Blood Trail by Nancy Springer Page B

heaven—I wondered if the Gingrich family was buying that any more than I was. Maybe they believed, but I knew Aaron shouldn’t have died, damn it, especially not that way. God would comfort the Gingrich family? Lame. But when the preacher said we should all pray for justice, there was kind of a murmur in the church, and some deep-voiced man said, “Amen.”
    Was that what Aaron’s family wanted? Was that what I wanted? Justice?
    Not if it meant …
    No. I wanted to stop thinking about it. Thinking wasn’t going to bring Aaron back.
    Mostly I just wanted it to be over.
    The service ended, eventually. The family left the same way they’d come in. One of Aaron’s grandparents sobbed, a raw, embarrassing noise that sounded very loud in the silence. Mrs. Gingrich hid her face in her hands. Mr. Gingrich just looked fierce, even though there were tears on his cheeks. Nathan looked the same as when he came in.
    Nobody said anything as we all filed out. I kept my head up. If anybody was giving me the evil eye, screw them. I was starting to get pissed off. Somebody had killed Aaron, and that person should pay, not me.
    Out front, one of the gray-suited undertakers stopped us and asked whether we were going to the cemetery. Mom said, “No.”
    I said, “Mom, I want to.”
    She turned, and I was surprised to see how tired and wet-eyed she looked. “Jeremy I don’t think—”
    â€œHe was my best friend, Mom!”
    Coach said, “I can take him, Mrs. Davis.”
    So I got to stand beside Coach and watch six members of the football team carry Aaron’s casket out. I felt kind of grateful that I wasn’t a pallbearer but mostly bummed that the Gingriches hadn’t asked me. I should have been there for Aaron.
    People piled into cars for the procession. It was a long, slow drive to the cemetery, winding between the hills in Coach’s Jeep Cherokee with one of those little purple FUNERAL flags waving from the fender. Long, slow, and silent. Coach said something about football. I said, “I think I’m going to have to quit.”
    â€œGet out of this car.” He was trying to joke, but I didn’t say anything, so he said, “Jeremy, don’t quit yet. Don’t make any decision right now. Things will get better.”
    Yeah. Right.
    Not anytime soon, that was for sure. I hate cemeteries. All the stupid heavy headstones, stupid flowers and trees, stupid sunshine when it should have been raining. I stood under the stupid tent beside Aaron’s open grave, looking down into that raw hole in the clay and shale, and when I lifted my eyes, Mr. Gingrich scowled at me over his son’s casket.
    The minister said some more stuff. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Aaron’s stepfather and mother dropped a little dirt on the casket. Nathan did, too. I faced him about five yards away, but he didn’t look at me. His face still looked just the same, like a ceramic Nathan mask.
    â€œGo in peace,” said the minister.
    Nobody went. Nobody moved except Mr. Gingrich, striding over to me. He stopped in front of me and glared into my face from about six inches away. I think the only reason I didn’t step back from him was because I was so damn tired of everything.
    He whispered at me between his teeth, “Traitor.”
    â€œMr. Gingrich, I’m sorry about Aaron,” I said, meaning it.
    â€œJudas! How dare you—”
    â€œHe was my best friend.”
    â€œGet out. Get away from him. Don’t you ever—”
    Coach said, “Mr. Gingrich, you’re upset, you’re saying things you’ll regret—”
    â€œYou stay out of this!”
    A policeman showed up at Mr. Gingrich’s side. I knew him a little because he’d been keeping an eye on my house—it was getting so that I knew all the Pinto River cops. This one gave me a quiet, friendly look and touched Mr. Gingrich’s elbow. “Your