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PROLOGUE
Some people describe the moments before being pronounced dead as a bright tunnel, flashes of light, or floating through space. I suppose the lack of oxygen will do that to one’s mental state. But who am I to judge?
Here’s the thing about death, though. Comforting words suck.
One hundred ninety-six people told me they are sorry. One hundred ninety-six people. I counted. And fake sympathy always oozes from the people who have somehow finally managed to bring themselves out of the woodwork. I mean, seriously, what the hell are you actually sorry for? And who the hell posts stuff like, “James, you will be missed, man. RIP!” on ConnectMe when you probably can’t even remember whether he was in your class or not?
I have no idea why some people choose to finally make conversation after the time of death. It’s the guilt talking. Or just a lame cliché.
Either way, I hate it.
The ground crunches as I am wheeled through the herd of people to the little building adjacent to the cemetery. Annoyingly gentle hands pat my shoulders like I’m an invalid. Hushed voices echo in the cold cement room, filled with old-person smelling flowers arranged in a horseshoe shape around the wooden casket. Even my nose wants to throw up from the strong perfume scent.
Thank God the director closed the casket for this portion of the ceremony. I am not sure I can look at James and not wish with every ounce of my being that it was me inside there instead. There is no part of me that doesn’t wish that he was spared and I was the one who died.
Three people pass me a tissue, touching me on the back. One person with thick fingernails fixes my hair behind my ear. Another person adjusts my arm strap, where my sprained appendage lies limp inside. I couldn’t tell you their names if my life depended on it. I want to throw up.
My eyes glass over as my dad weeps beside me, kneeling down on the dirty green twilled mat, burying his head in his hands. I feel like I should do something. Anything. But I can’t bring myself to move.
The preacher stands near the decrepit podium, holding on to it as it wobbles back and forth. My glassy stare only makes his pitiful beady eyes droop more.
Two men—neither of them related to me—help Dad sit up into the chair beside me. We haven’t touched since the hospital visit when James was declared dead.
“Dearly beloved, we gather here together to lay to rest your child, James Andrew McFee. Please take him into your arms and reunite him with his mother and grandparents, as he enters your kingdom.”
I bow my head to avoid the stares. “The Lord is my Shepherd” passage from the Bible is recited like poetry, and the vibrating regurgitation from the crowd is oddly comforting.
“We pray that James’s father and twin sister find comfort in your embrace”—four hands pat my shoulders, two rubbing circles into my coat fabric—“knowing that while death and decay is the physical aspect of a human body, the spiritual body will live in your ever-powerful grace.”
A clean tissue appears in my hands. I can’t even turn to look or care to see where it came from. I just can’t seem to care about anything other than the fact that at the age of eighteen, I have no will inside me desiring to continue living.
1
I wipe the dribble of melted ice cream from the corner of my lip, savoring the sweet taste of sugar. It is day three post-Russell, and I find vilifying him to be great therapy. Wearing my homemade Feminist AF T-shirt and drinking mojitos before the time even gets close to happy hour also has its momentary perks. I roll myself off the bed when I hear the sound of his stupid car—with his stupid spoiler and his stupid custom rims—pull up.
What an ass.
I kneel on the bench seat and spread the curtains to see Russell standing below. His preppy style now disgusts me; a couple of months ago it made him look wholesome. He rings the doorbell, takes a step back, and places his right hand in the pocket of his perfectly pressed khakis. I unlock the window and open it. The August air hits my senses for the first time in days. Russell’s smug face tilts up toward the sound. His crooked smile now just looks creepy.
“I’m here for my stuff,” he shouts up at me, while cupping a hand around his mouth to help the sound travel. He tries the doorknob but it is locked. “Let me in.”
Piles of his crap have been infiltrating my room for most of the summer, and for the past three days, I’ve been waiting for him to show his arrogant face so I can deliver my message back to him—loud and clear. I should have known from the lack of genuine communication that he wasn’t that into me. Sure, I can blame it on my general inexperience, or I can accept the fact that I’m a poor judge of character.
Picking up a laundry basket full of personal items, I launch it from the second story. I feel alive again.
“Hell, Angie!”
I unload the contents of a cardboard moving box over the windowsill. I manage to hit him right in the head with the controllers for his Xbox. A few cables and gadgets decorate the shrubs that border the townhouse.
“Ouch! Stop!”
A smile cracks through my bitterness. “I’m done being your summer storage facility, you jackhole!”
Russell raises his palms up in peace. “Let me in and we can talk about it.”
“Heck, no.”
“C’mon, Angie! Be reasonable!”
