After a death there are things like strange spontaneous gatherings and student-led prayers in the courtyard during lunch. There are moments of silence during morning announcements. There are girls who give out ribbons with Andy’s name on them to everyone. And all these things make you want to hate everyone at your school more than you already do.
After these things, there’s a wake. And almost everyone goes because you hear about it. It becomes the topic of lunchroom discussions until the funeral. And that’s the big finale. That’s what everyone is waiting for.
Andy’s funeral is on a Wednesday. Instead I go to school and sit in my empty classes. I stare out the windows. It’s the sunniest fucking day of the year, and I can barely see because of the brightness. At first I don’t think much of it. But then it bothers me more as the day goes on, with its obnoxious brilliance and radiant disposition. There should be rolling gray clouds. There should be rain.
The substitute filling in for my economics teacher comes by my desk and gently whispers, “There are grief counselors on campus if you feel you need to talk to someone.” I look over at a girl in the room who is actually using the free period to color. I can’t take it anymore and grab my stuff and leave.
I had made this big thing about not going to Andy’s funeral. It was a matter of principle, I thought. So I’m a little disgusted with myself when I park in my driveway, get out of the car, and walk to the cemetery. I don’t want to be a hypocrite. I don’t want to be the person who barely knew him but came to watch to either be a part of the crowd or fulfill some morbid curiosity.
But here I am, at Em’s grave, waiting for Andy. Waiting for them all to file in after him.
“Andy Cooper is dead,” I tell her. And then I repeat it because it sounds so strange. Andy Cooper is dead. The cars come in through the gates, the same gates we climbed four nights ago. And I think of how he knew. How even as we climbed those gates, he knew he might be among these graves in just a few days. I wonder what kind of person can do that. I wonder who the hell Andy really was.
They wind around the cemetery, around the paved trails. It’s the longest trail of cars I’ve ever seen. It looks like a sick game of follow the leader. And then they get out, appropriately solemn. The guys wear sunglasses. The girls walk together and cry or talk in whispers.
And then there’s Zeena, standing at the gates by herself. She stares at the crowd. And then, as if she can’t look at them anymore, she looks around at the trees in the cemetery. For a moment I think she sees me, but her gaze goes right past me. Just when I think she’s going to walk in, she turns around and leaves. She can’t handle the show either, and I admire her ability to go. Me, I have to sit here and watch it all.
“Is he with you?” I ask Em. Maybe now that he’s dead, you’ll know him better than all of us. Maybe now you know his secrets. And maybe, Em, maybe you’ll tell me.
But she doesn’t.
“What do you think they’ll do next, Em? Plant trees at school?” And I somewhat laugh at that.
I watch everyone and can’t help wondering that if I were to die tomorrow, would these same people show up to my funeral? I recognize their faces, I know their names, but I don’t really know them and they don’t really know me and I know they don’t really know Andy. I wonder if there’s a way I can leave Mom and Dad instructions for my funeral without totally freaking them out. Because I don’t want these people at my funeral. I don’t want them to make me into this idea of who they think I am, an illusion of being someone better than I really am. Because I’m not. And Andy wasn’t either.
I know right now, they all love Andy. They are all recalling how awesome he was because of that one time he said hi to them. They’ll tell his mom he was a great guy. They’ll tell stories of the time Andy Cooper lent them lunch money. And they’ll all think he’s fantastic.
I want to tell them all to go home and forget about Andy Cooper. Pretend he never existed. And I want to tell them all that Andy Cooper sucked.
“That’s wrong, isn’t it, Em? You must think I’m screwed up to want to do that.” I hug my knees to my chest so I don’t do anything crazy.
I think that’s his mom there, in the front row. She looks sedated. Maybe you become cold and still, like a statue, and never feel again after your son dies. I think she wishes everyone would leave. And I think maybe she hates all those people from our school because we’re alive and Andy isn’t. Maybe she’s looking at them and secretly thinks, Why couldn’t it be you, or you?
Did she see Andy’s tattoo?
Any minute now she’ll stand up and demand to know who the hell is Frenchie. Maybe she’ll scream, “My son had ‘Frenchie’ tattooed on his shoulder. I want to know which one of you fuckers is Frenchie!” And then everyone will know how I just let Andy Cooper go home and kill himself.
Andy’s mom will scream my name until they all look over here and point. “There she is,” they’ll say. “There’s the girl who let him die.”
But Andy’s mom doesn’t scream. And nobody points. Because they’re all watching as he’s lowered into the ground.
I should tell them it’s all a mistake. Because if I don’t, Andy Cooper is going to be stuck down there, trying to claw his way out.
But I can’t get up. I won’t. I just watch as they throw roses on his casket.
People start to walk away and they leave him there. In a few months, most of them will forget Andy.
And now the cars are leaving, a motley group of ants, filing out one by one by one.
I watch as a man, who must be Andy’s dad, tries to get Andy’s mom to leave. But she won’t. And now, he’s talking to other people who go to her as well. But still, she won’t get up from the chair she’s in.
He goes back to her. He leans down, whispers something in her ear, and then kisses her cheek and leaves.
She’s the only one left.
Andy’s mom stays there the rest of the day and into the evening. There are these guys in a white van parked near the grave. It’s their job to fill the hole, to take down the tent, to collect the chairs. But they don’t make her leave. They sit there for a while, leave, and then come back hours later and sit and wait some more.
They must know she’s outwaiting the sun. We watch her, unmoving as the sun sinks down below the horizon. And then we watch as Andy’s father comes back. We watch as she finally allows herself to be led away. We hear her cries; cries that instead of fading the farther she gets from Andy’s grave, grow louder, until they abruptly stop and I realize she must be in the car. The only sound that’s left is the steady sound of cars speeding on the expressway just outside the cemetery. And moments later, I’m almost certain I can hear the Coopers’ car on that expressway, passing by, and Andy’s mother still calling his name over and over from behind the passenger window.
And I realize that grief can’t turn you into a cold piece of stone. But it can crumble you as if you had been.
The guys fill the hole, break down the tent, and collect the chairs.
I sit here a little longer. Even though I want to forget all about Andy Cooper. Even though I wish I were far away from here.