The Book of Lost Friends(99)

“Come on, you guys. Let’s not screw it up now.” I try to sound forceful, but really I’m biting back the sting of discouragement. This is unfair to the ones who really wanted this to work. Including me. “These are people we’re talking about. They were real living, breathing people. They deserve respect. Grab your tombstone and your lantern, and get with the program. If you have a costume with you and you don’t have it on, put it on over your clothes. Now.”

My orders gather very little response.

I need help beyond just my few senior adult volunteers, who are largely confined to a sidewalk because the field is muddy and slick, and we don’t want anyone to fall. I did ask one of the history teachers/assistant football coaches to dovetail with us for this project, but he waffled, reminded me that it’s still football season, and said, “Sounds complicated. Did you get school board approval for this?”

There’s been a knot in my stomach ever since. Do teachers go running to the school board every time they want to do a class activity? Principal Pevoto knows about our Underground project…sort of. I’m just afraid he’s not fully processing the scale. He always has a ton on his mind and is moving so fast it’s like talking to a buzz saw.

I wish Nathan were here. The kids keep asking about him. After our awkward brush with his uncles and the blondes last week, chatter and speculation is all over town. When Nathan took me home, he mentioned that he’d be tied up the latter part of this week and through the weekend. He didn’t give me a reason; he wasn’t really in the mood to talk. Eating barbecue while half of the town whispers about you will do that.

I haven’t seen him since a week ago Thursday, though I finally broke down and dialed his number a couple times, then hung up before the answering machine could beep. Yesterday I left a message about tonight’s rehearsal. I keep glancing around, hoping he’ll show. I know it’s silly and right now I’ve got bigger things to worry about.

Like Lil’ Ray, sneaking across the practice field—if a 280-pound teenager can sneak—attempting to join the group late without being noticed. LaJuna trails along in his shadow, carrying what I assume to be their cardboard gravestones. She’s wearing a ruffly pink prom dress with a hoop skirt petticoat underneath and a white lace shawl. He’s wearing slacks and a fancy paisley silk vest that might be someone’s long-outdated wedding attire. A gray jacket and top hat are carefully crooked in his arm.

Their costumes aren’t bad—Sarge mentioned helping LaJuna with hers—but their tardiness nags at the back of my mind. The two of them jostle and bump up against each other as they blend into the group. I watch her hang on his arm, possessive, pleased with herself. Needy.

I understand where she’s coming from. My own memories of those early teen years are real and fresh, even though they’re over a decade old. So is my awareness of the potential risks. My mother started making me aware long before I was LaJuna’s age. She wasn’t shy on topics of sex, teenage pregnancy, the problem of bad choices in relationship partners, of which she’d made quite a few over the years. She was quick to point out that the thing girls in her family did best was get pregnant early, and with loser guys who weren’t mature enough to be decent fathers. That was why she’d left her hometown. Even that didn’t save her. She still got pregnant with the wrong man…and look where that landed her. Stuck working her tail off as a single mother.

The trouble was, it hurt to hear that. It reinforced all my insecurities and the fear that my very existence in this world was an inconvenience, a mistake.

Maybe you should have a talk with LaJuna. I shuffle this to my mental in-basket, along with a dozen other things. And Lil’ Ray. Both of them.

Are teachers allowed to do that? Maybe discuss it with Sarge, instead.

But right now we have a rehearsal to accomplish or a graveyard pageant to cancel, one or the other.

“Listen!” I yell over the noise. “I said, listen! Stop playing with the lanterns. Stop talking to each other. Stop hitting each other over the head with tombstones. Put the little kids down and quit tossing them around. Pay attention. If you can’t, then let’s all just head home. There’s no point going any further with the Underground pageant. We’ll just settle for research papers and presentations in class and be done with the whole thing.”

The rumble dies down a little, but only a little.

Granny T tells them to hush up, and she means it. She’ll report to their mamas about how bad they’ve been. How they wouldn’t listen. “I know where to find your people.”

It helps a bit, but we’re still a zoo. Some kind of wrestling match is breaking out on the left side of the group. I see boys jumping up and doing headlocks and laughing. They stumble and mow over a couple seventh graders.

You should’ve known this would happen. My inner cynic delivers an opportune gut punch. Unicorns and rainbows, Benny. That’s you. Big ideas. The voice sounds a lot like my mother’s—the mocking tone that frequently sharpened the edge during arguments.

“Cut it out!” I yell. I notice a car driving along the street at the field’s edge. It drifts by, the driver leaning curiously out his window, scrutinizing us. The knot in my stomach works its way upward. I feel like I’ve swallowed a cantaloupe.

The car on the street turns around and cruises past again. Even more slowly.