at his friend’s face on the phone as he sprawled across his bed. You ought to have your parents appeal to the school board. Ten bucks? He couldn’t have given those shoes away. They were pretty much held together with duct tape. You were doing him a favor.

      He paused, listening to his earbuds, then shook his head.

      Nah, I can’t. Church stuff tonight. So what’d the doctor say?

      Another pause, and Peyton’s scowl deepened.

      I mean, can’t you make the kid’s insurance pay for bruises? Pain and suffering or something? I’m telling you, your dad should check it out. There’s got to be some sort of assault there. Maybe send him to jail if you can’t get money out of it. Those kids are dangerous. Somebody has to teach them a lesson.

      Peyton? A soft knock interrupted Ian’s reply, and his friend glanced up irritably.

      I’m busy, Natalie!

      Phone for you. It’s Pastor Allison.

      Peyton sat up and shook his hair back into place as he reached for his phone.

      Hey, listen, I have to go. Think about it. I’ll see you tomorrow.

      He pulled off the earbuds, tossed the phone back onto the bed, and unlocked the door to admit his sister. Natalie held out the home phone, and he snatched it from her hand.

      Hello?…Oh, yes, pastor.…Yes, sir, I’m ready. He smiled as he listened. Yes, sir. I’ll be there. And thank you.

      Hanging up, Peyton tossed the phone back toward his sister, who ducked instead of trying to catch it.

      Nice. He grinned sarcastically and turned toward the closet. Tell Mom I’ve got to leave early tonight. Pastor wants to talk to me before service. Did she get my gray jacket cleaned?

      It’s downstairs. And she said to tell you she’s got dinner almost ready.

      And you couldn’t bring it up? What’s she making?

      Mac and cheese.

      Peyton turned with a scowl, and Natalie hurriedly clarified.

      The kind you like. Baked, with bread crumbs.

      No milk when I’m speaking, Nat! It messes with my voice. Tell her I’ll have a hamburger if she can get it done in time. If not, I’ll stop for something. Bring my jacket up and hang it on the door. I want to go over my notes one more time.

      Natalie sighed and nodded. Peyton pulled a white shirt from the closet and kicked the door shut behind her. A few moments later, he stepped toward the mirror and surveyed himself carefully before raising his voice to yell, Nat, where’s my jacket?

      It’s hanging on your door, came the muffled response from Natalie’s room.

      Peyton slipped it on, looked himself over again, and straightened his tie slightly, then settled into a chair and reached for the freshly printed sheets sitting next to his Bible on the nightstand.

      Good evening, brothers and sisters. It’s so humbling to be allowed to speak to you tonight and to share the message I believe the Lord’s given me. I know I’m much younger than most of you, but I hope, like Paul said to Timothy, that you won’t despise my youth, because we all know God’s Word is greater than the messenger, amen? A pause just long enough for the response, then, That said, I’m still pretty new at this, so I won’t complain if you do keep in mind how young I am—and forgive my mistakes accordingly. A slightly longer pause, and Peyton’s apologetic smile widened into a satisfied grin. The title of tonight’s study—

      The water started to run in the bathroom sink, and he looked up to call, You’ve got ten minutes before I have to fix my hair!

      Natalie’s response was indistinct, and Peyton turned back to his notes.

      The title of tonight’s study is ‘God’s Grace and Our Answer.’ If you’ll please turn with me…

      ​ Chapter Three

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