say.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
She doesn’t even nod at this, which makes it terrible, like my apology was a coin left dropped on the floor.
When she walks away this time, she doesn’t turn to see if I’m following. I’m not, though. I stay where I am. People sneak looks as she goes by. They look at her and then at each other and then back at her again. Hadley finds an empty table, pushes her tray onto it, and sits down. She leans over her fries and her hair falls around her face so I can’t see her scar anymore. She starts putting food in her mouth and chewing it, and after a while people stop looking at her and they go back to their conversations. Hadley keeps chewing.
That’s when I figure out what she’d said before, at the ketchup station, when I couldn’t really hear her. She’d said, “You don’t know her either.” And she’s right. I don’t.
Chapter SIX
P RINCIPAL C APP makes an announcement that we can go to the funeral on Friday as long as we sign up with our homeroom teachers in advance. I ask Mr. Denby to put me on the list; most of our class is on the list already. Even the Whisperers are going.
“It’s the right thing to do,” one of them says.
“Why?” I ask.
“Why what?”
“Why is it the right thing to do?”
She just looks at me.
I sit with them on the bus. They’re all wearing floral dresses under their coats, but they make pretty lame flowers. I think of the talking flowers in
Alice in Wonderland
. Then I think of the garden that I hid in the morning that Jonah found the body and how, even though it was a garden, none of the flowers had bloomed yet.
Jonah was in the news on Thursday night, but not his name—just “local man,” as in “the body was discovered by a local man.” The number at Jefferson Wildlife Control still rings through to the answering machine. I keep thinking about last Sunday, when I ran away from Jonah and he yelled out my name. I replay it a lot in myhead, the way it sounded when he said it.
Evie.
That it—my name—was there in his mouth. But after thinking about it a few dozen times, it’s like I’ve worn the memory out, and the voice yelling my name isn’t his anymore, but my own.
The bus to the funeral smells like sack lunches and teacher perfume. Everyone is dressed up, but I’m one of the only ones wearing all black. I thought that was what you were supposed to wear to a funeral—black. I chose my clothes the night before. I laid them on my bed, placing the sweater above the skirt, the skirt over the tights. There was something orderly about the way they looked set out like that. When I was done, I didn’t want to put the clothes away, so I slid in under them and slept there, making sure not to move too much so that they wouldn’t get wrinkled.
“Have you ever been to a funeral before?” one of the Whisperers asks the others.
A few of them nod. I don’t because I haven’t been to a funeral. In fact, I’ve only been to church half a dozen times in my life—only when Mom’s upset about something. So I’ve always thought of going to church as something you do when you’re in a pinch, like eating at a restaurant because you forgot to go to the grocery store. Afterward, when we walk out with the crowd of real churchgoers, with their brunch plans and khaki pants, Mom always stops on the front steps and looks up at the sky for a second, like she’s going to see something up there.
“I went to my great-uncle’s funeral,” one Whisperer says. “A year ago. They’d plucked out all his nose hairs. His face looked funny without nose hairs.”
“Ew,” the other Whisperers say.
I pinch my nose to feel my own nose hairs bend against my skin.
“Do you think we’ll see her? Zabet?” I ask. I picture Zabet’s body zipped up in the bag, draped with the sheet.
“Like open face?” one of them asks.
“You mean open casket,” another says. “Open face is a sandwich.”
“Gross,” says a third.
“Stop. Don’t make
“I’m sorry,” I say.
She doesn’t even nod at this, which makes it terrible, like my apology was a coin left dropped on the floor.
When she walks away this time, she doesn’t turn to see if I’m following. I’m not, though. I stay where I am. People sneak looks as she goes by. They look at her and then at each other and then back at her again. Hadley finds an empty table, pushes her tray onto it, and sits down. She leans over her fries and her hair falls around her face so I can’t see her scar anymore. She starts putting food in her mouth and chewing it, and after a while people stop looking at her and they go back to their conversations. Hadley keeps chewing.
That’s when I figure out what she’d said before, at the ketchup station, when I couldn’t really hear her. She’d said, “You don’t know her either.” And she’s right. I don’t.
Chapter SIX
P RINCIPAL C APP makes an announcement that we can go to the funeral on Friday as long as we sign up with our homeroom teachers in advance. I ask Mr. Denby to put me on the list; most of our class is on the list already. Even the Whisperers are going.
“It’s the right thing to do,” one of them says.
“Why?” I ask.
“Why what?”
“Why is it the right thing to do?”
She just looks at me.
I sit with them on the bus. They’re all wearing floral dresses under their coats, but they make pretty lame flowers. I think of the talking flowers in
Alice in Wonderland
. Then I think of the garden that I hid in the morning that Jonah found the body and how, even though it was a garden, none of the flowers had bloomed yet.
Jonah was in the news on Thursday night, but not his name—just “local man,” as in “the body was discovered by a local man.” The number at Jefferson Wildlife Control still rings through to the answering machine. I keep thinking about last Sunday, when I ran away from Jonah and he yelled out my name. I replay it a lot in myhead, the way it sounded when he said it.
Evie.
That it—my name—was there in his mouth. But after thinking about it a few dozen times, it’s like I’ve worn the memory out, and the voice yelling my name isn’t his anymore, but my own.
The bus to the funeral smells like sack lunches and teacher perfume. Everyone is dressed up, but I’m one of the only ones wearing all black. I thought that was what you were supposed to wear to a funeral—black. I chose my clothes the night before. I laid them on my bed, placing the sweater above the skirt, the skirt over the tights. There was something orderly about the way they looked set out like that. When I was done, I didn’t want to put the clothes away, so I slid in under them and slept there, making sure not to move too much so that they wouldn’t get wrinkled.
“Have you ever been to a funeral before?” one of the Whisperers asks the others.
A few of them nod. I don’t because I haven’t been to a funeral. In fact, I’ve only been to church half a dozen times in my life—only when Mom’s upset about something. So I’ve always thought of going to church as something you do when you’re in a pinch, like eating at a restaurant because you forgot to go to the grocery store. Afterward, when we walk out with the crowd of real churchgoers, with their brunch plans and khaki pants, Mom always stops on the front steps and looks up at the sky for a second, like she’s going to see something up there.
“I went to my great-uncle’s funeral,” one Whisperer says. “A year ago. They’d plucked out all his nose hairs. His face looked funny without nose hairs.”
“Ew,” the other Whisperers say.
I pinch my nose to feel my own nose hairs bend against my skin.
“Do you think we’ll see her? Zabet?” I ask. I picture Zabet’s body zipped up in the bag, draped with the sheet.
“Like open face?” one of them asks.
“You mean open casket,” another says. “Open face is a sandwich.”
“Gross,” says a third.
“Stop. Don’t make
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