We fall onto my bed and hold each other so tightly that our hands can’t really move to explore body parts or anything. Besides, this isn’t about moving through the bases. This is so much more than that.
Clothes are somehow undone, and we’re so close to…
Matt abruptly pushes back and stands. His jeans are unbuttoned and his T-shirt is rumpled and stretched out. His hair is wild, covering his left eye completely. I can only see the tears welling up in his right.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he says with a voice so pained it burns me. “I don’t know whether to hold you or hate you.”
I’m stunned into silence. Matt turns toward the door. “I have to go.”
And he leaves like that, disheveled, but I don’t say anything. He might run into Mason on the way out—who knows when he’ll be back—or scare mothers pushing babies on the street. But I don’t care what Matt looks like right now, and I know he doesn’t, either. Because when someone dies—dies for real—things like how you look don’t matter anymore.
In fact, what no one ever told me is that nothing does.
thirty-one
I stare at the ceiling of my bedroom, thinking or not thinking, floating or just lying there. I might have been at Matt’s three days or three hours ago: Time passes in odd increments. The lamp on my nightstand buzzes so loudly I want to smash it but I’m numb all over. My arms are glued to the bed. I look at my phone and register the time; the instant I look away, it’s gone from my memory.
Mason’s back.
Cassie’s back.
Someone brings me food that I don’t eat. Instead, I examine it like a fossil, drawing conclusions from the plate’s contents. The dish contains breakfast: It must be morning. There are blueberry pancakes: Mason’s concerned. There’s a vitamin on the tray: He’s really concerned.
The second I start to feel amused by my archaeological approach, I remember that Audrey is dead. I’m sitting here counting the number of grapes on my plate like tree rings and Audrey will never eat breakfast again.
Suddenly blueberry pancakes are an insult.
I shove the tray to the end of my bed. I roll onto my side and clutch my torso and curl into the fetal position because it’s too much. She’s not going to pick me up for school. I’m not going to meet her for lunch. She’s not going to tease me about liking her brother or about my taste in music, or lend me clothes or talk about Bear or Jake or anyone else.
She’s dead.
My phone rings; it’s Megan’s tone. I don’t answer it. I don’t even look at it. Anger rolls through me: I shouldn’t have been in Seattle when Audrey was dying. I should have known something was up. I should have stayed.
My chest caves in; my heart is crushed. I try to psychically ask Matt to come over and lie next to me. But not to kiss me or anything. Just to lie here. I imagine him staring into my eyes like in Kansas City, but all I can see are his tears for his dead sister.
I cover my head with my pillow, but the thoughts are still there.
I wonder if they’ll ever go away.
I stay in bed until nighttime, then wander the house in the dark. For hours, I stare out the living room window at the desolate street, hoping to see Audrey’s ghost there, waving at me. I retreat into my sour, stale room before anyone wakes up in the morning. I listen to showers running. To breakfast being made. My phone buzzes so many times that I turn it off. Mason brings more food; the hunger strike continues.
“You need to get up,” Mason says. He walks across the room and throws open the curtains. He opens the window and the fresh outside air stings my nostrils.
“No,” I mutter.
“You’ll feel better after a shower,” he says.
I laugh bitterly. As if a shower could wash away the pain of losing Audrey. “Not likely.”
“Your choice,” Mason says, moving to the door again. “We’re leaving for her funeral in an hour.”
Of course, I get up.
I stand on shaky legs like a newborn fawn and hobble across the room. I can feel the lack of fuel in my body, but the thought of food makes me want to hurl. I grab clean underwear from the dresser then check my phone, which is charging on the desk. There are several missed calls from Megan; there’s a text waiting from Matt:
Matt: I’m sorry.
Just two words, and yet, they are monumental.
They give me enough kick to move.
I shower and dry my hair, then pin back my curls in the front. I stare at my blue eyes in the mirror for a long time, searching for recognition. My face doesn’t look the same anymore.
I go back into my room and pull on a black skirt of Audrey’s.
It might seem weird to wear a dead girl’s clothes to her funeral, but to me, it feels okay. She was free with her stuff, and half the clothes in my closet are probably hers. And besides that, there’s the note.
Mr. McKean brought it over the night she died. It seemed an odd delivery at the time—why not stay with your family?—but then I realized he probably needed to keep busy so he wouldn’t be forced to sit and think about Audrey. He’s like one of those sharks that will die if they stop moving. So he brought over the note.
I pick it up off the nightstand and run my fingers over Audrey’s straight-up-and-down cursive. It looks so much like her to me. I reread the first half of the letter.
Daisy—
Promise you’ll do two things for me.
The first is easy: Take my clothes. ALL OF THEM. Even if you throw them away, get them out of our house (but I have pretty good taste—haha!—so you should just keep them).
You’ve seen those people who can’t let go. They sob over old T-shirts that aren’t worth anything. My mom is a pack rat; she’ll obsess. My ugliest pajamas will break her heart. Take them, Daisy. Do it for me (and for your wardrobe 
).
There is a knock at the bedroom door.
“Almost ready?” Cassie says quietly. Her tone is less robotic, more like how she acts when we’re in public.
“Yes,” I answer. I fold the letter and put it in my pocket, slip on some flats, and open the door.
“You look nice,” Cassie says.
I don’t care.
For a girl who, according to her brother, didn’t have many friends, Audrey’s funeral service is packed. I can’t help but wonder whether school let out early for attending kids. Then I imagine Audrey’s ghost reading my mind and immediately feel like crap for thinking that.
I inhale a breath of musty old church air. It’s a good turnout, I mentally say to Audrey, as if she can hear me. Everyone loved you.
I’ve never been to a funeral, so I have no basis for saying that this one seems typical. I don’t cry, because when dozens of Audrey’s classmates stand and talk about her, they cry enough for all of us. They sob. They weep. Dramatically, they proclaim to the sky that they will miss their best friend. Meanwhile, I think back to Audrey’s room. I think of the faces in the pictures on her desk. I recognize very few faces here.
Again I feel awful for thinking such thoughts.
After the service, we caravan to a nearby cemetery. The day is bright, like Audrey’s personality. The vibrant orange and red fall trees and the towering monuments look earthy and polished at the same time, just like my friend was. Everyone gathers around her grave; I try to listen and feel something without passing out from the lack of food. It’s only a warm day, not too hot, but I’m sweating just the same, wishing that Audrey were here to make a joke about me forgetting to wear deodorant.
The crowd disperses following the burial, and very quickly the only people left are the preacher, the McKeans, and us. Matt stands apart from his parents, staring at his sister’s grave. Mason and Cassie wait for Mr. and Mrs. McKean to thank the preacher, and then they offer their condolences. I watch Mason put his hand on Cassie’s back like a loving husband and want to scream for him to stop pretending. Because this is real.