jump. The summer night he’d locked himself out of his house while his parents were out of town and Ricky had helped him break in through the basement window.
This made a certain portion of the crowd chuckle—the hockey players and their wives—and Britney wondered what crazy night he was talking about. It was before her time, that was for sure. She felt jealous, covetous of this exclusive memory.
“And,” Troy went on, “Mrs. Robideau, you were right. Ricky did slip me the answers to that trig test last year.” Britney’s friends laughed again, and again she felt excluded. “I guess to sum up my feelings about Ricky, he was just, you know, a really great guy. He was always there for me.”
For a moment, Troy stared out over the heads of the congregation. His heavy brow knotted in what looked to Britney like confusion. Then he ran his thick hand through his longish blond hair—he’d moussed it back into a slick helmet for the funeral—and said, “Thanks.” After another moment of confused staring, he burst into tears and shouted, “And whoever did this, I don’t care if it was an accident. I don’t even care how sorry you feel! We’re going to find you and …”
Before leaving the podium, he ragefully shook his massive fists in front of him and a shrieking war cry rose from deep in his throat.
Britney was next. From her perch behind the raised wooden podium, she could see how large the crowd truly was. Every pew was jam-packed with people. The La Follette Raccoons, sitting together as a group, took up three whole rows. At the very front swayed The Untouchables, Troy, Digger, and Jeremy, their heads bowed, their arms loosely draped over each other’s shoulders. Behind them sat Erin, Cindy, Daphney, and Jodi; they’d all worn identical red T-shirts with the number 43 stenciled on them, Ricky’s number. Farther back, a huge slice of the school population had seen fit to pay their respects as well. The crowd was so large that individual faces blurred together, but she recognized a smattering of teachers: Ms. Ahern, Mrs. Rindy, Mr. Bucholtz. There were even people standing up and down the side aisle and a great mass of humanity squished into the back.
Somewhere out there was Adam. He’d been on his own to find a seat because as Britney had explained to her father this morning, “It would be so inappropriate for him to sit up front with the family. He didn’t even like Ricky!”
Melissa was out there somewhere as well. Britney couldn’t find her, though. She wished she’d asked where Melissa was going to sit. Speaking like this in front of all these people would be much easier if she could look at Melissa while she did it.
Britney had spent all last night writing her speech. She’d done five drafts, getting only so far each time before she became frustrated and scribbled darkly over what she’d written. Finally she’d found what she wanted to say. Unfolding the hand-scrawled speech on the podium in front of her, she looked it over for a long moment.
The church was so silent. Everyone waiting to listen to her.
“Ricky Piekowski,” she began, “was my boyfriend. I loved him.”
Her voice cracked when she said the word love, but she didn’t waver. She didn’t slow down to collect herself. She had to show the people gathered in the church, she had to show Donna, that she could be strong.
“And he loved me.”
She’d reread what she’d written so many times that she knew it by heart. Looking out at all the people whose lives Ricky touched, she went on from memory.
“We only started dating last June, but in the eight months I was lucky to share with him, I got to know him better than I have ever known any other human being. I knew what made him laugh— The Simpsons —and what made him frown—the Packers losing to the Vikings. Sometimes when I looked at him, I could tell from the expression on his face exactly what he was thinking—and he always seemed to know what I was thinking
This made a certain portion of the crowd chuckle—the hockey players and their wives—and Britney wondered what crazy night he was talking about. It was before her time, that was for sure. She felt jealous, covetous of this exclusive memory.
“And,” Troy went on, “Mrs. Robideau, you were right. Ricky did slip me the answers to that trig test last year.” Britney’s friends laughed again, and again she felt excluded. “I guess to sum up my feelings about Ricky, he was just, you know, a really great guy. He was always there for me.”
For a moment, Troy stared out over the heads of the congregation. His heavy brow knotted in what looked to Britney like confusion. Then he ran his thick hand through his longish blond hair—he’d moussed it back into a slick helmet for the funeral—and said, “Thanks.” After another moment of confused staring, he burst into tears and shouted, “And whoever did this, I don’t care if it was an accident. I don’t even care how sorry you feel! We’re going to find you and …”
Before leaving the podium, he ragefully shook his massive fists in front of him and a shrieking war cry rose from deep in his throat.
Britney was next. From her perch behind the raised wooden podium, she could see how large the crowd truly was. Every pew was jam-packed with people. The La Follette Raccoons, sitting together as a group, took up three whole rows. At the very front swayed The Untouchables, Troy, Digger, and Jeremy, their heads bowed, their arms loosely draped over each other’s shoulders. Behind them sat Erin, Cindy, Daphney, and Jodi; they’d all worn identical red T-shirts with the number 43 stenciled on them, Ricky’s number. Farther back, a huge slice of the school population had seen fit to pay their respects as well. The crowd was so large that individual faces blurred together, but she recognized a smattering of teachers: Ms. Ahern, Mrs. Rindy, Mr. Bucholtz. There were even people standing up and down the side aisle and a great mass of humanity squished into the back.
Somewhere out there was Adam. He’d been on his own to find a seat because as Britney had explained to her father this morning, “It would be so inappropriate for him to sit up front with the family. He didn’t even like Ricky!”
Melissa was out there somewhere as well. Britney couldn’t find her, though. She wished she’d asked where Melissa was going to sit. Speaking like this in front of all these people would be much easier if she could look at Melissa while she did it.
Britney had spent all last night writing her speech. She’d done five drafts, getting only so far each time before she became frustrated and scribbled darkly over what she’d written. Finally she’d found what she wanted to say. Unfolding the hand-scrawled speech on the podium in front of her, she looked it over for a long moment.
The church was so silent. Everyone waiting to listen to her.
“Ricky Piekowski,” she began, “was my boyfriend. I loved him.”
Her voice cracked when she said the word love, but she didn’t waver. She didn’t slow down to collect herself. She had to show the people gathered in the church, she had to show Donna, that she could be strong.
“And he loved me.”
She’d reread what she’d written so many times that she knew it by heart. Looking out at all the people whose lives Ricky touched, she went on from memory.
“We only started dating last June, but in the eight months I was lucky to share with him, I got to know him better than I have ever known any other human being. I knew what made him laugh— The Simpsons —and what made him frown—the Packers losing to the Vikings. Sometimes when I looked at him, I could tell from the expression on his face exactly what he was thinking—and he always seemed to know what I was thinking
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