Julie Halpern - The F- It List

That’s what I kept telling myself.

I worked Tuesday after school and pretended it didn’t bother me that Leo hadn’t visited. Wednesday was Leo’s brother’s funeral. Mr. Esrum told me I could go, and as much as I didn’t want to, I knew I had to. I stopped by Mr. Esrum’s office before first period, and he gave me a pass to excuse me for the rest of the morning. My mom could’ve written a note or called in, if she knew what happened.

I didn’t tell her.

Leo was merely a blip of a boy who was a friend on her radar, and I feared adding death to the equation would set her off. One of my brothers’ friends’ uncles died recently, and my mom spent the night locked in her room.

Mr. Esrum suggested creepily that we carpool, but the idea of sitting in a car with a teacher had Lifetime movie written all over it. I thanked him but declined.

I hated my outfit. It was dressier than what I usually wore, involving a long, black skirt, black tights, and black Mary Janes. But the only clean shirt I had to wear was a beat-up black t-shirt. I never went anywhere that required dressing up, and the only dress I owned that was suitable for a funeral was the one I wore to my dad’s. There was no way in hell I was leaving the house in that.

I drove to the church Mr. Esrum so kindly Google-mapped for me. I had never actually been to a church. It wasn’t like my non-Jew friends were asking me to hang out in pews on Sunday mornings. Lining the church driveway were people, possibly veterans, holding American flags. In the distance, I caught sight of an American flag–covered coffin being removed from a hearse, military men and women in their dress uniforms saluting.

I parked on the street and watched from my car. I hadn’t expected so many people in uniform. I felt schlubby, inadequate, useless. When the family, black-suit-clad Leo included, followed the coffin into the church, I stayed in my car. When the rest of the funeral-goers were safely inside the building, I still didn’t budge. Who was I to listen to people talk about Jason? I didn’t know him, except for watching him pee. He literally said two words to me his whole life. I felt like an intruder, the little Jewish girl who busted the shit out of Jason’s brother’s heart, attempting some semblance of penance by barely playing dress-up and sitting in my car.

I thought about driving off. Going back to school, or somewhere else until my pass wore off. I tried to remember my dad’s funeral, not so long ago but a painful blur of torment. Did I even notice who was there? Did I once look at the guest book to see who cared and who didn’t?

Yes I did.

And the one glaring omission was Davis, my supposed-to-be boyfriend.

I wasn’t supposed to be Leo’s anything. But I didn’t want to be his glaring omission either.

I waited in my car, deciding I could follow the family to the burial site. Being there would be enough. It had to be enough.

After about a half hour, sweat gathering underneath my skirted knees, people began to file out through the church doors. Another group loaded the flag-adorned coffin back into the hearse. Leo, head lowered, joined his parents in a black car. When other cars began to follow, I drove behind them.

We parked in an orderly fashion along the side of the cemetery road, uncomfortably narrow. People exited their cars onto the grass, high heels and polished shoes sinking into the dirt. I tried to blend, my height hiding me among the other mourners. There were more veterans with flags, more soldiers in dress uniforms, so young they barely looked older than me.

Leo and his family sat under a tent in front of the American coffin. They were tall, but I couldn’t see much more than the backs of heads. A small group of soldiers, two of which were girls, women, held guns and shot them into the air. I had never been that close to real guns. The explosion of sound, then ringing of silence, shook me twenty-one times. Then a lone soldier played taps on a trumpet. I wondered how he got the job, if he was a trumpet player before he went into the military or if they have music school there where the only song they learned was taps. Did they know Jason? Was this their job in the military? Go around to funerals and perform death rituals? It seemed harder than going to war itself.

Together a group of soldiers folded the flag from the coffin. I was terrified for them, that they’d mess it up, there were so many precise steps. I thought about them studying that, too, that being part of the military wasn’t just about going to war but dealing with what happens as a result. Was there any joy in it at all?

Would there ever be joy again?

I watched the back of Leo’s family’s heads. I remembered the feeling of being a family member sitting in the chairs, the special place that was the worst place to be. I wondered who watched me, wanted to see me cry. My mom had sat next to me, sobbing uncontrollably. It had been my job to hand her tissues. No one gave me the job, but I didn’t want my mom to gross people out with the pool of snot under her nose. That’s what I thought about: my mom’s snot. Anything to get through. And there I was at someone else’s funeral, hoping Leo didn’t need a tissue.

As my brain spun with funerals past and present, the end of the service caught me off guard. I awkwardly tried to hide myself behind the Dietz giants and military uniforms. I went to the funeral. Was it necessary for me to be one of the sorry people? I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t do anything.

As the rest of the mourners milled about, held flags, shook hands, I tried my best to subtly make my way to my car—my head down, not risking the opportunity for a forced, sympathetic look. Not that I wasn’t sympathetic, but a look wasn’t what Leo or his family needed. I breathed out with relief when I got to my car door undetected. I made the mistake of looking up toward the funeral, and in that quick second my eyes led directly to Leo, who was looking right at me. We were far enough away that I didn’t attempt mouthing anything to him, not that I had something to say. All I could offer was a slow nod of my head. Leo did the same. Then someone engulfed him, a blubbery hug, and I made my escape.

Maybe it was enough that I was there. Maybe he knew I cared even if I couldn’t talk to him. Maybe it didn’t matter at all.

I thought about skipping the rest of school that day, but I had a quiz in history that I didn’t want to have to make up. Annoyingly I reached the school building at the same time as Mr. Esrum. He gave me a conspiratorial face, as though we’d just shared something momentous. But we hadn’t shared it. Everyone was alone at a funeral. “Lovely service, wasn’t it?” he asked. Funeral small talk was so gross. I shrugged. “Hopefully Leo will be feeling more up to it second semester.”

“Up to what?” I asked.

“I’m sorry. I assumed he told you. Leo is taking the rest of the semester off to do homebound. It’s very common for kids to need time off when there’s a death in the family.”

I knew that all too well. Even though I didn’t.

“I’m sure you’ll see him, though.” Mr. Esrum was fucking clueless.

“I have to get to class,” I told him, and walked as fast as I could to the book closet. I fumbled with the key and swore repeatedly until I managed to unlock the door. Once inside, I was lost. This tiny space and I was lost. I knocked at a stack of Shakespeare, and it spilled to the ground. That wasn’t enough. I kicked another stack, and down it went. I slipped on books, which made me angrier, and I punched a shelf. Books rained down in every direction as I kicked, hit, shoved at any semblance of neatness and order. When nearly every book lay in a heap on the floor, I collapsed on top of them. Corners jabbed my ribs, my neck, my face, and I welcomed them. Then the tears came. I couldn’t stop them. I imagined I was Alice through the looking glass, filling the floor with my giant tears, the absorbent books sopping them up until the pages floated along like soggy crackers and I floated away with them.