The Past and Other Things That Should Stay Buried(42)
See? There’s no scenario where I stay not-dead and things work out peachy. I had to try my stupid idea, even if it meant winding up stuck in this coffin with a dead phone, hoping Dino got my selfies and comes to dig my ass up so we can figure out how to end it for real. And, no, I don’t want to think about what happens if Dino didn’t get my messages or if he decides I’m too much of a hassle and that he’s better off leaving me in the ground.
Thank God I’m not claustrophobic.
DINO
I WONDER HOW JULY’S HOUSE felt to her when she broke in last night. And would it be considered breaking in since she lived here? These are the questions I think about as I stand in the corner avoiding the hundred different relatives of July’s who keep trying to force feed me ham salad and fried chicken and green bean casserole and some kind of jiggly Jell-O nonsense that I’m pretty certain has broccoli suspended in it.
I’ve met different members of July’s family before. Her cousins Joel and Lucia stayed with her for a few weeks the summer between seventh and eighth grades, her aunts on her father’s side visit for the holidays every couple of years. Her grandparents, of course. But I didn’t realize her family was so big. I met a guy who flew in from Alaska for this, which will make July happy.
Speaking of July, I haven’t heard from her since the messages at the cemetery. If I couldn’t pull them up and look at them, I might be tempted to believe they were the product of a delusion brought on by grief or guilt or lack of sleep. But every time I use the bathroom, I look at the photos for the hundredth time, and they’re definitely real.
So why hasn’t July answered? The simplest reason is that she’s dead. Aside from seeing her in the casket at the service, I don’t know what happened after I left her. Sending those selfies might have been the last thing she did before she closed her eyes and died for good. Of course, there are a million other possible reasons. July’s toying with me, she can’t get reception, she dropped the phone and it slid down near her feet and there isn’t enough room for her to reach it, her battery died, she’s turned into an actual brain-eating zombie and her ravenous hunger has stolen her ability to read.
Honestly, there’s only one way to know for certain, and I’m working hard to avoid thinking about it.
It’s weird to see July’s parents in the same house again, even though they’re hanging out in different spots. Mr. Cooper is in his favorite recliner in front of the TV with some of the older men. They’re talking a little too loudly, a little too animatedly. It’s like they’ve forgotten they’re at a funeral. It’s not abnormal though. I’ve seen it hundreds of times. Husbands enduring hours of condolences with smiles plastered on their faces, brothers and boyfriends and fathers cracking jokes while everyone else barely holds it together. Men who’ve been taught that emotions are a weakness, and they’re never to show weakness, so they bottle it up and camouflage it with laughter or anger or silence. Anything to avoid exposing that they care.
Mrs. Cooper’s with a rotating group of people in the dining room. She’s sitting with her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands, staring into space. Gone is the woman I saw last night. Gone is the woman offering hugs to family members at the church. Here, in her home, she doesn’t feel the need to pretend. Her oldest daughter is gone, ripped out of her life, and she’s struggling one second at a time to keep from screaming and screaming and screaming until she can’t scream anymore.
None of these people would know what to do if Mr. or Mrs. Cooper really let out their grief. Stare while pretending not to stare and then quietly go back to shoveling potato salad into their faces, probably.
I don’t notice Benji until he’s standing beside me at the sliding glass windows that overlook the pool. He’s got this weird evil-Muppet vibe that I thought was hot for, like, two seconds the first time I met him. Apparently he also thought I was cute when we met, but thankfully we were both too shy to say so. A relationship between us would have been an epic disaster.
“Hey, Dino. Doing okay?” Before I can answer, he rushes ahead in a torrent of words. “Stupid question. Why do people ask that? Of course you’re not okay. None of us are okay. Our friend died. How is any of this going to make it okay? Being around these people, wearing this stupid suit, sharing memories of July like this’ll fix anything. Mostly, I want to break stuff or set something on fire and watch it burn. Maybe the school. Torching the school might make me feel a little better. You tried the deviled eggs? You should try them.”
When Benji finally stops to take a breath, I say, “I’ve got some matches in the emergency kit in my car.”
He cocks his head like he’s actually thinking about it. Then he shrugs. “They’d only bus us to some shittier school.”
“Probably.” Part of the reason Benji and I would have been a disaster couple was July. We were both friends with her, and forcing her to chose between us when we inevitably split would have been inhumane. The other reason is that he’s got the personality of a bowl of warm grapes. “Ready for senior year?”
“Not really.”
“Oh.” I could try to slip away, but then I could wind up talking to some stranger who wants to know what I want to do with my life or where I’m planning to apply to college. The devil you know, you know? “So I hear you’re doing Hairspray over at Truman.”