I spare a glance at him while I turn back onto the main road. “I still don’t know what you mean.”
“Damn, kid.” For the first time, he sounds righteously angry. “You shouldn’t have been driving your father around. Your mother shouldn’t have let it happen. She shouldn’t be letting you think it’s your fault. I can’t imagine expecting Marisol to cover up something like that. And even if I did, I can’t imagine Carmen letting it continue. You said you don’t know how to apologize to your mother for what you did on her wedding night—has she apologized to you for what she did?”
I shake my head forcefully. “She didn’t—it was complicated.”
“No. It is not complicated. It was a crime, and as far as I’m concerned, your mother bears as much responsibility as your father did.” His accent thickens as his anger grows. “You’re lucky you weren’t killed. You were a child, Murph. And you’re still a kid, but she’s letting you walk around with this kind of guilt. You know why I think she doesn’t visit your father? Because she doesn’t want to face her own responsibility. As far as I’m concerned, she should be right there next to you mowing.” He breaks off and swears in Spanish.
I keep the car between the lines on the highway, but inside I’m spinning out. No one has ever spoken up for me like that. Ever. I’m used to people holding me back, not stepping up in my defense.
Even if we’re alone in the car, that makes a difference.
“It’s not all her fault,” I finally say. “When Kerry died—I think it killed something inside her.”
“She still had you.”
“That’s not exactly a prize. I’m not easy to live with.” I pause. “And I ruined her wedding. I don’t think they’ll ever forgive me for that.”
Melonhead grunts. He’s still pissed off.
That makes me smile, just a little.
“Thanks,” I say.
He nods, but more like he’s still thinking. “Does your stepfather know everything you told me?”
I snort. “Probably.”
“But you don’t know for sure?”
“What difference does it make?”
He looks at me, his expression hard. “That’s an important question, Murph.”
I open my mouth to go off—but then I realize that he’s right. I try to realign everything I know about Alan, imagining all of our interactions without him knowing my part in our family’s history. Mom and I have never talked about it. Not even once. I remember struggling for better grades, as if getting an A on a test would somehow make up for my failure to keep Kerry and my father safe. Keeping my room perfect. Doing every chore. Staying out of her way.
I remember how she didn’t notice. How I stopped bothering.
By the time Alan entered our lives, Mom and I orbited different planets. I have no idea how much she told him about what happened.
Either way, I’m not sure it matters. I can’t undo what I’ve done. None of us can.
“I agree with your friend,” Melonhead says. “I think you should talk to your mother.”
That strips the smile from my face. “I don’t know what to say to her.” I glance at the clock on the dashboard. “I’m probably going to catch hell for being out past the time my community service ends.”
He pulls his phone out of his pocket. “Give me their number. I’ll call them and explain you’re working late.”
Another ounce of weight lifts from my chest. He calls, and that’s that. I’m not in trouble.
It’s so simple. I think of Mrs. Hillard staring down at me. If there’s a problem, you can just tell me. Or the way she accepted my explanation and let me complete the assignment in class.
“It was just one day,” Frank says when he hangs up. “But you can’t fix things with your mother or her husband if you continue on this path, right?”
At the mention of Alan, my thoughts darken. “I never wanted to fix things with them.” I pause, and my voice is very quiet. “I wanted out. I screwed up.”
“I don’t know, Murph.” We make the turn into the cemetery, and he hesitates, as if unsure of his next words. “I wonder if you’re just telling yourself that.”
I frown. “What?”
“I don’t think you wanted to kill yourself.”
I pull next to his car in the now-empty employee lot. “Didn’t you listen to everything I just told you?”
“Yeah. I did. Maybe you wanted to try to kill yourself, but I don’t think you wanted to actually do it.”
“What’s the difference?”
He opens the door and gets out, standing there, looking down at me. “You wore your seat belt.”
I lock my eyes on the darkened windshield. I don’t know what to say to that.
“Feel like helping me tomorrow night?” he says. “I’ll have to work double to get those two sections done.”
I like how he’s asking me. He’s not ordering me. I’m free to refuse.
I nod. “I’ll come right after school. We’ll get it done.”
“Thanks, Murph.” He swings the door shut, closing me in with a little less darkness than I started with.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
From: The Dark <[email protected]>
To: Cemetery Girl <[email protected]>
Date: Tuesday, October 8 09:12:44 PM
Subject: DM
What happened? Are you okay?
Dad knocks on my door at half past nine, and I’m tempted to pretend I’m asleep instead of sitting here, staring at my phone, deliberating.
My light’s still on, and if I don’t answer, he’ll come in here to check on me.
“Come in,” I call.
He opens the door a few inches. “Do you feel like company?”
No. I feel like crawling under my bed and sleeping there for a month. I sat in front of her grave for hours, trying to write a letter.
The words wouldn’t come.
I couldn’t figure out the right way to say I’m sorry for having a crush on someone who might have killed you.
My throat tightens before I’m ready for it. If fate were a person, I’d punch her in the face.