Chapter 1
Everyone lies at funerals. A niece pretends to be sad about an aunt she didn’t like. A coworker tells stories to make it seem like the deceased was a great friend. Those closest to the dead pretend to be grateful that everyone is there, when they’d rather be left alone with their nightmares. Many people are actually sad, but some only pretend.
If you don’t pretend, or if you can’t, you’re disrespectful. You’re wrong. You should be ashamed.
You’resupposedto lie. It’ssupposedto be comforting to those around you.
I hover at the threshold of the parlor at Quiet Meadows Funeral Home, picking at the uncomfortable tightness of my waistband.Normally I only wear these dress pants on days we have away meets for cross-country and track, and I hate them then too. My hair prickles my neck, makes me uncomfortably hot. Mom said a ponytail would look too casual. I watch the shift and shiver of black-clad bodies. Several women have their hair up. One boy I recognize from my school does too—he always wears his in a ponytail, and it’s greasy because he never washes it. He’s allowed to wear it like that, so why can’t I?
I feel like I’m lying with how I look. This isn’t me. I have become someone else so that I can exist in this awful place.
Mourners slip past me like ghosts. The funeral home director, standing behind me, welcomes them in. I scan the room once more. Mom stands in the back, talking to several other parents. She has already made the voyage to the distant side of the room, where lights and flowers bloom behind a wall of dark bodies. I avoid looking that way. The funeral home director bumps me with his elbow and doesn’t even turn around to say sorry.
Mom catches my eye. She inclines her head toward the flowers, the lights, the bodies. I pretend I don’t see.
I shouldn’t have to go in if I don’t want to. I shouldn’t have to pretend to be sad. I shouldn’t have to deal with people asking me why I’m not crying.
Alissa wasmybest friend. I’m the only one who gets to decide how I feel about her death.
“Evie.”
My name grates against my nerves. It’s Alissa’s dad, Mr. Whitaker, appearing by my side, where the funeral home director had stood. He’s tall, gaunt, more gray peppering his dark hair than I remember, and I saw him just last week. He smiles at me. The expression is out of a horror movie: forced upon him by societal convention, stretched and empty.
After a hesitation that lasts too long, my scripts kick in and I remember I’m supposed to offer comfort to this grown man who I only know as a parental figure. There aren’t many things that make funerals worse than they already are, but autism must be one of them. My scripts for this are rotten, picked up from movies and TV. People hug at funerals, so I open my arms. After another unbearable hesitation, he accepts my offer. I try not to pull away too quickly.
“Allie would be glad you’re here,” Mr. Whitaker says. I want to laugh. Would she? Be glad I’m at her funeral? Did she want me to feel like this? “Did you just arrive?”
“Yes.” He doesn’t need to know how long I’ve been standing here.
He nods and gives me a pitying look, as if to say,I know how you must be feeling right now. He thinks this is difficult for me. Why does he care how I feel? His daughter is the one who died.
“I’ll walk up with you,” he says.
Now my choice is gone. Whatever choice I had. Better to get this over with, I guess. I follow Mr. Whitaker into the crowd,counting my steps as we go.One two three four five six. Everything I want to say, everything I know Ishouldsay, fills my head, piles up inside me. My chest tightens.
I’m not going in.
I’m sorry for your loss.
I don’t want to see her.
She was a wonderful person.
I don’t wantyouto seeme.
She’ll always be with us in spirit.
No! No no no no NO NO NO—
We pass the line to the casket. I recognize Alissa’s neighbors and their annoying ten-year-old son, enraptured by a shooting game on his smartphone. His mom mumbles something at him to put it away, but of course he’s not paying attention to her. Then four of our classmates, girls we’ve known since elementary school, who seem to have taken this opportunity to dress up and are complimenting one another on their earrings. Then the editorial staff of the school newspaper, and I don’t want to assume they’ll write a story about this, but there’s definitely going to be a memorial page next month. Lots of people from Alissa’s church—I went with her a few times, but I never got into it. I catch glances from all of them; they know me. Even the people I don’t know, people our age, who have gone to school with us for years, people I didn’t know she knew, glance at me.
She had more friends than just me, but it always felt like itwas only the two of us. We played the same sports, did the same extracurriculars. We picked each other for class projects. We canceled other plans because we’d rather stay the night at each other’s houses, watching movies and playing games.
Does everyone else here know that? Do they stare at me because I’m supposed to be the most heartbroken, after her immediate family?
Should I do more to look that way?
I don’t know. I don’t know.
