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xx Sasha
I read the letter several times, and when my phone starts ringing, I almost forget that I’m sitting in my room, that my name is Raquel Clearwater and that a world exists outside of this letter. All I know is there’s someplace I have to be tonight — and it’s not the movies with Zack.
I answer the call and spend about two seconds debating if I should tell him the truth. Then I just say, “Hello?”
“There’s a six fifteen and seven forty-five. Which one do you want to see? I’m gonna buy the tickets online so they’re cheaper.”
I run my hand down the greeting card, picturing Sasha writing this however long ago. The weird part is the date, which was originally left as a blank space. Someone else, with a different-colored pen and shaky, old-person handwriting, filled in today’s date. How long ago did she write this? Who received her instructions to mail it to me after she died?
“I’m sorry, I can’t go.”
“What? You want to come over instead? Mom’s out with her girlfriend so she’ll be home late.”
“No, Zack, I’m sorry. Something came up. I can’t go out at all.”
“This is bullshit, Rocki. Do you know how many girls I’ve turned down lately? All because I knew you’d be back with me eventually?”
“You’re an attractive guy. I’m sure it’s a lot.”
“Fuck yeah, it’s a lot. Jesus, Rocki. I’ve got chicks sending me pics on the gaming forums and I’ve been telling them I’ve got a girlfriend. Now we finally get some time together and you’re blowing me off?”
The old me might have had some choice words to say here, but arguing with my on-again, off-again boyfriend doesn’t thrill me the way it used to.
“Take one of them to the movies,” I say as I hang up.
I unzip my backpack and pull out books and school crap, then stuff my laptop and Sasha’s card inside. I dig under my desk and unplug the charge cord just in case I need it later. I trade out my sexy date-night heels for a pair of worn-out flats and tell Mom I’m off to the movies.
On the way to the cemetery, I remember driving this same route with Sasha last year when we picked out her burial plot. Her mom thought we were being incredibly morbid, given that Sasha’s cancer was diagnosed but not yet terminal. Sasha said better safe than sorry.
Whatever surprises I’d expected to see when I got here, I was wrong. The place looks the same as always, an old cemetery near the back with newer tombstones and mausoleums closer to the main road. I meander through rows and rows of other people’s loved ones until I get to Sasha’s newly covered plot.
Square pieces of sod cover the mound of freshly packed dirt. Flowers are everywhere, spilling over on top of the neighboring graves.
Sasha’s headstone is about four feet tall, made of white granite — the brightest they had — with her name carved in a curly script. Normally they don’t install them until a couple of weeks after the person is buried, but Sasha insisted and her parents paid whatever it cost. The date of her death isn’t etched in yet, because even money can’t buy that kind of knowledge. I put my hand on it and close my eyes, wishing it were a year ago.
I half expect another note here on her grave, but I don’t see anything, not even under the flowers. It’s exactly six, so I’m not late, but there’s nothing here.
I stare at the fresh blades of grass, and an image of Sasha lying inside that casket, six feet below, makes me shudder. It’s creepy to think about; she’s the person who used to eat all of the chocolate out of the trail mix, steal all the blankets when we shared a bed at sleepovers. She used to be real, physical and here with me.
Now she’s …
A shuffling sound makes me look up and images of Sasha’s cancer-covered body lying in a dark box fade from my mind. A short way away, a guy sits on a concrete bench, legs stretched out in front of him while he gazes at the lake. It’s as if he’s sitting on the Venice boardwalk and not in a cemetery.
I ignore him.
A few minutes pass and my spine tingles. I can feel him watching me from over there, his casual expression so wrong for this atmosphere.
I glance over, trying to be equally casual about it, but I am right — he’s watching me. My heart races as I realize the only things I have on me are some car keys and a backpack with my most expensive possession inside. Do people get mugged in cemeteries?
As if sensing my fear, he rises from the bench, all slow and calm, like he knows I have nowhere to run. My car might as well be parked on Mars.
As he approaches, I realize he’s about my age, maybe a little older, but he’s definitely not someone from school. He wears dark jeans and a plain black T-shirt with running shoes that have seen better days. He reaches into his pocket and I freeze, one hand on the gravestone.
He pulls something white from his pocket. He’s near enough now that I can see the stubble on his chin, the way the sunlight casts a shadow under his shaggy black bangs, hiding his eyes until he’s right in front of me.
I inhale sharply. He studies me, those otherworldly blue eyes searching my face for something, like maybe he’s just as lost as I am. Maybe he’s looking for a sign.
Chills cover me from head to toe and more of those damned tears stream out of my eyes. Even as I struggle to breathe, my body can still cry because it acts on its own nowadays.
