I tried to hold on to my anger. If I wasn’t careful, I’d slip, let my own voice seep into my words. I blinked long and hard, then shook my head. Not here. I wouldn’t lose it here.
Mom looked at me, indecision and pity warring in her eyes. The minister had stopped talking and was looking at my father for guidance. Everybody else … well, they were staring at me. They’d heard my rant, heard me tear up Alex’s friends at my own burial.
My vision blurred, the whole world narrowing down to one gaping, black hole in the earth. The grave. My grave. I searched the crowd, looking for some way to escape. Jenna took a step toward me, but Alex waved her off. He leaned in and whispered something in my ear, my dad following suit on the other side. I don’t know what either of them said; it was nothing more than jumbled words in a sea of white noise.
The second my eyes caught Josh’s, I could breathe. It was as if something familiar in me clicked into place, and for the first time in over a week, I felt like me. He wasn’t wearing his standard Mountain Dew T-shirt and ratty jeans. He had on a black suit and tie and what looked like uncomfortable shoes. I liked him better in T-shirts and jeans.
Kim was standing next to him, with the rest of the anime club behind them. They were shuffling their feet, looking everywhere but at me, as if itching for this whole thing to end.
Josh’s eyes met mine with an intensity I didn’t quite understand. He’d never looked at me like that—with such unadulterated hatred. His eyes were red, but the sheen of tears couldn’t hide his feelings.
Kim reached for him and whispered something in his ear. He brushed her off and took a step farther away. I thought he was going to leave, but he didn’t. He shrank into the back of the crowd where he didn’t have to look at me. She followed him, tried again to tell him something before handing him a tissue. Josh took it and twisted it in his hands until it resembled confetti. I fought the urge to go over and still his hands, to throw my arms around him and thank him for being one of the few people who was here for me … for Ella.
“Maddy, sweetheart,” Dad said, his hand on my shoulder drawing my attention to him. “Why don’t you let Alex or your grandmother take you home? I know the doctor thought being here would—”
“No,” I said, cutting him off. I had every intention of staying, surrounded by people who couldn’t care less about me as I absorbed the details of my life being memorialized, then buried away. “I’m fine. I want to stay.”
Mom caught the edge in my voice and leaned across Dad to stare at me. She wasn’t angry or embarrassed by my outburst, she was … wary. Maddy never snapped at them. She’d cry, plead, and give them the silent treatment until they cracked, but she never snapped. The one who snapped was me. That was Ella.
“Maddy?” Mom’s eyes roamed every inch of my body looking for something I knew she wouldn’t find.
The only way my parents were able to tell us apart as babies was a small freckle I had above my right eye. That night in the hospital after I’d woken up and had no idea who I was, I caught Mom carefully peeling away the bandage. She thought I was asleep, and I didn’t do anything to tell her otherwise. At first I figured she was counting my stitches or checking to make sure they weren’t infected. It wasn’t until hours later, after I realized who I truly was, that I figured out what she’d been doing, why she ran her fingers gently across my stitches. She was looking for that identifying mark, a telltale sign that would confirm who I was, who she wanted me to be. But Maddy’s face had been cut up when she hit the windshield and … well, I now had seven stitches where that freckle once was. She could stare at that tiny spot forever; the freckle wasn’t there.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s … I’m sorry.”