“You’ve known me, like, a month. And if you really loved me you’d know that I’m not a normal girl.”
“Which is exactly why I feel that way about you.”
“You’re confused. You’re grieving. You just had a massive orgasm. You didn’t mean it.”
“I’ve been thinking it awhile, Alex. Why is it such a big deal? I didn’t expect you to say it back. I knew you wouldn’t. But you don’t have to be such a bitch about it.”
“Fuck you. I’m a bitch because I don’t want you to be in love with me? Well, then you’re an asshole for being in love with a bitch.” I stood up and slung on my backpack.
“You know what, Alex? You’re a pussy. You put up this tough girl act, but you can’t handle anything,” he said through gritted teeth.
“I can’t handle anything? I didn’t break my fucking bedroom window, did I? I’m handling, Leo. A lot. My dad. Becca. Now you? How much more am I supposed to handle?” My voice cracked, my cue to leave. No way was I going to let Leo see me cry. I turned away from him and dug the cookies out of my backpack. “Here.” I threw them onto his bed, not looking at where they landed, and stormed out of his room.
“Alex!” Leo yelled from his room. I didn’t look back. He didn’t follow. I didn’t hesitate to start my car and drive away.
Becca had asked me to be nice. Instead, I was a monster.
CHAPTER 26
MONDAY CAME WITH NO contact from or with Leo. Becca implored that I call him on Sunday, but I had nothing to say. Everything I already said was asinine, and everything I’d say next would probably be worse. Becca started chemo again and was so exhausted and sick from the drugs, the only news I heard from her was a text that said, “Take my head. Please.”
I wasn’t sure if she was trying to be funny or completely delirious, and when I texted her back, “Where should I take it?” she didn’t respond. I was done reading her mom’s sugarcoated anecdotes about Becca in the hospital. The last one I read freaked me out big-time.
Becca is sicker than I had imagined, but I pray each morning and night that God will see her through. He spoke to me, told me to take care of myself, too, so yesterday I had a facial and manicure….
Did Becca’s mom actually believe God spoke to her? And what was he saying? Go to a spa. It all seemed so backward, talking to God for help, preening, when her daughter was wasting away in her single bed.
I had no interest discussing any of this with the stage-crew lunch table. They didn’t know Becca’s mom at all, and what I really couldn’t stop thinking about was Leo. But seeing as I never told the lunch table about Leo, any talk about him would most certainly be followed by a diatribe from Brandon about the dangers of secret lovers. I could hear his voice proselytizing, “If you couldn’t tell us about him, then there must be something wrong with him.”
Problem was, there was nothing wrong with Leo. I just couldn’t deal with him—or everything that came with him before and after the death of his brother—plus be there for Becca and my family.
That’s what I kept telling myself.
I worked Tuesday after school and pretended it didn’t bother me that Leo hadn’t visited. Wednesday was Leo’s brother’s funeral. Mr. Esrum told me I could go, and as much as I didn’t want to, I knew I had to. I stopped by Mr. Esrum’s office before first period, and he gave me a pass to excuse me for the rest of the morning. My mom could’ve written a note or called in, if she knew what happened.
I didn’t tell her.
Leo was merely a blip of a boy who was a friend on her radar, and I feared adding death to the equation would set her off. One of my brothers’ friends’ uncles died recently, and my mom spent the night locked in her room.
Mr. Esrum suggested creepily that we carpool, but the idea of sitting in a car with a teacher had Lifetime movie written all over it. I thanked him but declined.
I hated my outfit. It was dressier than what I usually wore, involving a long, black skirt, black tights, and black Mary Janes. But the only clean shirt I had to wear was a beat-up black t-shirt. I never went anywhere that required dressing up, and the only dress I owned that was suitable for a funeral was the one I wore to my dad’s. There was no way in hell I was leaving the house in that.
I drove to the church Mr. Esrum so kindly Google-mapped for me. I had never actually been to a church. It wasn’t like my non-Jew friends were asking me to hang out in pews on Sunday mornings. Lining the church driveway were people, possibly veterans, holding American flags. In the distance, I caught sight of an American flag–covered coffin being removed from a hearse, military men and women in their dress uniforms saluting.
I parked on the street and watched from my car. I hadn’t expected so many people in uniform. I felt schlubby, inadequate, useless. When the family, black-suit-clad Leo included, followed the coffin into the church, I stayed in my car. When the rest of the funeral-goers were safely inside the building, I still didn’t budge. Who was I to listen to people talk about Jason? I didn’t know him, except for watching him pee. He literally said two words to me his whole life. I felt like an intruder, the little Jewish girl who busted the shit out of Jason’s brother’s heart, attempting some semblance of penance by barely playing dress-up and sitting in my car.
I thought about driving off. Going back to school, or somewhere else until my pass wore off. I tried to remember my dad’s funeral, not so long ago but a painful blur of torment. Did I even notice who was there? Did I once look at the guest book to see who cared and who didn’t?
Yes I did.
And the one glaring omission was Davis, my supposed-to-be boyfriend.
I wasn’t supposed to be Leo’s anything. But I didn’t want to be his glaring omission either.
I waited in my car, deciding I could follow the family to the burial site. Being there would be enough. It had to be enough.
After about a half hour, sweat gathering underneath my skirted knees, people began to file out through the church doors. Another group loaded the flag-adorned coffin back into the hearse. Leo, head lowered, joined his parents in a black car. When other cars began to follow, I drove behind them.
We parked in an orderly fashion along the side of the cemetery road, uncomfortably narrow. People exited their cars onto the grass, high heels and polished shoes sinking into the dirt. I tried to blend, my height hiding me among the other mourners. There were more veterans with flags, more soldiers in dress uniforms, so young they barely looked older than me.
Leo and his family sat under a tent in front of the American coffin. They were tall, but I couldn’t see much more than the backs of heads. A small group of soldiers, two of which were girls, women, held guns and shot them into the air. I had never been that close to real guns. The explosion of sound, then ringing of silence, shook me twenty-one times. Then a lone soldier played taps on a trumpet. I wondered how he got the job, if he was a trumpet player before he went into the military or if they have music school there where the only song they learned was taps. Did they know Jason? Was this their job in the military? Go around to funerals and perform death rituals? It seemed harder than going to war itself.
Together a group of soldiers folded the flag from the coffin. I was terrified for them, that they’d mess it up, there were so many precise steps. I thought about them studying that, too, that being part of the military wasn’t just about going to war but dealing with what happens as a result. Was there any joy in it at all?
Would there ever be joy again?
I watched the back of Leo’s family’s heads. I remembered the feeling of being a family member sitting in the chairs, the special place that was the worst place to be. I wondered who watched me, wanted to see me cry. My mom had sat next to me, sobbing uncontrollably. It had been my job to hand her tissues. No one gave me the job, but I didn’t want my mom to gross people out with the pool of snot under her nose. That’s what I thought about: my mom’s snot. Anything to get through. And there I was at someone else’s funeral, hoping Leo didn’t need a tissue.
As my brain spun with funerals past and present, the end of the service caught me off guard. I awkwardly tried to hide myself behind the Dietz giants and military uniforms. I went to the funeral. Was it necessary for me to be one of the sorry people? I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t do anything.
