“Yep. Just got here. About to go pay my respects. What do you care?”
“No reason,” she exhales, relaxing just barely. “Well, whatever. This was––nothing. Forget it.”
She pushes past me and waltzes out the bathroom door.
“You didn’t even use soap,” I say to the door flapping past the frame.
A minute later I’m falling back into my chair next to Mom, silently processing the scene that just unfolded. When I watched Jane walk through the parking lot, the SUV was already gone.
“Let’s sit for a few more minutes or until Mrs. Morgan comes back so we can say good-bye,” Mom whispers.
Rifling through the junk in my purse, I’m checking my phone, watching the time, and hoping for a missed call or text from Sean. To add a bright shard of happy to this dark and mind-fucktacular day. For the next few minutes, people walk up and down the aisle like an assembly line of slow-moving head nodders, head shakers, and huggers. I’d feel like a zombie too, but my brain is way too busy for that. Finally, Mrs. Morgan returns, elbows locked with the lady who passed me the little flyer when me and Mom got here.
I slide my fingers beneath my eye to catch what I hope will be the last of today’s teardrops. Then I grab Mom’s hand and whisper, “Okay, please, can we go? I can’t take anymore. I need to go home.”
“Okay, yes. Let’s go.”
Mom swings by the gas station on our way home and asks me to run in and grab her a Diet Coke.
Sitting on a bench to the left of the door is Jane; knees locked, feet jutted out and her head in her hands.
I stroll through the door, eyes straight ahead, hoping she’s gone when I walk back out.
Aaaaaaand she’s not. Sigh. “Jane?”
Her head jerks up and she’s got two serious lines of black mascara running down each cheek. “You again? What?”
“Do you need a ride or something?” I ask.
“No, I don’t need any more of your fucking charity rides,” she says glancing down at her phone and clicks it a couple times.
“What’s your problem? You’re obviously stranded because you didn’t want to ride with your mom and dad or whoever those people were.”
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about. Someone’s picking me up any minute now so if you’d pull your head out of my biz-nass that’d be great.”
Glancing back at my mom waiting in the car, I consider my options. In spite of the world’s bitchiest tone, Jane’s eyes bleed desperation. Whatever was going on at the funeral home has freaked her out. Jane is the last person I’d ever expect to lose her shit, but she’s definitely on the edge.
“Really? It doesn’t look like it. We can drop you off somewhere else to wait if you want?”
“What do you care if I …” her voice trails off as she clicks through her phone again. “I mean, thanks for the offer and I can probably just—”
“Just come on.”
And she does. She follows me to Mom’s car and hops in the backseat without a word.
Mom raises an eyebrow as she grabs the pop from my hand.
“This is Jane, from school, she needs a ride home if that’s okay.”
“Actually I can’t,” Jane’s voice cracks, “go home. I mean, I’m not going home and if you don’t mind, the coffee shop or diner would work better. If it’s okay?”
“No problem,” says Mom. “It’s on our way.”
Jane’s phone doesn’t ring the whole way there although she makes a series of about two hundred thirty-eight unanswered calls. When we drop her off she tells my mom thanks but doesn’t look my way.
“Poor girl,” says Mom. “I can’t believe her parents left without her in all that drama.”
Yep, poor little bitch girl. “Yeah, poor Jane. Let’s go home now. I just want to curl up in my bed.”
SEVENTEEN
Sorry you’re still sick. You missed out on Tuna Melt Tuesday,” says Sean.
“Tuna melts,” I say. “Yeah, I’m going to pass on being sad about missing TMT. Tuna shouldn’t be allowed anywhere but the ocean. The smell would’ve made me worse. Hopefully I’ll be better by tomorrow.”
“Hope so. That’s what you said yesterday and I ended up crying over my desk ’cause I didn’t have you breathing on me in Norderick’s class.”
“Crying, huh?”
“Almost.”
“I don’t breathe on you.” A short laugh falls from my lips.
“Guess it’s better you don’t breathe on me if you’re sick, right?”
“I’ll be fine by tomorrow. It’s just a virus. Something my mom picked up from those little germ hoarders from her school.”
“You sure I can’t come by? I could bring you soup or crayons?”
“Crayons?” I twirl the drawstring of the pilly gray sweats I’ve had on since Sunday night.
“When I was little and I’d get sick, my mom would make soup and my dad would bring me home a new coloring book.”
“That’s cute. Thanks, but I’m fine. I don’t want you to catch anything and I’m still really tired.” Really tired and sad. Plus, I haven’t showered since Sunday.
“All right, but if you’re not back by tomorrow, I’m going to climb a ladder into your window. I’m not afraid of your germs.”