Page 5 of Goodbye Days

“Okay,” Mars says under his breath, still grinning and waving furiously. “Count of three. One. Two. Three.”

He and Eli stop waving and lunge forward, hurling sauce packets. Mars has a good arm. His dad used to force him to do all kinds of sports. Eli has this rangy athleticism. He’d have probably been a decent basketball player if he could put down his guitar long enough and if he weren’t so allergic to keeping his long, curly black hair out of his face. A teriyaki and a BBQ each score a direct hit on the horse’s head, causing them to burst open and spray Blake. His joyous whoops turn to cries of indignation. “Awwwww, no way, you assholes! Gross!”

Mars and Eli high-five each other and then awkwardly high-five me. I suck at high fives. They collapse on the ground in hysterics, rolling around.

Blake walks up, arms outstretched, dripping with sauce. Mars and Eli hurry to their feet. Blake starts chasing them in turn, trying to wipe sauce on them. He’s much too slow, even with them breathless from laughter. Finally he gives up and goes to the restroom. He returns, dabbing his shirt with a wet paper towel.

“Y’all are so damn funny. The damn Sauce Crew.”

“We should call ourselves that. Sauce Crew,” Eli says.

“Sauce Crew,” I say somberly, extending my hand, palm down.

“Sauce Crew,” Mars says in his terrible English accent and puts his hand on mine.

“Ssssss­sssss­sauce Crewwwwwwwww,” Eli says, in a boxing announcer voice, and puts his hand on Mars’s.

“Sauce—” Blake starts to put his hand on Eli’s but then playfully slaps him on the cheek and goes for Mars. They both giggle and dodge while trying to keep their hands together. “Sauce Crew,” Blake says, and puts his hand on top of Eli’s.

“Saaaaa­aaaaa­aaauce Crew!” we shout in unison.

“Did one of you donkey dicks film it at least? I want to put it on my YouTube,” Blake says.

I watch them lower the third member of Sauce Crew into the ground.

I am Sauce Crew now.

It’s late afternoon when Jesmyn pulls up to my car, and the sun sifts through leaves, making them glow green. My head is pounding. I realize it’s not only because of the tension I’m carrying, but also because I’ve barely eaten all day.

We sit there for a moment, the heat pressing down on us like a vise. After a day of ceremony, I can’t seem to even get out of the truck without some.

I rest my arm on the windowsill. “Thanks. For sitting by me during the funeral and driving me to the cemetery. And standing with me at the cemetery. And then driving me here.” I pause. “Sorry if I’m forgetting anything.”

“No problem.” Jesmyn’s voice sounds washed out.

I reach for the door handle but stop. “I never asked how you’re doing.”

She sighs and lays her head on her hands, which rest on the steering wheel. “Shitty. Like you.”

“Yeah.”

She wipes away tears. A few seconds of sniffling pass. Then the slow returning creep of guilt, taking the baton from grief and exhaustion. It resembles that moment when you’re hiking and you step into an icy creek. It takes a second for the frigid water to seep in and soak your socks. Maybe you’ve even managed to pull your foot out of the water already. But then there’s that wet chill spreading around your foot, and you know you’re going to be miserable for the rest of the day.

I’ve allowed myself to assume, because of her kindness, that she doesn’t blame me. What if all her kindness has nothing to do with that and everything to do with trying to persuade herself not to hate me? I can see convincing yourself not to hate someone by investing kindness in them.

I’m too spent. I have no energy for the truth; no place left to put it.

“Anyway, thanks again.” I open the door.

Jesmyn pulls out her phone. “Hey. I don’t have your number. School’s starting in a few weeks, and I need all the friends I can get there.” This sounds like an epiphany coming to her even as she says it.

“Oh. Yeah. I guess I’m not super close with anyone there anymore either.”

We exchange numbers. Maybe this was the ceremony I needed. Some tiny ray of hope.

It’s dawning on me how lonely this school year will be. Sauce Crew was so tight. We were our own universe. No one alive is in the habit of thinking to call me on a Saturday night. But my bigger problem is Adair. She always wielded outsized social influence at NAA—way more than Eli ever did. Way, way more than me. If she never stops hating me, many people are going to follow her lead just to stay in her good graces.

“Well,” Jesmyn says. “At least we’re done with funerals.”