August 23rd

Dear Kacey,

When you left, I stopped sleeping. That’s why it’s 2:19 AM and I’m writing in this STUPID JOURNAL!! Not because I want to (let’s be clear), only because I have nothing better to do.

I can’t sleep. Well, I sleep sometimes—mostly in the day when I’m watching TV. It’s just something about the night. I try falling asleep, but then I start thinking about you and I start to wonder where you are. Did you end up in heaven? You know how I feel about the whole church thing. I had to go, by the way, to your funeral. Well, they didn’t call it a “funeral”; it was a “Celebration of Life”—like somehow that makes it all better. It didn’t feel much like a celebration. It was awkward and weird. It felt like the whole school came out. Really, it was standing room only!!

Remember? We used to talk about stuff like that, wonder who would come to our funerals if we died. Well, I can tell you that everyone came out for yours—all our friends, other students, kids we don’t like, teachers from every grade, even our old French teacher Madam Girard, who we thought hated you, was there. I had to say hi and pretend to smile at so many people. My mom said it was the “right” thing to do. Everyone was talking about you. How they knew you. How they met you. When they met you. It all started to feel like one big game of who knew Kacey best. Like, who should be hurting the most or something.

I know it was your funeral but I hated it. Everywhere I went, someone was in my face. “Sara, I’m so sorry to hear about Kacey. How are you doing?”

“How the fuck do you think I’m doing?”—it’s not what I said, but it’s what I wanted to say. Although the f-word probably wouldn’t have gone over too well in church.

“It’s just sooooo sad … soooo sad … Soooo young”—that was said a lot.

Oh, and—“What a tragedy. Such a loss. Her poor family.”

But the number one saying at your funeral has to have been: “It’s just too bad. She’s going to be missed.” So there, people miss you already. I know I do. The whole time at the funeral, I kept thinking how I wish you were there so we could talk about it. But that would be weird, talking about your funeral at your funeral. Although, if you knew how many people were there or how many people were going to miss you, then maybe … maybe things would be different.

Maybe we should all have living funerals so people can know how much they are loved. Maybe then they will know they’re not alone.

Of course your family was there. Your mom was a mess and your dad stood at the back of the church the entire time. Owen sat next to me and didn’t say anything. I think he was in shock or something. And don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on him for you. Drea sat next to me, too. I think she liked that we got to sit at the front. She cried the entire time, and I’m not saying she wasn’t sad but, after the first fifteen minutes, it felt really phony—like, enough already, we get it, you’re sad. I’m just getting so annoyed with her.

You know what was really weird? Our entire Girl Guide group was there. My mom got mad because I kept looking back at them. She said that I needed to “pay attention,” like we were in school or something. When did we stop going to Guides? Like, what, almost five years ago? But they were all there, dressed in blue and grouped together at the back of the church. You know those pictures of police and fireman funerals when all the officers are lined up in uniform to pay tribute? It was like that, but with pigtails and hand-sewn patches. I was waiting for them to give you some kind of a cookie salute. My mom says they were there because, again, it was the “right” thing to do. I didn’t get it … once a Guide always a Guide, I guess.

The church minister / reverend / priest guy spoke about the tragedy of losing someone so young and all that kind of stuff. He never said anything about heaven, though. I bet you’re there, or somewhere nice. Sometimes I wonder if you’re still here, like, in my room, right now, watching me write this. Are you? It would be so you to do that.

Just don’t haunt me, okay?!!

Night.

Sticks