To be honest, I’m surprised that he said Dean’s with his heavenly father. I’d been under the impression that most religions thought suicides went to hell. I guess that’s just too awkward a thing to say at someone’s funeral.
Dean’s mom steps up to the podium, tissues in hand, dabbing her red nose. She balls up the tissue and sets her fist on the podium, leaning toward the microphone. “My little boy loved adventures. He used to climb every tree and hike every path. One time, he . . . ” she says, pausing to cry a little with the rest of us. “He . . . was, I think, seven when we visited Mount Saint Helens. He wanted to climb up every trail. Garret and I—” She pauses and wipes her nose with the balled-up tissue. “We weren’t that old and we didn’t exercise much. But Dean, he wanted to go to the top. We didn’t quite make it to the top, but we came close. Dean was okay with that, but he told me just this year that he wished he had gone to the top so he could have seen . . . .” She cries harder now and gives up on the tissue. “He wanted to see what life would be like from the top of a mountain. He wondered if everything got small or if it stayed the same, but we just got bigger.” She steps away from the mic for a moment and gathers herself before stepping back up to the mic. “You can see the top of any mountain now, my son. Any mountain you want.”
What is it about funerals that make people want to be poetic? Just say what you really feel. He left the world on his own. Get mad. Get angry at him for doing it. You want someone to pay, but there’s no one left to blame. None of it matters if he’s not here. They’re all empty words and sentences. Be mad at God for making us have a choice. Be angry at nature for giving us hearts to break. But be honest.
When Dean’s mom steps away from the podium, she accidentally hits the mic and it makes an awful screech. We all cringe and some people instinctively cover their ears. For once I don’t. Suddenly it makes sense. That awful sound at the end of her haunting words. Life is beautiful until the mic screeches. Until the sun comes up again. Until you kill and can’t take it back.
Without will, I want to see Colter, see how he’s reacting. My gaze finds his and I expect a sad expression but it’s the opposite. He’s gritting his teeth with his jaw locked tight, his hands in fists at his sides. Jackson’s eyes are wide and glassy, like he’s been staring at the sun too long. Mom’s cheeks are streaked with black mascara.
This is what the people I love will look like when I die. What their tortured, withered faces will form into.
43
1 Day
I can’t stop crying. I cried so hard last night I almost got sick. This is so fucking hard. I’ve never felt something like this before. I wish it could trump all the other feelings I wake up with every day. I want so badly not to have to hurt anyone else. Memories of Dean’s funeral cycle through my brain like a flip book. I keep trying to stop them, but I’m forced to watch everyone’s faces change expressions in succession. I think of Dean’s mom and her balled-up tissue, and the story she told about the mountain, and how I didn’t even know Dean that well, and how I’m mad at him for not telling me that story. Maybe I could have asked him to go to the top of that mountain.
He won’t ever get to the top and it’s your fault.
Closing my locker, I sense someone behind me. The voices in the hallway lower to a hum. I don’t want to see him. I’m afraid to turn. Before I can, Jackson’s beside me, leaning on the locker next to mine.
“How’s it going?” I gaze up at him and he grimaces. “Yikes, that bad, huh?”
I know what I look like. My hair is brushed, but just barely. My clothes are wrinkled, and my face looks like I won first prize at a death-warmed-over contest.
“Well, Colter looks like shit, too, if you’re wondering.”
I slam my locker door. “I wasn’t.”
Jackson catches my eye. “He’s miserable. Anyone can see it. Why are you doing this to him?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
He gives me the Jackson look. The one that says he doesn’t believe me, that I’m lying, trying to push him away. “You’re an idiot.”
“I know this.” I motion toward the door across the hall. English. I should just skip. It doesn’t matter anyway. It’s not like I’m going to graduate. But school, classes make the day go by. If not, I’ll just sleep for hours and hours and I’ll never wake up, not even to eat. When I do that, Mom gets worried and she gets all hover-mom. I can’t have that. I have to play the game. I’m so close now. As long as Colter doesn’t say anything. He wouldn’t break his promise to me, would he? I haven’t broken his yet.
Jackson cocks his head toward the door to English as Colter crosses through it. My heart drops into my feet. I lean against my locker and catch my breath.