Call the Shots (Swim the Fly #3)(92)

“Wow, I had no idea you were still working on it. Sorry . . . I guess I should have told you sooner.”

“Ya think? Well, I guess that’s two things you owe me: an explanation and the Wal-Mart uniform you still haven’t returned. What are you doing right now? Maybe you can swing by and kill both bats with one bone.”

I look around my empty room. Cathy’s at work, and Matt and Coop are off with their girlfriends somewhere. I was maybe going to play a couple of hours of World of Warcraft, but I guess I could go by Nessa’s first. “Okay,” I say. “Sure. Sounds good.”

“Kewl,” Nessa says. “Bring some snacks. We’re going on a picnic.”


It’s weird how you can know someone for so many years but not really know anything about them. My sister and Nessa have been best friends since third grade — when Cathy’s first best friend, Aubrey, moved to San Francisco — but beyond the fact that her mom died, and that she works at Wal-Mart, and that she used to have brown hair and a lot fewer piercings before she went all Goth, there isn’t much more I could have told you about Nessa prior to our picnic at Cypress Lawn Cemetery.

I certainly had no idea that she was such an expert on graveyards. She knows all about the different kinds of materials they use for coffins and tombstones. How long it takes for a person’s body to decompose. How deep a person is usually buried (apparently it doesn’t have to be six feet, like everyone thinks). That graves used to have footstones as well as headstones. And that people have been having picnics in cemeteries since Victorian times, when it was considered a lovely relaxing Sunday-afternoon activity to commune with nature and the deceased.

I also didn’t know that she was so funny. She likes to read the names on the tombstones and make up bizarre stories about the people who are buried there.

And I definitely had no clue that she was such a good cook.

I take a second bite of the grilled-chicken-and-pesto sandwich Nessa claims to have made and am amazed all over again at how good it tastes.

“Seriously, you made this from scratch?” I ask, holding up the sandwich. “The chicken, the sauce, everything?”

“Of course.” Nessa laughs, her legs tucked up on the purple blanket she’s spread out in front of an old weather-stained headstone. She dabs at the corner of her mouth with a paper napkin. “I don’t see what the big deal is. You just grill a couple of chicken breasts, mash up some pesto, slice up some tomato and lettuce, and chuck it all on a baguette. It’s not brain surgery.”

“Might as well be. At least to me. I can’t even make toast without burning it.”

“Cooking’s all about measurements. Measuring your ingredients. Measuring your time. That’s what my mom used to tell me whenever she let me help bake cookies.”

“Do you miss her?” The question is out of my mouth before I can stop it. Instantly I wish I could take it back. My scalp tightens and my chewing sounds exponentially louder in my ears. “I’m sorry. Never mind. You don’t have to answer that.”

“No, it’s okay.” Nessa forces a smile. “We can visit her later. She’s buried here. Her grave’s in the newer part of the cemetery.” She points off to the right. “But it’s a lot prettier here in the older section. For a picnic, anyway.” She takes a sip of her coconut water, like she has to think about how to answer my question. “It’s strange, you know. I do miss her. A lot. But I can only remember little moments of her. Like short YouTube clips. I can still hear how she used to read Goodnight Moon to me when I was little. The way she’d read it so slowly and reverentially. I mean, it’s a pretty dull book, but she used to make it sound so magical. And then there was this one Thanksgiving where she was lifting the turkey from the pan and it exploded all over the place. She just started laughing hysterically. Like it was the funniest thing ever. I have no idea why those are the things that stuck. But I play them over in my mind sometimes late at night when the missing really hits hard.”

“Yeah.” I say. “That’s exactly how it is with my grandparents. They died a few years ago. I used to love going over to their house on holidays and stuff. And it’s, like, now all I have are a few collected memories — washing the dishes together, playing gin rummy with my grandpa — that I take out and look at once in a while. Almost like Pokémon cards in a shoe box.” D’oh! Coop would make me turn in my testicles for saying that.

But Nessa doesn’t seem weirded out. “Yeah, it’s sort of sad, really,” Nessa says. “Unless you’re famous or something, most of us are just a couple of generations from being totally forgotten about.”

“Wow. That’s pretty depressing.”

“Or inspiring.” Nessa takes another sip of her drink. “Depending on how you look at it.” She lifts her chin toward the weather-stained headstone with the angel baby on top. “Take Maggie Stillman, for example.”

I read the words on the gravestone.


MAGGIE STILLMAN



AUGUST 16, 1901 – OCTOBER 24, 1909



BELOVED DAUGHTER




“God, she died so young,” I say.

“I know, right? She had her whole life ahead of her and so many things she didn’t get to experience. But we’re going to die someday too. And there’s nothing we can do about that. But knowing that, I don’t know. It’s, like, freeing or something.”