anything happen to her.” A tear trickled down my cheek. I
wiped it away. “I promised I'd make it up to her. And now I never can.”
“She died of alcohol poisoning! Do you understand
that?” He swerved into another lane, and a loud truck honked at us from behind.
Lukas merged back into the slow lane, and steadied the vehicle.
“Watch the road,” I said. “Can you please not kill us
on the way to a funeral?”
Lukas ignored my question. “Here's the thing,” he
continued, “she died, because she drank too much alcohol, because she was so
dumb to think that getting drunk somehow equated to being accepted.”
“Shut up,” I said. “You weren’t there. Maybe her
so-called friends made her drink more than she wanted, you don't know. You have
no idea what was going through her mind.”
“I don’t claim to. What I’m saying is, from the first
day you’ve known her, you’ve told her all about the dangers of alcohol, what it
can do if you abuse it. I mean, that's your thing! She knew about what happened
to you in high school, how you almost died. And she still did this to herself. She’s the idiot, Sydney. Not you.”
I shook my head. “Don’t call her an idiot.”
“Why not?”
“Because she's fucking dead, that's why!” I slammed my
head back. “I’m sorry. You know I'm not yelling at you. I’m yelling at the
situation.”
“It's fine,” he said.
“I don’t know how I could have survived these last couple
weeks without you, Lukas. You know that, right?”
He tapped his hand against my leg, and attempted a
lame smile. “I’m sorry all this had to happen.”
“I am, too,” I said. “We were so close to having the
best summer of our lives.”
Lukas shrugged. “Who says we still can’t?”
I rested my chin against my palm and stared at him. He
was so collected, so confident. I wished I had what he had.
We descended into the San Fernando Valley, headed east
on the 118 freeway, and made a left onto Topanga Canyon Boulevard. The farthest
I’d ever traveled outside of campus was Santa Monica, so this outer part of Los
Angeles was foreign territory to me.
It was a little generic, with all the fast food
restaurants and hotel chains, but I didn’t see a pornography studio anywhere in
sight, and the closer we got to the cemetery, the more the trees on both sides
of the road seemed to flourish. After so much time spent on the depressing L.A.
freeways, we were back in the green again.
“It should be up here on the right,” I said, pointing
to nowhere in particular. When I saw the family of six crossing the street
dressed all in black, I knew we were in the right place.
“I’m gonna go over here,” Lukas said, and he parked
the car in the dirt across from the cemetery.
He turned off the ignition, and we just sat there for
a moment. Neither of us budged.
“You gonna be all right?” he finally asked.
I massaged my eyelids, and said, “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be fine.”
“Okay.” He stepped out of the car and opened the door
for me, again. He didn’t need to, but that was Lukas.
I wedged my purse under the back seat, and stepped out
into the blinding sunlight. We had to walk up a long, winding road to get to
the church on the top of the hill. From far away it looked tiny, like a little
shack, but as we got closer it grew to the size of a cathedral. I’d only been
to one funeral in my life—for my paternal grandfather, who passed away
when I was twelve—and all I remembered was a lot of awkward crying. I
also remembered a room that sat about twenty people, but, judging from the
building before me, it looked like at least a hundred were coming to pay their
respects to Melanie Swanson.
We reached the front steps of the church. Melanie’s
mother Mary was at the top, a veil over her face, greeting guests and dabbing
at her eyes with a handkerchief, and Melanie's dad Bill stood to the right of
her, shaking hands and doing his best not to cry.
Someone else was there, too, standing
wiped it away. “I promised I'd make it up to her. And now I never can.”
“She died of alcohol poisoning! Do you understand
that?” He swerved into another lane, and a loud truck honked at us from behind.
Lukas merged back into the slow lane, and steadied the vehicle.
“Watch the road,” I said. “Can you please not kill us
on the way to a funeral?”
Lukas ignored my question. “Here's the thing,” he
continued, “she died, because she drank too much alcohol, because she was so
dumb to think that getting drunk somehow equated to being accepted.”
“Shut up,” I said. “You weren’t there. Maybe her
so-called friends made her drink more than she wanted, you don't know. You have
no idea what was going through her mind.”
“I don’t claim to. What I’m saying is, from the first
day you’ve known her, you’ve told her all about the dangers of alcohol, what it
can do if you abuse it. I mean, that's your thing! She knew about what happened
to you in high school, how you almost died. And she still did this to herself. She’s the idiot, Sydney. Not you.”
I shook my head. “Don’t call her an idiot.”
“Why not?”
“Because she's fucking dead, that's why!” I slammed my
head back. “I’m sorry. You know I'm not yelling at you. I’m yelling at the
situation.”
“It's fine,” he said.
“I don’t know how I could have survived these last couple
weeks without you, Lukas. You know that, right?”
He tapped his hand against my leg, and attempted a
lame smile. “I’m sorry all this had to happen.”
“I am, too,” I said. “We were so close to having the
best summer of our lives.”
Lukas shrugged. “Who says we still can’t?”
I rested my chin against my palm and stared at him. He
was so collected, so confident. I wished I had what he had.
We descended into the San Fernando Valley, headed east
on the 118 freeway, and made a left onto Topanga Canyon Boulevard. The farthest
I’d ever traveled outside of campus was Santa Monica, so this outer part of Los
Angeles was foreign territory to me.
It was a little generic, with all the fast food
restaurants and hotel chains, but I didn’t see a pornography studio anywhere in
sight, and the closer we got to the cemetery, the more the trees on both sides
of the road seemed to flourish. After so much time spent on the depressing L.A.
freeways, we were back in the green again.
“It should be up here on the right,” I said, pointing
to nowhere in particular. When I saw the family of six crossing the street
dressed all in black, I knew we were in the right place.
“I’m gonna go over here,” Lukas said, and he parked
the car in the dirt across from the cemetery.
He turned off the ignition, and we just sat there for
a moment. Neither of us budged.
“You gonna be all right?” he finally asked.
I massaged my eyelids, and said, “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be fine.”
“Okay.” He stepped out of the car and opened the door
for me, again. He didn’t need to, but that was Lukas.
I wedged my purse under the back seat, and stepped out
into the blinding sunlight. We had to walk up a long, winding road to get to
the church on the top of the hill. From far away it looked tiny, like a little
shack, but as we got closer it grew to the size of a cathedral. I’d only been
to one funeral in my life—for my paternal grandfather, who passed away
when I was twelve—and all I remembered was a lot of awkward crying. I
also remembered a room that sat about twenty people, but, judging from the
building before me, it looked like at least a hundred were coming to pay their
respects to Melanie Swanson.
We reached the front steps of the church. Melanie’s
mother Mary was at the top, a veil over her face, greeting guests and dabbing
at her eyes with a handkerchief, and Melanie's dad Bill stood to the right of
her, shaking hands and doing his best not to cry.
Someone else was there, too, standing
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