box. Carefully, she puts it on my wrist. Josie and I hold our arms side by side, pressing the hearts together so they form a full heart that says “Best Friends.”
“I love it.” I smile at her. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” She beams. For a moment she is too cheerful, as though she’s forgotten where she is. It’s not her fault, I think to myself now. She was only nine . “Come over soon, okay? We got a new Slip ’n Slide.”
Leaving Josie alone in the hallway, Nicole guides me back through the double doors, back to my seat inside the viewing room.
She leans forward to give me a long hug. “We loved your mom so much,” she whispers. “And we love you, too.”
“Mrs. Caruso?”
“Yes, sweetie?”
I gaze at her, searching her face for answers. “Where is my mom now?”
Nicole doesn’t miss a beat. “She’s safe, honey.” She gives my hands another squeeze. Whispering again, she says, “Next time you come over, I’ll show you.”
I get a kiss on the forehead. Then she walks away, toward my father.
I leave my younger self and follow her. When I was a child, I didn’t have a chance to observe so much; now it seems crucial that I pay close attention. I’m not sure why. But I’m here, aren’t I? There must be a reason for this memory. It’s like Alex said: I’m trying to put a puzzle together. But I have no idea what the picture will look like when it’s finished, which makes it hard for me to know quite where to start, or what pieces to pay attention to.
“Marshall,” Nicole says, putting her arms around him. With her mouth beside his ear, she murmurs, “She’ll never be hungry again.”
And like that, I’m back at my own funeral, watching as Mera and Topher walk hand in hand toward the front to stare at my closed casket. They are both crying. At eighteen and a half, Mera is older than everyone else—she got held back a year in preschool for what she calls behavior problems, but everyone knows the real problem was that she wasn’t potty trained in time for kindergarten. Anyway, for her eighteenth birthday, her parents bought her breast implants. Even if I didn’t remember the fact, it would be obvious just from looking at her. To my funeral, she’s wearing a low-cut black sweater and a push-up bra that really show off the twins.
When she and Topher turn around, Mera notices Joe Wright standing in the back. She nudges Topher and whispers something under her breath.
To anyone else, it could seem suspicious. But Mera didn’t have any reason to hurt me. Mera is the epitome of her breast implants: friendly, welcoming, and—at least according to the FDA—harmless. For that matter, I can’t imagine Topher killing anyone, either. He can be tempermental, but he’s actually a pretty calm guy. He’s a senior in high school, and he still has a pet rabbit that lives in his bedroom and is litter-box trained and sleeps beside his bed at night. People like that don’t kill their friends.
“Bitches and jerks,” Alex says, stretching his legs out in front of himself, crossing his arms behind his head in a casual pose. “Honestly, Liz. How could you be friends with those people?” Then he smacks his forehead, as though it were a stupid question. “What am I saying?” he asks. “You were their leader. You were the worst of them.”
“I don’t think that’s fair,” I tell him. “A few of us went to your funeral, you know. Lots of people went.”
“Really?” His tone is cool. “I guess you were there.” But he doesn’t seem willing to give me any credit for the fact.
There are still flyers up all over town, posted to the telephone poles. Alex’s parents are offering a ten-thousand-dollar reward for anyone with information about what happened the night he died.
“I changed my running route,” I tell him. I’m surprised that the memory, from just about a year ago, has come to me seemingly from nowhere.
And while I’m talking, I tug off my left boot—I’m not
“I love it.” I smile at her. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” She beams. For a moment she is too cheerful, as though she’s forgotten where she is. It’s not her fault, I think to myself now. She was only nine . “Come over soon, okay? We got a new Slip ’n Slide.”
Leaving Josie alone in the hallway, Nicole guides me back through the double doors, back to my seat inside the viewing room.
She leans forward to give me a long hug. “We loved your mom so much,” she whispers. “And we love you, too.”
“Mrs. Caruso?”
“Yes, sweetie?”
I gaze at her, searching her face for answers. “Where is my mom now?”
Nicole doesn’t miss a beat. “She’s safe, honey.” She gives my hands another squeeze. Whispering again, she says, “Next time you come over, I’ll show you.”
I get a kiss on the forehead. Then she walks away, toward my father.
I leave my younger self and follow her. When I was a child, I didn’t have a chance to observe so much; now it seems crucial that I pay close attention. I’m not sure why. But I’m here, aren’t I? There must be a reason for this memory. It’s like Alex said: I’m trying to put a puzzle together. But I have no idea what the picture will look like when it’s finished, which makes it hard for me to know quite where to start, or what pieces to pay attention to.
“Marshall,” Nicole says, putting her arms around him. With her mouth beside his ear, she murmurs, “She’ll never be hungry again.”
And like that, I’m back at my own funeral, watching as Mera and Topher walk hand in hand toward the front to stare at my closed casket. They are both crying. At eighteen and a half, Mera is older than everyone else—she got held back a year in preschool for what she calls behavior problems, but everyone knows the real problem was that she wasn’t potty trained in time for kindergarten. Anyway, for her eighteenth birthday, her parents bought her breast implants. Even if I didn’t remember the fact, it would be obvious just from looking at her. To my funeral, she’s wearing a low-cut black sweater and a push-up bra that really show off the twins.
When she and Topher turn around, Mera notices Joe Wright standing in the back. She nudges Topher and whispers something under her breath.
To anyone else, it could seem suspicious. But Mera didn’t have any reason to hurt me. Mera is the epitome of her breast implants: friendly, welcoming, and—at least according to the FDA—harmless. For that matter, I can’t imagine Topher killing anyone, either. He can be tempermental, but he’s actually a pretty calm guy. He’s a senior in high school, and he still has a pet rabbit that lives in his bedroom and is litter-box trained and sleeps beside his bed at night. People like that don’t kill their friends.
“Bitches and jerks,” Alex says, stretching his legs out in front of himself, crossing his arms behind his head in a casual pose. “Honestly, Liz. How could you be friends with those people?” Then he smacks his forehead, as though it were a stupid question. “What am I saying?” he asks. “You were their leader. You were the worst of them.”
“I don’t think that’s fair,” I tell him. “A few of us went to your funeral, you know. Lots of people went.”
“Really?” His tone is cool. “I guess you were there.” But he doesn’t seem willing to give me any credit for the fact.
There are still flyers up all over town, posted to the telephone poles. Alex’s parents are offering a ten-thousand-dollar reward for anyone with information about what happened the night he died.
“I changed my running route,” I tell him. I’m surprised that the memory, from just about a year ago, has come to me seemingly from nowhere.
And while I’m talking, I tug off my left boot—I’m not
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