I DECIDE TO GO TO Preston’s funeral after all. The cemetery is on the other side of Vista Palisades, a ten-minute bus ride or a thirty-five-minute walk. I loiter at the closest bus stop, but when the bus pulls up, it is full of people I know: classmates, teachers, the guy who rents kayaks in front of The Triple S. Their faces are ghostly white circles pressed close to the windows, monsters with blurry features distorted by the smudgy glass.
I decide to walk.
Cars line one side of the road leading into the cemetery, and both parking lots are full. Mrs. Amos’s Honda is parked in the north lot, right inside the gates. I suddenly remember the restraining order. I hope the Colonel won’t freak out and attack me in the middle of the service—I don’t want to do that to Preston’s friends and family. But at the same time, Pres was one of my closest friends, regardless of the secrets he kept. I deserve a chance to grieve for him.
The gravesite is on the far side of the grounds, near the south parking lot. I hang back along the fence, away from the crowd, so I can say good-bye without causing Parvati’s dad to have a meltdown. I inch closer until I can see clearly. A mix of high school students and important political types stand gathered around a gaping hole in the earth. A priest gestures with one hand as he speaks. There are faces in the crowd I don’t recognize—private security guards for DeWitt and his political friends, students from Bristol Academy. I look around for Langston and Marcus, but if they’re here then they’re keeping a low profile.
Astrid and the other All-Stars are huddled together at one end of the crowd. Quinn and Amy stand off to the side with some of the student council and a handful of Vista P teachers. Even David Nephew, the kid Preston cheated with in calculus class, is here, although he’s standing at the very back of the mourners, as if he thinks the popular kids might push him into the grave if he gets too close.
The coffin is made of dark wood with shining trim that occasionally catches the sun and sends light bouncing around the pale tree branches. Preston would like it. What a weird thought. There are flowers piled on top. Lilies, maybe, or orchids. Some kind of blossom with big floppy petals.
Looking at that rectangular box of death makes it all feel real for the very first time. Preston is gone. We will never go surfing together again. He will never throw another New Year’s Eve party. I will never get to confront him about his past with Parvati or about him spying on us.
My eyes move from the coffin back to the mourners. Parvati is standing between her parents. It’s easy to pick her out because she’s wearing white. It’s tradition in India to do this at a funeral. I don’t know how I know that, but I do. The wind billows the loose fabric of her sari around her like wings. She looks like an angel floating in a dead gray sky.
The coffin begins to descend into the ground. All of the women in the front row are holding roses. They drop them into the open grave one at a time, starting with Preston’s mom. Parvati is last. I watch the red rose fall from her fingertips, like a single drop of blood.
The pallbearers begin to scoop dirt onto the coffin. The crowd starts to disperse. Half of the people head for the south parking lot, where their drivers are waiting. The students break apart into smaller clusters, some following the politicians, some heading in my direction. I retreat farther, toward the strip of woods that forms the western boundary of the graveyard, away from the winding stone path that connects both parking lots.
My breath catches in my throat as I peek through a layer of branches. I know what happens next. After everyone leaves, the graveyard caretaker will dump the rest of the soil on top of Preston’s coffin with a backhoe. It just seems so undignified. Like he’s nothing more than a hole to be filled in by a construction team.
I lean up against a tree trunk and wait for Parvati and her parents to pass by. I just want one tiny glance. I’m nervous about seeing her later. She needs to say something huge, something that will make me think I can learn to trust her again. Otherwise our relationship is over.
I don’t want it to be over.
Everyone who passes by is wearing black. A lot of the girls look more like they’re dressed for a fancy night out than for a funeral, their tiny velvet dresses looking strangely formal next to their mothers’ frumpy suits and skirts. I crane my neck to see through the milling herd. No one in white. No Parvati. Maybe that wasn’t her mom’s Honda just inside the gates. Maybe her parents parked over at the south parking lot, with the politicians. I creep back through the trees and duck behind a tall obelisk monument. I peek around it, at the gravesite. Parvati is still standing in front of the hole in the ground. Her parents are nowhere to be seen. She must have asked for a moment alone.
I wonder if I can make it to her side before her mom or the Colonel notice. I maneuver closer, ducking between the tall gravestones to hide myself from anyone in either parking lot.
Parvati spins around as if she can sense me. The tail of her sari flaps in the breeze. She smiles tentatively.
But then something severs the connection between us. She flicks her head over at the woods. Her back arches as her neck cranes forward. I follow her gaze. A shadow moves among the trees.
Danger. The feeling comes out of nowhere, a fly slamming into a spider’s web.
“Parvati,” I say. It’s just a whisper. I start running. She moves toward the tree line, clearly in pursuit of someone or something.
I can’t see what she sees. She takes another step. And then another. My feet are flying across grass and graves. I want to call out to her, but I’m afraid her father will hear me if I do.
She moves with purpose. No looking back. The fir trees begin to swallow her.
She’s half a girl.
One-quarter.
She’s just a ribbon of white flying through the woods.
THIRTY-FOUR
“PARVATI,” I YELL. “WAIT.”
She doesn’t wait. The white of her sari disappears completely into the foliage. I veer off the path and head toward the tree line. Boots thud on the hard ground behind me.
It’s the Colonel. “Cantrell, you little shit! You’re not supposed to be anywhere near my daughter.”
I duck through the first layer of branches just as he catches up to me. He grabs my shoulder and spins me around. My feet get tangled up and I stumble. I fall backward, my head slamming against a knot on the nearest tree trunk. I end up on the damp ground.
“What did you say to her?” the Colonel thunders. “Where did she go?” Typical overprotective dad—attack first, ask questions later.