Jessica.”
“Help Jessica do what?” The sharp end of a key stabbed my palm.
“I’ll make an exception for such a worthwhile endeavor. I told Jessica you could go, and that I’d be happy to donate cases of canned food.” Smiling, he gave my braid a light tug. “Have fun — at the fundraiser.”
29
The auditorium displayed a huge blow-up of my (hideous!) junior year picture on a pedestal surrounded by boxes of canned food. What a send-off! I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. No one but me saw the irony in memorializing a foodaholic with a canned-food drive.
Even more ironic — the dead girl was present.
Dustin and Eli had both tried to talk me out of attending, afraid I’d break down. But Mr. Montgomery’s direct order could not be ignored. So I arrived early to set up, carrying boxes and bags of canned food.
Every time I walked up near the stage, I cringed at the life-size picture of my own face. My hair was frizzed on one side, my eyes were squinting because the photographer’s lights were too bright, and a pimple poked out on my chin. Could Jessica have found a worse picture of me? Doubtful.
Kat was also pitching in to help, carrying canned food with a cheerful attitude. I found nothing to be cheerful about, and kept busy to avoid talking to anyone.
The memorial was scheduled for four o’clock.
At ten to four, there were still only three of us present.
But then the door opened. Dustin and Eli stepped in.
Dustin held a box loaded with canned food. Eli carried just one can — but it was the largest can I’d ever seen. He’d put a bow on the top like it was a birthday gift. Then he came over to me.
“Here’s my donation.” He had a twinkle in his eyes.
“Couldn’t you find anything bigger?” I joked.
“I’ll try next time you have a memorial service,” he joked. He handed me the giant can of chocolate syrup.
My arms strained to hold it. As I carried it over to one of the growing pile of canned goods (quite a few donated by Mr. Montgomery), there was a rumble of voices. I looked over my shoulder and saw dozens of my classmates, and some teachers, filing into the room. Principal Kimbrough was even there, taking a seat in the front row.
I watched in a daze as row after row was filled — everyone donating at least one can before sitting down.
But then Aunt Suzanne and Cousin Zeke arrived, and spoke to Dustin. Dustin caught my gaze and winked.
This was insane. I never expected any of my family to show up. I also didn’t expect the next person who walked through the door.
Alyce.
I stared, shocked, sure I was hallucinating. But it was Alyce all right, dressed in her usual black: a pleated skirt and a sheer, long-sleeved blouse over a black shirt. Her hair was twisted in a bun with bone-like sticks holding it together, and her powdered pale face looked gaunt with smudged black eye makeup. She took a seat in a back row.
“Come on, Leah,” Jessica whispered, grabbing my arm. “It’s about ready to start.”
I went with her, still trying to see Alyce — only the room was so crowded I couldn’t see her anymore. When Jessica waved me over, I gave up looking and sat beside her in the front row, next to Principal Kimbrough.
“I’ve never spoken at a memorial before — wish me luck!” Jessica swept up to the podium and thanked everyone for their donations, then added that the Principal would like to say a few words.
Did Principal Kimbrough even know my name?
“Thank you all for coming,” he said in a deep voice that echoed through the mike. “When I told Jessica she could have the auditorium today for a fundraiser, I expected the usual raffle or a game of bingo. But she far exceeded my expectations by using this opportunity to remember a student we all loved and respected.”
He had to be talking about someone else. But then he said my name and spoke about my work on the Halsey Hospitality Club. “Amber Borden and the other members of the HHC have made this school a welcoming place for students. Some people move through life without thinking of others, but Amber wasn’t like that. She shone a light of friendship and welcome to new students. And she will be sorely missed.” His voice thickened with emotion. “Now, I believe Jessica Bradley has something to say.”
Jessica took the podium and started off by thanking everyone for coming. “Your donation of canned goods will help feed needy people. This canned-food drive was Amber’s idea.”
It was? Not even close.
“I spoke with her only hours before her tragic accident, and she was excited about working on our committee to help less fortunate people. Her caring efforts brought us all here today. I only hope I can live up to her generous example.” Jessica then invited anyone else who wanted to say something about Amber to come up to the podium.
In the front row, I kept shaking my head in disbelief. None of this was about me. That couldn’t be happening. I mean, I’d never done anything special. I was just ordinary.
“When I transferred to this school,” Betina Cortez began, “I was still recovering from a kidney operation and didn’t have the energy to make friends. But on my very first day, Amber Borden welcomed me to Halsey High with the most beautiful basket I’d ever seen. I loved the gifts inside, but mostly I loved Amber for being kind to a new girl. I didn’t get to know her well after that — she already had two best friends — but I never forgot her kindness … and I’m so sorry she’s gone.”
Wiping her eyes, Betina left the stage.
Next at the podium was Trinidad. The tiny diamond in her nose sparkled in the bright ceiling lights. She was small, but she carried herself with style and an awareness of the audience. So much diva potential, if she only knew it.
“Amber welcomed me, too, with a great basket. Then she offered to give me a ride, just because she was so nice.” Trinidad wiped her eyes. “I think what I admired most was the way she listened and really cared. She made me feel like I could do amazing things. But really, she was the one who was amazing. I didn’t know her well, but I miss her and all the special things that won’t happen without her around.”
There was a moment of silence as Trinidad left the stage. Then my cousin Zeke came up. He still had that goofy wave of red hair falling over his eyes, and teeth so big he looked like he was smiling even when he wasn’t. And he wasn’t now. I could tell he’d been crying, because his eyes were almost as red as his hair.
“Amber was my cousin, and she was a lot of fun,” he said, choking up as he went on to tell about how we’d ruined his sister’s wedding cake.
When he was done, I glanced back a few rows to my Aunt Suzanne. Through her tears, she was laughing at Zeke’s story. Laughing? When did she get a sense of humor? And her tears were real — as if she truly missed me.
More people came up to share thoughts and memories. My trig teacher praised my math skills and promptness in turning in homework. My chemistry teacher told the humiliating story about my putting a combustible chemical tube on a heated Bunsen burner. He showed the burnt corner of his eyebrow that had never grown back after that small fire. He chuckled sadly and said how much he’d missed my “fiery personality.” Then my gym teacher said I was a great example — of someone with no athletic aptitude who kept trying anyway.
