But then she shifts to talking about the recent Mason, as he was just a few weeks ago, and my skin feels like it’s tightening on my frame, like it’s constricting my rib cage.
“He could be kind of a jerk,” Sarah says into the microphone,the last word echoing off the stone walls. “But I think that was because he didn’t know what to do with how smart he was. I loved him anyway. And I always, always knew that he loved me.”
I feel the lump building in my throat, but I am absolutely not going to let myself cry. I have no right. I was his friend, that’s all. That was our official status, and just because I occasionally let my thoughts wander over the contours of something more, so what? That’s standard daydreaming and gives me zero special consideration because there was exactly zero reality to it. So shut up and sit quietly, Hattie, like all the other “just friends” here. It would be so freaking selfish for me to start blubbering while his own parents are dry-eyed in the front row. His mother never liked me, and I can almost hear what she would whisper:She’s clearly looking for attention.It’s just that … I thought I’d have more time.
My eyes swimming, I try to distract myself by looking around the church. The most eye-catching elements of St. Brigit’s are the huge stained glass windows that rise above us on either side. I often stare at the one to the right, which is of Jesus confronting the devil. It depicts the devil as a human figure, sneering, with horns and red skin and the whole thing. It’s so over the top that it always makes me snort. I feel the lump dissolve. Close call.
I tap my foot rhythmically against the kneeling bench on the floor in front of me until I feel soothed. Sarah is still talking as I tune back in. “What’s sad,” she says, “is that he was just sort of figuring himself out. Getting comfortable. He had startedworking on his graphic novels more, and was talking about applying to art school. It seemed like he could finally just … be.” Sarah looks out to the side, like she’s talking to herself. “I wish he could have had time to enjoy that. But I guess I’m glad he got to that place at all before he was gone.”
A small sob breaks the hush. It’s only after several people turn around in their seats that I realize the sob came from me. Tears are escaping. I press at the corners of my eyes with the crook of my finger and push out of the pew, padding quickly down the aisle. I force a smile and shake my head at my mom to make her stay in her seat as I pass her. Eyes from all around the church bore holes into my back. I lean into the massive wooden door.
I knew I shouldn’t have come. What are they thinking now, all those eyes? That I’m some kind of drama queen? An attention seeker? Just plain unstable? There are so many labels for this behavior, for drawing focus from what’s important, for making everything all about you. I have no right.
As I enter through the vestibule again, the space is still dim, but this time I can see something I didn’t before, off to one side. My brain tries to make sense of what it is. It looks like a life-sized cardboard cutout of Mason, like they make of athletes to sell stuff at the mall. I stare, struck by the rendering but also amazed that the adults in charge of this shindig would cook up something in such bad taste. The likeness to Mason is unnerving, adorable freckles and strong jawline and all, seemingly in 4D. And now I get why everyone goes so wild over theMona Lisa, because the fact that the eyes seem to be zeroing in on me is making me lose feeling in my legs. I stare so intently my head hurts, trying to get clarity on what I am actually seeing, when suddenly, the figureblows me a kiss. I stop breathing, more than a little terrified, but also not wanting to push past this moment that seems to have nothing to do with normal time and space. Am I hallucinating? I’m pretty sure I haven’t blinked once since I entered the vestibule, and now my focus starts to blur. I blink several times, and when my vision is clear again, the person ismoving toward me. It’s too much. I gasp and stumble backward, bursting through the door into the cold sunshine outside. Mixed into the creaking of the large wooden door, I think I hear the sound of laughter.
At the bottom of the stairs, I sneak a look behind me to see if I’m being followed. The stairs are empty. I slow down. Holy crap, I’m more upset than I thought if I’m hallucinating shit like that. I try to remember how to do the calming breaths thing we learned during our yoga unit in PE, but it feels more like hyperventilating than meditating. I start to get lightheaded, so I quit. I should walk home, but I don’t want to freak out my mom. I’ve already bolted outside; disappearing entirely would be pushing it. Instead, I sit in the grass, feeling the realness of the moisture from the cool, damp earth seeping through the back of my dress. I knew I’d be bad at this funeral thing. Maybe it’s more than just missing Mason. Sarah’s words ring in my ears. The idea that anyone could “just be” in life is so tantalizing and out of reach that I physically can’t bear it.
I’m pulling apart orange maple leaves, calming myself by stripping the flesh from each leaf along the lines of its veins, when clumps of people start shuffling out to the wide front steps of the church. Their murmuring turns to talking as they move away from the doors, shaking off the formality still hanging inside. Then they all turn to face the church, and I can’t help imagining Mason’s family running out holding hands and jumping into a limo with tin cans attached to the bumper and the wordsJust Diedwritten on it in shaving cream, while we all throw rose petals or something. It isn’t just the stained glass devil that’s ridiculous. The empty box, the rituals, the sheer fact that a guy can’t even float on a lake without dying, it’s all absurd. And me, of course. I’m the most ridiculous of all.
Over by the sidewalk, I see some tenth graders offering tissues to a girl with a pixie cut. What isshecrying about? Who was Mason to her—a random boy in her precalc class? Then I reflexively scold myself for being critical. But this is exactly why I fear others’ judgment, because judgment fills every cell in my body. And if I wasn’t justified, she definitely isn’t.
The Beaver Bunch is coming down the steps now, headed toward me. Just seeing them makes the world around me feel more grounded. I get ready for one of them to tease me about my sobisode, but they don’t. Lucia squeezes my elbow while Asha playfully hip checks me from the other side. Teasing would be better. As it is, the more they smile, the more breakable I feel. The boys look uncomfortable. Their lips are pressed thin as their eyes dart around, as if there might be a sheet ofinstructions somewhere for how they should conduct themselves. Mason would have teased me.
Asha does a little wiggle dance. “Where’s the bathroom?” she asks Lucia. “I have to pee.”
“Don’t ask me, I don’t know,” Lucia says.
“What? I thought you were a good little church girl. I thought that was what explained your … questionable fashion choices,” says Asha, eyebrows arched in a lighthearted challenge as she continues to jump around.
“I go to St. Anthony’s. Italian,” Lucia replies, indicating herself with a little curtsy flourish. “This is the Irish church.” She says it matter-of-factly, pointing at me. The whole town was sort of split down the middle 150 years ago, and if you take last names and match them up to addresses, you can still find evidence of the divide.
“Oh, you mean you don’t go to the white church but instead you go to the white church?” Asha puts one hand on her hip. As the only Indian American kid in a town with a population as pale as the milk in the surrounding dairy farms, she has no patience for white people’s claims of ethnicity.
“Pretty much,” says Lucia. She shrugs, absently twisting her long brown hair up into a perfectly messy topknot and plucking out tendrils.
“It’s in the basement,” I say. “The stairs are to the left.”
“Thank you, darling,” Asha says, dancing away.
“Wait, I’ll go with you,” calls Lucia cheerfully. Lucia never takes anything personally. She has the best self-esteem ofanyone I’ve ever met. “You can give me another talking-to about cultural sensitivity or whatever.”
“Good, you need it.” Asha turns back, links her arm through Lucia’s, and starts dragging her up the stairs. “For starters, I preferawareness.Sensitivitysounds like you can’t have gluten.”
I watch them disappear into the building. If I leave now, I can skip the emotional goodbyes that might restart my waterworks or hallucinating or some new nonsense. I turn to the boys. Even though they’re the same age, Jeff Dean is at least a half foot taller than Nolan, and now he’s bent over him awkwardly like my little reading lamp that I clip onto my books at night. They’re both engrossed in some sports highlight reel on Nolan’s phone. Every twenty seconds or so, without looking up from the screen, they softly bump fists and mumble “epic” in unison.
“All right, guys, see you tomorrow,” I say quickly. My mom is standing a few feet away, talking with the choir director and the lady who sets up the doughnut table after Mass. I catch Mom’s eye and point to the car, and she follows me to the parking lot.
“How was it?” she asks innocently as she unlocks the doors. Please.
“You were there,” I say. I’m not sure when it started, but this is our pattern now. The more questions she asks me, the less I want to answer her. Which just makes her ask more questions. I’ve even taken to sometimes pretending I haven’t heard her, which I’m sure she finds incredibly childish and selfish and probably a lot of other -ishes. It’s like I’m hoarding all the information, information she’s starving for, and I won’t give her acrumb. But what am I supposed to do? She’s insatiable. Whenever I ease up and let her in a little, she just wants more.
“I thought the service was lovely,” she says, as if responding to a question I haven’t asked.
“I’m sure the Learys were glad to see all his friends there,” she tries again, turning on the ignition and checking her mirrors.
Maybe I could get this all out of the way at the same time. I unbuckle my seat belt and take a deep breath. The car starts beeping in protest. I let it finish, then say, “Look, Mom, I know you’re concerned about me, but I’m really fine. The grief counselors at the school said that everybody processes grief in different ways, and I guess my grief processing style is, well, uneven, but it is mostly very private.” Oh yeah, I can tell by the wrinkle in between her eyebrows that mentioning the counselors is having its desired effect. Now she’s going to have to take whatever else I say super seriously. I pile it on, saying stuff I’ve seen on social media from the families of celebrities who’ve died. “So I would appreciate some time and space to process in this difficult time. Okay?”
“Of course, sweetie,” she says, so serious I have to look away so she won’t see me cringe. I’m exploiting a friend’s death just to get a little peace from my overly involved mother.
