me laugh.”
“It won’t be open.”
“Open face?”
“Shut up. Open casket. It won’t be.”
“No way.”
“No.”
The Whisperers shudder and shake their heads. The bus stops and Mr. Denby tells us to rise and walk in twos. We follow him across the parking lot and into the church, which has the green piled carpet and beige popcorn ceilings of the rec rooms in the old houses Mom and I rent. The main chapel is nicer than the hall is. It has slanted ceilings and a big, plain, blond-wood cross. I’ve always liked crosses better when they have a Jesus on them. I like to see what people thought his face looked like.
The bus got us there early, so we’re some of the only ones in the chapel. Mr. Denby has us slide into the pews in the back. Up at the front of the chapel, under the cross, is a raised area packed with as many flowers as Mr. Denby’s classroom windowsill. There’s a platform up there, too, draped and pinned with cloth. I guess that’s where the casket will go. I look over and spot Hadley sitting in the second row, watching me watch the platform. Since our talk in the lunchroom,she’s avoided me, changing direction if she sees me in the hall, ducking into a crowd or a classroom door, which is funny because usually Hadley’s the one people avoid. Now in the church we lock eyes, but she looks away, and then I do, too.
That’s when I start to feel a little funny, cold and sweaty both. My stomach twists and burbles. The Whisperer next to me giggles at it. “I’m hungry,” I say, but I don’t really feel hungry. I feel sick. I wonder what will happen if my stomach growls during the service. Will everyone pretend that they haven’t heard it? Will they turn and look? If my stomach growls, is that disrespectful? I press my hands to my middle, but it gurgles again. I can hear my pulse in my ears, and as my stomach turns, its lining seems to pull away from its walls, and I realize that I actually might throw up.
“How do I look?” I say to the Whisperer next to me.
“Good,” she says absently.
“No. Do I look sick?”
She turns and peers at me. “Do you feel sick?”
“I feel like I might throw up.”
“You might throw up?” She says it loud, and the other Whis perers lean forward along the pew to look at me, each one bending a little farther than the last like they’re taking part in some sort of ridiculous choreography. I let out a wild laugh, and they all narrow their eyes in unison. This makes me laugh again. One of them reaches out a hand and puts it on my forehead.
“Uck.” She yanks it back and wipes it off on her skirt. “You’re, like, wet.”
All of us Chippewa students are seated now. Older people—relatives, neighbors—are filling in the front rows, wrinkles aroundtheir somber mouths. I can still see Hadley. The back of her hair has been pinned into a complicated twist. She sits next to two tall, color less adults who lean into each other like elm trees. Hadley sits up straight, the kind of straight you have to think about. Her neck is rigid. Just in front of her is the platform.
“Do you want some water?” a Whisperer asks. “How do you feel?”
“I think I should—”
“Should you go?”
“Yeah. I think.” I look to my right and left. We’re in the center of the pew. I get up, pressing a hand against my stomach. The Whisperers get up, too.
She needs out! Excuse us!
They wave their hands, and I feel grateful, so grateful to them as I trip over feet and push aside knees, until I’m finally into the aisle and then out of the chapel.
Someone points me to a bathroom, which is down a dark hallway. By the time I reach it, I’m already retching. I put a hand over my mouth, not sure that I’ll make it. The bathroom is empty, and I’m grateful for that, too, as I scramble down onto the pink tiles and bend over the toilet bowl. I gasp and retch, and my breath creates ripples in the water of the toilet. I spit into the bowl, and spit again, but nothing comes
“It won’t be open.”
“Open face?”
“Shut up. Open casket. It won’t be.”
“No way.”
“No.”
The Whisperers shudder and shake their heads. The bus stops and Mr. Denby tells us to rise and walk in twos. We follow him across the parking lot and into the church, which has the green piled carpet and beige popcorn ceilings of the rec rooms in the old houses Mom and I rent. The main chapel is nicer than the hall is. It has slanted ceilings and a big, plain, blond-wood cross. I’ve always liked crosses better when they have a Jesus on them. I like to see what people thought his face looked like.
The bus got us there early, so we’re some of the only ones in the chapel. Mr. Denby has us slide into the pews in the back. Up at the front of the chapel, under the cross, is a raised area packed with as many flowers as Mr. Denby’s classroom windowsill. There’s a platform up there, too, draped and pinned with cloth. I guess that’s where the casket will go. I look over and spot Hadley sitting in the second row, watching me watch the platform. Since our talk in the lunchroom,she’s avoided me, changing direction if she sees me in the hall, ducking into a crowd or a classroom door, which is funny because usually Hadley’s the one people avoid. Now in the church we lock eyes, but she looks away, and then I do, too.
That’s when I start to feel a little funny, cold and sweaty both. My stomach twists and burbles. The Whisperer next to me giggles at it. “I’m hungry,” I say, but I don’t really feel hungry. I feel sick. I wonder what will happen if my stomach growls during the service. Will everyone pretend that they haven’t heard it? Will they turn and look? If my stomach growls, is that disrespectful? I press my hands to my middle, but it gurgles again. I can hear my pulse in my ears, and as my stomach turns, its lining seems to pull away from its walls, and I realize that I actually might throw up.
“How do I look?” I say to the Whisperer next to me.
“Good,” she says absently.
“No. Do I look sick?”
She turns and peers at me. “Do you feel sick?”
“I feel like I might throw up.”
“You might throw up?” She says it loud, and the other Whis perers lean forward along the pew to look at me, each one bending a little farther than the last like they’re taking part in some sort of ridiculous choreography. I let out a wild laugh, and they all narrow their eyes in unison. This makes me laugh again. One of them reaches out a hand and puts it on my forehead.
“Uck.” She yanks it back and wipes it off on her skirt. “You’re, like, wet.”
All of us Chippewa students are seated now. Older people—relatives, neighbors—are filling in the front rows, wrinkles aroundtheir somber mouths. I can still see Hadley. The back of her hair has been pinned into a complicated twist. She sits next to two tall, color less adults who lean into each other like elm trees. Hadley sits up straight, the kind of straight you have to think about. Her neck is rigid. Just in front of her is the platform.
“Do you want some water?” a Whisperer asks. “How do you feel?”
“I think I should—”
“Should you go?”
“Yeah. I think.” I look to my right and left. We’re in the center of the pew. I get up, pressing a hand against my stomach. The Whisperers get up, too.
She needs out! Excuse us!
They wave their hands, and I feel grateful, so grateful to them as I trip over feet and push aside knees, until I’m finally into the aisle and then out of the chapel.
Someone points me to a bathroom, which is down a dark hallway. By the time I reach it, I’m already retching. I put a hand over my mouth, not sure that I’ll make it. The bathroom is empty, and I’m grateful for that, too, as I scramble down onto the pink tiles and bend over the toilet bowl. I gasp and retch, and my breath creates ripples in the water of the toilet. I spit into the bowl, and spit again, but nothing comes
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