I’m not going because Mom told me to or because Craig thinks someone should. I know what it’s like to face the silence alone.
Bodee’s in the back garden. I’m out of breath when I reach him, which is fine because this is awkward already. All this empathy, or whatever it is, will be gone by the 7:55 bell Monday morning. The school hallway is a war of differences, and Bodee and I have plenty. Accepted; rejected. Shops at the mall; doesn’t shop at all. Quiet except with friends; quiet everywhere. But today we have something in common besides last names that start with L.
We’ve both lost something we’re never going to get back.
The little concrete bench wobbles as I add my weight to his. He only glances at me long enough to register who I am. There’s no surprise on his face that I have followed him to this outdoor hiding place, nor does he send me an I want to be alone look.
Time would speed up if I spoke, but I don’t care if time is slow. I do wonder what Liz and Heather think about my scramble from the pew, and if everyone in there believes I’ll reemerge with a repaired, talking Bodee.
But I don’t tell him to go back inside or that everything will be fine. I just sit beside him and let the inch between my thigh and his remain. He cracks his knuckles compulsively, and I stare at a break in the concrete where a little green weed lives.
When the funeral director finds us, I finally speak. “See you Monday?”
“Yeah.”
And that’s it. I leave Bodee on the bench. The space between us is elastic now, stretching from an inch into yards.
When I reach my mom, she kisses my forehead. “Lex, I love you,” she says.
“I love you, too.” And as I say it, I think, No one will say that to Bodee anymore.