Scar Girl (The Scar Boys #2)(53)

Rows of chairs had been set up like people were coming to see Johnny play one last show. There were pictures of him scattered on end tables next to the few upholstered chairs and couches. His keyboard was set up in a corner, with a pair of his old running shoes underneath. That bothered me a little. Johnny played the keyboard only because he couldn’t wear those running shoes anymore. The symbolism was all screwed up.

Richie, Chey, and I had come to the wake together. Richie looked sharp in a new suit, while I stood there swimming in an ill-fitting gray two-piece with a skinny tie and pointy black boots. It was the same suit I had worn under my gown at our high school graduation. I was the only kid not smart enough to figure out that it didn’t matter what you wore under your gown. Most everyone had worn shorts, and supposedly one kid, John Emmett, had been naked. Chey looked beautiful at the wake, like she always does, in her skirt and blazer. Though she did remind me of Jo from Facts of Life.

Like Scarecrow and the Tin Man protecting Dorothy, Richie and I each hooked one of Chey’s arms and took our place in the line of mourners, waiting until it was our turn to approach the casket.

You always hear people say how dead bodies at wakes look peaceful. Johnny didn’t look peaceful. He looked dead. The color in his cheeks was only there because someone had applied makeup, and his eyes were taped shut. The suit he was wearing didn’t fit any better than the suit I was wearing.

I just bowed my head and told Johnny how sorry I was and that I hoped he was somewhere where he could run. As much as he loved music, Johnny’s soul was connected to running the same way my soul was connected to the guitar. I didn’t know what else to say or think.

Cheyenne started to cry pretty hard when we saw Johnny, and Richie and I tried to pull her away, but she stopped us. She reached into a small purse she had slung over her shoulder and gently dropped something in the casket. It fell to the side of Johnny’s body, so I didn’t see what it was. I never asked.

I’d love to tell you that it was more dramatic than that. That one of us made a speech or broke down or did something grandiose. We didn’t. We paid our respects like everyone else, and we moved on. The moment demanded more, but there was no more to be done.

After saying our final good-byes, we followed the other mourners, like a morbid sort of conga line, to see Johnny’s parents. His mother was barely holding it together as she greeted and hugged the people in front of us, an older couple, maybe some aunt and uncle of Johnny’s. The four of them—the couple and Johnny’s parents—talked for a moment that felt like a year, and then it was our turn.

Mrs. McKenna looked at Chey, Richie, and me with ice in her eyes. I thought for sure she was going to take a swing at me.

She did just the opposite.

Johnny’s mother, the woman who had so detested us, literally fell into our arms, all six of our arms, and started wailing. She was saying something but was so upset I couldn’t make it out at first.

“Thankyoubingsugofrnds” is what I heard. I could only mumble, “I’m so sorry,” as I held her. She sucked in a big breath, and then her words resolved themselves.

“Thank you for being such good friends,” she was saying over and over again. Mr. McKenna gently put a hand on his wife’s shoulder, and she pulled back.

I was too choked up to speak, and as soon as I tried, I lost it. So did Chey. And so did Richie. The raw emotion of it was too much to handle. I wanted to tell Mrs. McKenna, I wanted to scream at her that we weren’t the friends she thought we were. That we, along with everyone else, had let her son down. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

We left Johnny’s parents and went to the back of the room. I tried hard to regain some, any, sense of equilibrium.

Everyone was there. My parents, Richie’s dad. Most of Chey’s sisters and her parents, so many of the kids from school—the good ones and the sadistic dickheads alike—had all turned out to say good-bye to Johnny McKenna.

The three of us stayed in the back, sticking close to one another, trying to fend off the endless stream of mourners who wanted to offer us condolences. We had almost as many well-wishers as Johnny’s parents.

It was then that Richie looked over at me and said, “So what happens now?”

I had no idea.





CHEYENNE BELLE


It was a guitar pick. I dropped a guitar pick in Johnny’s casket.

I had used a Sharpie to write I love you on one side and 4ever on the other. I know. It’s corny. But he used to call me Pick, and I needed to do something. For all I know, someone at the funeral home took it out and pocketed it. I thought about leaving him with the gold pick he’d given me at Christmas, but I couldn’t. I still wear it around my neck.

Anyway, I had a pretty strong buzz on for the wake, but not strong enough to stop me from feeling every last horrible thing.

The biggest shock was Mrs. McKenna. We all knew that she hated us and hated that Johnny hung out with us, so I couldn’t figure out why she acted the way she did. Maybe it was grief. Or maybe she blamed herself for Johnny’s death and was, in a kind of way, apologizing. I don’t know.

When I couldn’t take any more, when I didn’t think I could handle one more idiot from Johnny’s high school coming up to us and telling us how sorry they were, Jeff walked in. He scanned the room, nodded in our direction, and then went forward to pay his respects. I nudged Harry.