Page 77 of 72 Hours of You

“Boone Wilcox.”

“I’ve never heard of—him? Them?”

“Yeah, he’s not famous or anything. I heard him playing in the subway.”

“Wait, like a busker? You actually downloaded music from one of those guys? No one does that.”

“Yeah,” Peter says. “Everyone was walking by, but he was just so good, you know? Like he was telling this whole story.” Peter turns the volume up one more notch. “Like that random violin in the background? And that line about sinking ships? Brilliant, right? I missed my train because of him.” Peter turns the music down again and goes back to looking at the road.

“I didn’t know you were so into music too.”

Peter shrugs. “Anything with words, really. The more complicated the better.” He glances back at me. “I like when things make me think. Make me see things … differently.”

“Sure,” I say, suddenly feeling very aware of the fact that there are only about six inches between us in this car.

I’m about to say something else but then we pass by the Burger King, and both of us go quiet. The gray median of the drive-thru is still crowded with plastic flowers and teddy bears. As if Liam was an eight-year-old girl and not a teenage boy fresh off a BJ. Like, lay the latest Madden game at his site or something. Or a bag of Doritos.

“So stupid,” I mumble.

“What is?” Peter asks.

“All of that.” I wave to the piles of shit. “What is that even supposed to do? Liam wouldn’t have given two shits about any of that garbage.”

“I don’t think …” Peter starts, considering. “I don’t think that stuff’s for Liam. It’s so people who miss him can feel like they’re doing something.”

“But they’re not. Doing something.”

“It’s so Liam’s mom knows people are still thinking about him. That the community hasn’t forgotten. You’re right, Liam wouldn’t have cared about lemon-scented candles. But it probably helps the people who loved him to see this stuff.”

“Maybe,” I say. “But also, how do you decide?”

“Decide what?”

“Who gets an altar like that and who doesn’t?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” I say, “where’s Ms. Jegstrup’s? How come no one is piling shit in front of her TV or whatever?”

Peter runs his hand through his hair. “I don’t know.”

“I do,” I say. “There’s a cutoff. Death is a tragedy when it’s a young person. But after a certain age, the end of you goes from devastating to just sad. No one sets up a shrine for sad deaths. The only time a middle-aged person gets an altar like that is when they die in a school shooting or a terrorist attack or something. Ms. Jegstrup was on the other side of that line. Sucks for her.”

“People were still really sad, though,” Peter says. “The whole staff was messed up about her.”

I shrug. “It’s not the same.”

There was no shrine for my mom. There was no community grief. No fake pink flowers and handwritten poster boards. Just the lonely echoes of my own childish desperation bouncing back to me like some shitty imaginary friend.

I wonder if Caroline got a shrine. Did anyone put stuffed animals and balloons where Charles’s car hydroplaned into that tree? I hope not. She fucking hated balloons. I told her once that they ended up in the ocean and she never got over it. The sea turtles, Syd! The sea turtles.

Peter reaches out over the armrest and takes my hand. Is this like his thing now? Holding hands? I look down at his fingers, curled around mine. I’m not exactly mad about it.

“If you died at one hundred, I’d still pile a bunch of garbage where you died,” Peter says. “That place would be overflowing with bitter chocolate and old Converse shoes.”

“Thanks, I think?” I laugh, but the thought of anyone doing that for me makes me feel outside of myself or something.

Peter smiles at me, but his grin sort of dims when his phone buzzes in the cup holder. He ignores it and turns his attention back to the road. His phone buzzes three more times.