Losing Faith by Denise Jaden Page B

suffering.’”—Mark 5:34.
    I know this is meant to bring some kind of comfort, but when I read the word healed , all I can picture is Faith’s mangled body at the bottom of BlackhamMountain.
    I try again to focus on anything but the casket and I’m done looking at her plaque, but my knees feel glued to the ground. I can’t leave yet. I fiddle with the handle on my backpack.
    “There’s this thing,” I say quietly. As if she can hear me anyway. “I guess I should read you this thing.”
    Digging through the front pocket of my pack I find the folded piece of paper. “I’ve been kind of confused these last few days. And angry.” My eyes drift over the first couple lines. “Yeah, it’s not Shakespeare or anything.” After the complete mess I made at the funeral yesterday, I can’t believe I’m even thinking of this. But I glance around and the cemetery’s empty. Just her and me.
    Even though I know this is stupid, I can’t stop staring at the words. “Well, I’m going to read it to you. Because you’re the only one I can read it to. But take it with a grain of salt, okay?”
    I smooth out the paper and clear my throat. “It’s a poem just for you.”
“Everyone knew you much better than me.
Our empty house mutters instead of sings
Your voice annoys me wherever I go.”
    I choke a little on this line, but don’t let myself stop.
     
“You went before me, taught me to grow.”
    I glance at her grave. “Way too sappy, huh?” I brush a tear from my cheek and press on.
     
“They wanted me to be more like you
I hate that this is probably true.
But most of all, I’m mad that you left
I hate you for that. Your greatest theft.”
    The last words are barely recognizable because I sob through them. I fold up the paper and her humming trickles back into my head, softly at first, like the flutter of butterfly wings, then louder so I can almost make out her words. Even though I don’t know when her humming stopped, now, hearing it, I feel like I can breathe again.
    “You always wanted to hear my poetry. I told you it was bad. And this is one of the better ones.” I choke out a laugh. “You know, the one thing I should scratch out is the part about your voice. I can’t say anything bad about it. I just can’t.”
    I rub at my throat, as if I suspect her voice might erupt out of me. But no such luck. I pushmyself up from my knees and lean down to pick up my backpack. “It sucks, you know?”
    When I turn to leave, my legs don’t let me. Looking back at her grave, the buds of newness, I wipe away my tears one more time.
    “I miss you, Faith,” I whisper.
    And then I’m done. I know I am.

chapter SEVEN
    t he next day is Friday and I spend the whole day and most of the weekend in bed like I haven’t slept in weeks. The truth is, I feel as though I’ve been sleeping more than ever, since my whole life is like one big hazy dream. But my body is exhausted and each time I wake up, it seems just as easy to shut my eyes again and let Faith’s hum lull me right back to sleep.
    Sunday afternoon I get around to checking my cell phone and e-mail and find several “How R U?” messages from Amy and a couple from our friend Steph. I double-check to make sure I didn’t miss anything from Dustin, but there’s nothing.
    It’s not personal, I know that. Just discomfort. It’s betterif I see him at school, where we have our history of how we act together.
    I hit reply and tell both Amy and Steph that I’ll be back in class tomorrow. Even though I haven’t discussed this with my parents, it seems obvious to me. Get on with things so I can find some part of my life that feels normal again.
    When I head downstairs for something to eat, Dad sits on the living room couch staring at the wall.
    “Hey,” I say, trying to make my voice as even as possible.
    He blinks and looks both directions before dropping his eyes to a pile of papers on the coffee table in front of him. “Oh, hi, sweetie.”
    “Hungry?” I ask,