Goodbye, Rebel Blue Hardcover (6 page)

“If you mean, did I get caught, yes, I did. Mrs. Pope from two doors down found me.”

I concentrate on the spinning pencil. “Did you get detention?”

“No. I told her I saw the open window and was worried about someone vandalizing or stealing school property, so I crawled in to investigate.”

“And she believed you?”

“Of course. It’s the truth.”

“And you
always
tell the truth?”

“Of course.”

I snort so hard, I almost fall off my lab stool.

Nate smooths the cuffs of his shirt even though there’s not a wrinkle in sight. “You don’t know me.”

The guy is making this way too easy. “True or false?” I ask. “When Mr. Phillips told you to help me, you didn’t want to.”

“What does that have to do with—”

“True or false?”

He lifts one shoulder in a dismissive shrug. “True. I don’t want to do any more work right now because my mind’s on other stuff, but I didn’t lie to Mr. Phillips. I just didn’t say anything.”

“Exactly. You didn’t state your truth.”

“So you’re saying people should
always
say whatever’s on their minds. It doesn’t matter if it won’t change things or could hurt someone.”

“People shouldn’t be afraid to be themselves, which, yes, means stating their truths.”

His lab stool stops squeaking as he leans toward me, every perfect hair staying in its perfect place. “So if you’re all about truth, shouldn’t you avoid things like breaking and entering, vandalizing, and stealing?”

I draw spiked hair on one of the ants. “That’s
your
truth.”

“Truth is truth, especially when we’re talking about clear school rules.”

“Whatev.”

Nate snatches the pencil. “You don’t want to argue because you know I’m right,” he says with a confidence that would annoy me if I let myself be annoyed by people like him.

I snatch back the pencil. “I broke into the detention room because I had to do something that was important to me. I honored my truth.”

He cocks his head. I draw another ant. Thanks to my blue streaks and the shark teeth, I’m used to people staring. The problem with Nate is, it’s as if he’s trying to stare past all that.

“So why the monkey suit?” I ask. “Trying to get a few extra votes for prom king?”

He glances at the clock. “Celebration of Life for Kennedy Green.”

She’s like a weed, popping up everywhere, and not just in my head. Yesterday during last period, the entire school had a moment of silence in her memory, and this morning someone lined the main breezeway with green balloons. “Celebration? Sounds like fun. Will there be an oompah band and bean dip?”

“Kennedy’s parents are having the funeral in Minnesota where all the family is, but they decided before they leave tomorrow to have a celebration for their neighbors, co-workers, and friends.” He digs into his pocket and takes out a small wooden turtle on a thong made of blue leather. No,
blue-green.
His finger slides along the turtle’s sloped shell, and the hard set of his jaw relaxes. “She made this.”

She. Kennedy. “You knew Kennedy well?”
Do you hear her voice? Have you formed an unhealthy
attachment to items once in her possession?

“I worked with her on quite a few service projects this year.” Nate holds out the turtle necklace.

“A few months ago Kennedy made one hundred of these and sold them to raise money for endangered sea turtles. In her excitement, she forgot to save one for herself. I told her I’d give her mine.” He winds the cord around a finger. “But I never did.” The cord wraps tighter about his knuckle, biting into flesh.

If I were the touchy-feely type, now would be the time to pat his arm. “Sucks to be you.”

He lets go of the turtle, and the leather thong loosens. “I plan to give it to her mom and dad at the Celebration of Life. They should have it. It was important to her.”

Like Kennedy’s bucket list, which smolders in my pocket. For the rest of the period, I ignore the burning sensation and, with Nate’s help, answer questions about ants.

Near the end of class, Nate stands and waves to Mr. Phillips. A dozen more students stand and gather their backpacks. I try to ignore the words forming in the back of my throat. But I can’t stop them any more than I can stop ocean waves from tumbling sea glass.

“Uh, Nate.” I speak too softly. He won’t hear.

“Yeah?”

“Where is it?” My voice is a whisper. He’ll walk out the door.

“Where’s what?”

“The celebration of Kennedy Green’s life.”

“WHAT ARE
YOU
DOING HERE?” COUSIN PENELOPE whisper-screams as I walk into the Hope Community Church behind Nate.

Whisper-screaming is a difficult task to master, one that requires great skill and the ability to balance rage and a polite smile that indicates
No, I’m not about to beat my dear cousin over the head
with a
Glory and Praise
songbook.
She clutches my arm, her talons digging into my skin.

“Let go, Pen,” I say in a nonwhisper. “Unless you want even more people gawking at us.”

Throngs of Kennedy Green’s friends, neighbors, and people she most likely annoyed on a regular basis all congregate in the church lobby.

Pen pulls me into a nook lined on three sides with stained glass and releases her death grip on my arm. “You can’t come in here looking like
that
.”

“I look fine.”

“Normal people don’t wear tank tops, cargo pants, flip-flops, and a ratty bag covered in shark teeth to a memorial service. You look like a thrift-store reject.”

When I dressed this morning, I had no intention of attending a Celebration of Life, but I need to get rid of Kennedy’s bucket list. The side of my palm brushes against my pocket where Kennedy’s final dreams and desires lie, all sure to spark joy and pride in any parental heart, because although she was annoying, Kennedy was a human being who cared about her family, her friends, and doing good.

“Kennedy wouldn’t care what I wore to her service.”

“How would you know?” Pen asks with a snap. “You didn’t even know her.”

In life, I knew Kennedy for two hours, but I read her bucket list. I held a piece of her heart. She told me her fears, and she got me to admit mine. I knot my fingers behind my back. “Kennedy wouldn’t care if a homeless person showed up in duct-taped shoes. She’d see the value of the person and the gift of that person’s presence.”

My cousin takes a step back as if I were doing a strange penguin mating dance.

No, I am not being my normal prickly self, because I cannot be that self when I can’t stop thinking about Kennedy’s list, which means I need to get rid of said list so the world can get back to normal. I’m starting to dislike me. Pen doesn’t argue, but she keeps a wary eye on me as the masses milling in the lobby, including many of her friends, file into the church.

“So how did you know Kennedy?” I ask. “She’s not a Cupcake, is she?”

“Kennedy is—was—on the track team.”

“I don’t remember hearing about her.”

Pen makes sure everyone knows about the accomplishments of the Del Rey School’s championship women’s track-and-field team, of which she is co-captain. “Kennedy didn’t win any races, but she was important to the team, attending every practice, willing to help set up at meets, and helping the trainer.” Sounds like Kennedy, a real team player.

Organ music swells inside the church. Nate, who’s been waiting in the lobby with other jockish types, pokes his head into the nook and taps his watch. “We should get inside.”

“Do not embarrass me.” Pen spins on her Celebration-of-Life-appropriate brown leather flats and walks into the church. Nate follows, and they join a group of students in the center pews.

I slip inside and duck into the back row. The place is wall-to-wall people. My feet sweat. I’d never been to a Celebration of Life. I remember parts of Mom’s service at Aunt Evelyn and Uncle Bob’s church. Flowers. Black suits. Tuna casseroles. Through the haze I remember tugging Aunt Evelyn’s hand and whispering, “Mom hates tuna.”

I also remember shoes with sparkly silver bows.

For my mom’s funeral service, Aunt Evelyn bought me a blue dress with silver ribbon trim and navy shoes with silver bows. “Sparkly bows make everything better,” Aunt Evelyn insisted. The glitter flaked off the bows and made my feet itch, and the pointy toes pinched. I took off the shoes just as an usher led us down the church aisle at the beginning of the service. Aunt Evelyn almost fainted.

No one faints at Kennedy Green’s Celebration of Life, which is a series of inspirational songs, prayers, and speeches from the VIPs in Kennedy’s life: favorite teachers, track coach, best friends, and fellow do-gooders. After the final song, I file in line behind Nate, who is behind Penelope, who hugs Mr. and Mrs. Green and goes on and on about how they were on the track team together and how much she admired Kennedy.

Sweat slicks my palms.
Hi, I’m Rebecca Blue, and I called your daughter a moron.

Nate’s next. I take notes. Firm handshake. Slight nod of head. Kind words. Calm voice.

Respectful tone. Reach into pocket. Take out turtle. Give to Mrs. Green. Group hug.

Piece of cake. If you’re Nate.

I wipe my palms on my pants. The person behind me nudges my back. I stumble forward. “Uh, hi.”

Mrs. Green takes my hand in hers. Mr. Green nods.

“I … I went to school with Kennedy.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Green says. “She had so many friends at school, at church, and at all of the places where she volunteered. She was such a good girl and a good friend.”

“She asked me out for chai tea.”

“Kennedy loved chai tea. With vanilla and extra spice.”

I nod, like one of those dolphins performing for a bucket of fish. Someone behind me clears his throat. “I have something of Kennedy’s, something important, something she’d want you to have.” I take out the list, wrinkled and dirty in the golden light streaming through the windows. I should have ironed it or steam-cleaned it or something. I pick off two bits of dried seaweed and flatten the paper against my thigh. Doesn’t help. I throw it at Mrs. Green.

She catches the paper and reads. Tears well in her eyes. “A good girl. My Kennedy was a good girl who wanted to spend her life doing good things.” Mrs. Green’s chin trembles. “But you know what? I want you to keep this. If Kennedy gave it to you, you’re someone dear to her.”

I wave it off, but Mrs. Green presses the list onto my palm. I push back. She presses harder.

A sob wracks her body, and she shakes.

I shake.

Mr. Green wraps his arm around Mrs. Green’s shoulders. “Maybe you should go,” he says, looking at me.

Go? I can’t move. The bucket list is a two-ton weight. Someone yanks my elbow. I’m led through stained light and hushed voices, past a collage of Kennedy with and without ponytails.

The list. I still have the list.

Once outside, Penelope releases my arm. “You made Mrs. Green cry!” She doesn’t bother with the whisper part of her whisper-scream out here. “What did you do?”

“I tried to do something good.” My voice is shaky. “I tried to give her something Kennedy wrote, something that was important to her, a list, her bucket list.”

Nate points at the paper clenched in my fist. “This is what you stole from the wastebasket when you broke into the detention room, isn’t it?”

I nod.

Penelope rubs the bridge of her nose. “You are so not related to me.”

Nate makes a
hmm
sound. “Sounds like the type of thing a parent might want to keep.”

I hold the list at arm’s length as if it were covered in cockroach entrails. “But she didn’t take it.”

I seize Nate’s arm. He’s Mr. Rock Solid. I’m a quivering mess, about to dissolve into a puddle. “Why didn’t Mrs. Green take it?”

Penelope raises both hands in the universal sign language for
du-uh.
“Probably because her daughter died and this is the worst week of her life.”