“Okay. Weird.”
“Well, that’s what happened,” I said defensively. I sat on my bed surrounded by boxes filled with my belongings. In a few hours, they would be packed in the car and driven over to my dad’s house. My new residence.
“You really are a bitch,” Gretchen said.
“What the hell?”
“You ditch me my senior year and then try to pick up a guy at Beth’s funeral.”
“Now hold up one second. I didn’t have a choice about ditching you. I can’t help it if my mom is moving clear across the country. Would you rather me live in California?”
Gretchen pouted on the other end of the line. “Why can’t your dad just move into this school district?”
“He’s lived in that house for thirteen years. And have you no idea what’s going on with the housing market right now? You think he could sell his place?” I cringed at the thought of his yellowed linoleum kitchen floor and floral wallpaper. The house needed a complete interior makeover.
“Oh, shut up, Brooke. Like you have a clue. You’re always trying to sound smart about the news.”
“Whatever. I am smart about the news. I actually watch it,” I shot back, and then added in my best Valley girl impression: “I’m, like, totally fucking smart.”
Gretchen giggled. And then I giggled because it was impossible not to giggle when Gretchen did. I relished the sounds until my heart went tight, signaling inappropriate behavior so soon after Beth’s death.
“And don’t say I was trying to pick up a guy at Beth’s funeral, okay? That’s just wrong,” I said quietly.
Gretchen was silent for a moment.
“I should have gone with you,” she said finally. “I just couldn’t. I’m a chicken. What can I say? Do you hate me?”
I shook my head but said nothing, feeling the instant lump in my throat. It came out of nowhere, throbbing painfully, especially when I tried to swallow it.
“You there?” Gretchen said.
I nodded, feeling the first hot tears creep over my lower lids to hang on my lashes.
“Brookey,” Gretchen said. It came out sounding desperate and soothing and sweet.
The sob caught fast and hard in my chest, louder than I expected, a violent shudder I couldn’t suppress. I moaned, knowing I could sound as crazy and wretched as I wanted, and Gretchen wouldn’t mind.
“What’s wrong with me?” Another sob. Even louder.
“There’s nothing wrong with you,” my friend whispered.
“Why did I act that way? Why did I try to flirt with that guy?” I cried. “I’m so pathetic.” The tears spilled forth, running down the sides of my face and wetting my cell phone.
“You’re not pathetic, Brooke,” Gretchen said, and then she tried for something light: “You can’t cry all the time or else we’d have to admit you into Dorothea Dix.”
“They’ve closed down,” I replied, sniffling and wiping my nose with the back of my hand.
“Well, whatever,” Gretchen said, undeterred. “The point is that you keep punishing yourself, Brooke, and that’s not healthy.”
“My best friend hanged herself!” I screamed into the phone.
“And that wasn’t your fault!” Gretchen replied. “Why do you think it is?”
“I cheated with her boyfriend, Gretchen. Did you forget?” I spluttered.
“So that makes you a killer?”
The question shocked me. I opened my mouth to reply but could think of nothing to say. Why did I think my betrayal drove Beth to commit suicide? I knew better. I knew the real reason. Still, the guilt hung heavy in my heart, and I couldn’t shake it.
“You’re a normal person, Brooke. You can’t cry forever. You have to be able to function.”
“So I flirt with a guy at Beth’s funeral?! That’s not normal or functioning. That’s messed up,” I said.
“Well, I don’t know much about psychology, but I bet a lot of doctors would say that’s normal.”
I snorted.
“No, seriously. People do crazy things when they’re under a lot of stress,” Gretchen explained.
I shrugged.
“Stop punishing yourself, Brooke,” Gretchen said. “Finn had nothing to do with it.”
“Stop right there,” I demanded. “First off, don’t mention that name again.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Second, stop trying to make me feel better for acting like a complete jerk at my best friend’s funeral.”
“I’m not trying to make you feel better. I’m just calling it how I see it. You’ve locked yourself up for days already. You’ve cried more than anyone else I know. You’ve given Beth every bit of your heartache. You’ve got to move on,” Gretchen said.
“Move on?” I asked, bewildered.
“I don’t mean that you forget about her,” Gretchen said gently. “I mean that you stop hurting yourself. Hey, maybe this funeral guy can help. Does he go to your new school?”