Ash isn’t religious.
He doesn’t know anyone who actually goes to church on the regular, but his friends all agree that the minister must be cool on account of his messages on the church sign. Last week he posted, “Forgive your enemies, it messes with their heads.” Today the signboard is blank and Ash stares at it as if it means something like death is a great void, a blank space, an unknown. He shakes his head, trying not to overthink. Out front, there’s already a line to get into the chapel and he queues up. He can’t help but hear the girls around him talking random shit, as if the funeral is some social event. They’ve been talking about it all week, in classes and online, asking who was going, what they’re wearing and what they’re going to do after the service. A bunch of Jay’s friends brought their boards with them and are going to the skate park after. By the looks of it, some of them are already stoned. Can’t really blame them.
Inside, the church smells like old people and damp coats. Sun streams through the narrow stained-glass windows, lighting up every other pew in a weird orange-soda glow. The chapel is standing room only; the wood-paneled walls are lined with randoms and faculty making a show of being there. Ash didn’t want to come, he wanted to remember Jay in his own way, but his parents, who are waving at him now from their seats, insisted they make an appearance “out of respect.” They’re always talking to him about doing the right thing; it’s exhausting and today he’s got give up written all over his face. Whenever the school called home about him skipping classes, or sent an email about his lack of attention and missed assignments, Pavan sat him down and told him that life was full of doing things you don’t want to do and that he needed to learn that it isn’t all about him.
Ash asked her once, “If my life isn’t about me, then who is it about?” Obviously that didn’t go over well and Peter looked up from whatever he was doing to double down and give some fatherly advice. Classic good cop, bad cop. “Just put your head down and do the work, buddy.”
And though Ash got what they were saying, he figures the reason teachers singled him out was partly their fault. They taught him to think, told him not to be a sheep, but then whenever things get real, they just want him to fall in line like the rest of the flock. He’s learned to nod a lot, to say “I’m sorry,” to tell them what they want to hear.
Ash sits down, avoiding eye contact with them and everyone else by focusing on his dress shoes — Anik’s shoes actually, a half size too big for him, but his mom insisted he take off his Jordans and put them on, even if it meant wearing an extra pair of socks. Now he wishes Anik had come with them, but as always he wasn’t up to it. His parents argued about that in their shortcut way, the way they do when it comes to their kids. They don’t really fight; they simmer, never quite boiling over. Sometimes, Ash watches as if he’s a spectator looking in on their house from above and sees the smallness of it. Table, chair, bed, walls, all props for their little charades. Everyone wants something. Everyone wants what’s best and no one knows what that is, just that it’s slightly out of reach, always. Try-hards. That’s what Jay used to call people who were always striving, the straight-A kids with their hands pointed high in the air, an answer at the ready. It’s not that he didn’t like them; it’s just that he liked people more when they didn’t try so hard. But everyone’s trying — trying to fit in, stand out, hide out, come out, blend in, so many ways to be and not be at the same time. Broken people always gravitated to Jay, because he didn’t see them as broken, and to them, he didn’t seem broken either — until now.
Ash looks up at the chapel ceiling — no vaulted arches, no Renaissance inspiration, no fancy stained-glass Jesus, not even a Last Judgment blue-sky fresco.
Jay’s video loops through Ash’s brain, and though he’s tried to stuff it away, it plays at random — unsteady shots of sky, Jay’s voice broken by that high-up wind, the inlet below, all of it boomeranging in his mind.
When he first watched the clip, he didn’t think Jay was going to jump. When Jay went live, he, like everyone, thought it was just another stunt. Last year on a dare, Jay climbed a crane on a construction site and the year before he joined a charity group rappelling down the side of a high-rise to raise money for firefighters — not because he cared much about raising money, but because he wanted to know what it felt like to free fall. Jay was always thrill-seeking. Lisa’s standard goodbye to him was “Jacob, be careful.” Even when they were kids, he was always doing dumb stuff. He once convinced Ash to follow him up the tallest oak tree in the park, showing him which branches to grab as they climbed higher and higher into the canopy. Unlike Jay, Ash couldn’t see the foot holds and fell, breaking his arm. He had to wear a cast for the rest of the summer, but not Jay — he had never broken a bone in his life.
It’s a closed casket. Some kid, whose uncle’s friend was a paramedic on the scene, told Ash that Jay’s head was smashed from the force of the fall, that he was identified through dental records and other markers, like the stick-and-poke whale tattoo on his arm. It’s the same tattoo that Winona has. People are talking about that too. That somehow this is her fault. Ash hasn’t seen her since that day at the skate park. She hasn’t been at school, but even if she had, he probably wouldn’t have talked to her. Something about her makes him feel weird and okay at the same time. Ash keeps staring at his shoes until the minister breaks through the organ music.
“We are gathered here together to say farewell to Jacob McAlister and commit him to the hands of God.”
Ash looks up at the minister. He expected a better intro from this hipster guy with the funny church sign but he’s coming off as normal — just a short dude with trim blond hair, a Disney jawline and perfect teeth. He’s smiling and talking with the full expanse of his arms about God’s plans without any funny reference to Drake. He’s such a disappointment and Ash isn’t really listening — not to his sermon, not to the terrible hymns that follow, and no, just no, to the slideshow soundtracked to Green Day’s classic “Time of Your Life.” Ash’s knee is bouncing up and down and he can’t seem to concentrate on anything but the shiny black casket, thinking how soon that box will be lowered into the ground.
The song lyrics punch in and he glances at his mother. She’s tearing up and taking in short breaths, wiping tears before they fall. Pavan pats his hand, in her it’s okay way, only it’s not and never is and it’s exhausting. She’s exhausting. He pulls his hand away and stares straight ahead. The only other funeral he’s ever been to was for his mom’s mom. It was weird to think of her as a grandmother because he’d never known her and seeing her dead in her casket, her face gray and waxy, was the worst way to meet her. The service was in Punjabi but he didn’t need to know the language to understand they weren’t welcome. Later that day Ash heard his dad telling his inconsolable mom that the funeral was the closure she needed to let go of her old life, and now as he sits here he wonders if that’s why they insisted he come. Closure. As if.
After the slideshow is over, he follows his parents into the long line of people waiting to pay their respects. Some nod at the casket as they walk by and others touch it, leaving sweaty palm prints on the black lacquer finish. Ash tries not to look at the palm prints but he can’t help it and discreetly wipes them as he walks by. He glances at the large easel-mounted portrait of Jay; he’s wearing a suit and tie, his hair is slicked back and he’s got a studious look about him. It’s the kind of picture a grandparent would frame. It looks nothing like him. As Ash walks past the portrait he gets the feeling that imposter Jay’s eyes are following him and it makes his insides melt.
“We are so sorry for your loss,” Peter says. Lisa’s sitting in the front pew, stoic, her thin frame all limbs and angles held tight. She has a hard-lived face, sunspots and bags under her eyes, loose skin, the kind of face you might see on the street, weathered and numb, the kind of face that hides all her goodness. Her boyfriend, Paul, is by her side, wearing blue jeans and a denim shirt with a red tie. His sleeves are rolled up, revealing his shitty skull-and-roses tattoo and his long thin hair is pulled back in a ponytail.
Ash steps ahead of his parents, heading for the exit while others stand around. Their small talk gathers and rises, amplifies in his ears and makes it hard for him to think of anything beyond “I need to get the fuck out of here.” He’s barreling toward the door when the minister steps in front of him and places a hand on his shoulder.
“Hold on there. Are you alright, son?”
He shrugs his hand off. “I’m not your son,” he says and pushes the wooden doors open. The air slaps his face and instantly he feels better and even a little sorry for being a dick to the minister. He checks his phone; it’s mostly funeral stories on Snapchat. He keeps his head in the screen as people file out into the parking lot, pretending not to see Britt as she walks over.
“Hey,” she says.
“Hey.”
“We’re going for sushi,” she says, pointing to their friends. “You want to come?”
He glances at them, huddled up and curled into their phones, thumb swipe after thumb swipe, taking in nothing. “Can’t,” he says, not bothering to make an excuse, not bothering to look at her for more than a second at a time.
“Oh. Are you mad at me or something?” She’s twirl-yanking a piece of long hair in that way she does when she’s feeling insecure, when she needs to be told she’s not fat, that she’s pretty, that she’s good and perfect just as she is.
Ash doesn’t give her what she needs and just says, “No.”
“Okay, then. Call me later?” She walks away, looking back every few steps. He watches as she rejoins her friend circle and how after a moment they crane their head his way. She probably told them that he was being a jerk and of course that was true, he didn’t know why he was, only that it felt good to care less.
His parents come out a few minutes later, suggesting they make their way to the cemetery for the burial.
“I don’t want to go,” he says.
His mom tilts her head, a sure sign that a speech is coming.
Peter rescues him. “It’s okay. We don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”
“But Peter.”
“It’s fine,” he says, cutting her off. “We paid our respects and that’s what we set out to do.”
They pile into the car.
“Can I get a slushy?” Ash asks, remembering that as kids, he and Jay used to get them every Friday after school.
“What? No. It’s hardly the time,” Pavan says. “We’ve just been at a funeral.”
“I didn’t know that funerals and slushies were mutually exclusive.”
“Don’t be like that.”
“Like what? Thirsty?” He snaps his seatbelt in place.
“Ash, please, not today.”
“What’s the big deal?”
Her jaw muscles clench momentarily, as if she’s biting down, swallowing something bitter, but she doesn’t say anything and he takes it as a win. Peter pulls into the gas station and tells him to go inside.
“I needed gas anyways,” he says before Pavan can object.
Ash is the only customer in the Mini Mart and it’s eerily quiet like that moment in a horror movie when something bad is about to happen. The cashier, a thin Indian guy with a turban, is watching the security camera monitors as if it’s a TV. He looks nervous and sweaty and Ash wonders if he’s sick or whether he just looks like every other freshie, kinda ripe and grimy. From the back of the store, Ash waves at him. He looks up from the monitor and gives a meek smile and part of Ash wants to go and chat with him for no reason, the way his dad does with people.
Every time Peter comes home from a business trip, he tells them about some cabbie he met who was an engineer or doctor in their home country but has been forced to drive a cab to make ends meet here. He says this as though he’s impressed with them. He shares their story — how many children they have and how many hours they drive a day. The last cabbie he told them about was studying for his citizenship test and told him all the Canadian factoids he was learning. “Don’t all Canadians know these things?” the cabbie asked, listing off prime ministers’ names and accomplishments. Peter admitted that they should but don’t. He said the cabbie nodded as if he understood. “It’s hard to know what you are when it’s all you have ever been. For me, I am Indian, but soon I will be Canadian, a proud one at that.” At this part of the story Peter slapped his thigh and said, “Can you believe that? This guy has given up so much of his life, he’s driving a cab so his kids can have more opportunities — and not a hint of bitterness.” Pavan said something about the grateful immigrant syndrome, but Peter just went on talking, saying that he told the cabbie that he was married to an Indian and then tried to speak a little Punjabi, a few words like Sat Sri Akal, paaji, which of course made the cabbie laugh. He told them all of this like it mattered, like they should care.
Pavan says, “Dad makes friends with everyone,” like it’s a bad thing, but now as Ash glances at the cashier and thinks of how tedious it must be to work inside a plexiglass box, he realizes why his dad does it.
“Excuse me,” he says, and grabs a big cup, “do you have a favorite flavor?”
The guy eyes Ash with suspicion. “No. They’re all good.”
Ash nods, disappointed that he doesn’t even have an accent. “Alrighty then,” he says and presses the button, pouring a layer each of Coke, cream soda and Orange Crush into the clear cup just like Jay would have. Ash snaps the lid on and goes to pay — he hands him the money and forgets the niceties. As he pockets the change, the door chimes open and Winona walks in wearing all black. To him, she almost looks normal, except for her bug-eyed sunglasses that are too big for her face. It’s not even that sunny outside.
“Hey, classic rainbow. Good choice. Jay’s fave.”
Ash takes a sip, trying to avoid the small talk.
“How was the funeral?”
“Good, I guess. I don’t know.”
“Which was it? Good or you don’t know? Can I have some?” She takes a long sip before he can answer. “I love that feeling.” She scrunches her face up for a full five seconds. “You know brain freeze is literal, right? Like your brain is actually cold because it’s right above the roof of your mouth.”
“Interesting.” Ash glances outside. “I gotta go.”
She grabs his arm. “You know how you can get rid of brain freeze? You just put your tongue to the roof of your mouth for a few seconds to warm it up. Like this,” she says, demonstrating, her words rolling up at the back of her mouth.
Ash heads out the door, turning back before it closes. “Hey, why didn’t you go the funeral?”
She doesn’t answer. She just stares at him, bug-eyed and swipes a stash of gummy bears into her pocket.
“Who were you talking to?” Pavan’s on her phone, scrolling and talking, doing the very thing she tells him not to.
Ash buckles up. “No one. Just some girl.”
“A friend of yours?” She has a way of continuing even the most mundane conversation as if she’s on a covert operation, investigating and researching.
“No. She was a friend of Jay’s.”
“Odd, I didn’t see her at the funeral.” She clicks the phone off.
Ash knows she’s waiting for him to respond. She always does this. She makes a statement and waits for a minute, thinking he’ll fill up the silence with some tidbit without her having to ask. It’s a benign parental thing she does but he doesn’t feel like dealing today. He takes a sip of slushy. “Want some?”
She takes a long sip and hands it back quickly.
“Brain freeze?” He can see her pucker face in the side mirror.
She nods, still pinch-faced.
Ash doesn’t tell her how to get rid of it.