The Lies About Truth (19 page)

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COURTNEY C. STEVENS’S

Faking Normal
,
OUT NOW.

BLACK
funeral dress. Black heels. Black headband in my hair. Death has a style all its own. I’m glad I don’t have to wear it very often.

My dress, which I found after rummaging in the back of my closet, still smells vaguely of summer and chlorine. The smell is probably just a memory.

“Alexi, slide in closer so Craig can sit with Kayla.” My mother’s voice pulls me from my misery and back to the funeral.

Mom makes room for me to shift down the pew toward her, and I slide obediently into the crook of her arm as Kayla’s boyfriend joins our family. Even though I don’t tell Mom, it feels good when her arm loops over my shoulder, and her hand gives me a little squeeze-pat that means she loves me. If we
weren’t at a funeral, I’d probably shrug her off. But that would be sort of selfish, since Mrs. Lennox was in Mom’s prayer group all that time.

“How’s Bodee doing?” Mom asks.

“I don’t really know him,” I answer.

“You’ve been in school together for eleven years.”

I shrug. “He’s the Kool-Aid Kid.” Why do adults always think kids should be friends just because their mothers are? Sharing homeroom and next-door lockers doesn’t mean you know a person beyond his label. Across the church aisle from me is Rachel Tate, the girl whose mom did Principal James on Bus 32. I’m Kayla Littrell’s carbon-copy little sister. Before this week, Bodee was the Kool-Aid Kid. Now, he’ll be the kid whose dad murdered his mom. That label will pass from ear to ear whenever Bodee walks down the hall. But now it’s a pity-whisper instead of a spite-whisper.

“It would be nice if you reached out to him.” I can tell Mom wants to say more, but the music changes and she faces the front.

There are no words to the music, and that makes me sad. Every song deserves lyrics. Deserves a story to tell. Mrs. Lennox’s story is over, so maybe she doesn’t need words, but Bodee might. Reaching out to him is one of those Christian things my mom talks about, but you can’t share a closet and a stack of old football cards with someone you hardly know. So I say a prayer and hope he’ll find a place of his own to hide.

But this’ll probably always be what he goes back to. Mom. No Mom.

That’s a forever change. I never understood life could be so dramatically sectioned, but it can. And is. There is only after. And before.

My moment was by the pool; Bodee’s is by the casket. Or wherever he was when he found out about his mom.

Kayla leans away from Craig and asks, “Alexi, is he in your grade?”

I nod and wish Kayla would lower her voice.

“Lord, he’s homely,” she adds.

“His mom’s dead,” I say. I inch even closer to Mom, which isn’t exactly possible. Kayla’s wrong, anyway. He’s not homely; he’s unkempt, and there’s a difference.

I’d rather sit with Liz and Heather, but all the parents have their kids clumped around them like they’re trying to share one umbrella in a rainstorm. I love my family, but it seems that I’m always with people I don’t know how to talk to when I feel the saddest. With Kayla, and Craig, her appendage. Or Dad, and Mom the teacher.

“Who does he run around with?” Kayla persists.

“No one.”

Mom gives Kayla the eye, and we both stare at our programs.

I repeat Psalm 23 with the rest of the crowd and wonder if God ever considered writing the psalm in the past tense,
since so many ministers read it during funerals. “Yea, though I walked through the valley of the shadow of death” is more accurate for Mrs. Lennox.

“And now,” the pastor says, “we’re going to hear from Jean’s two sons, Ben and Bodee.”

Ben strides forward, never looking up. He removes a piece of paper from his pocket. The room is quiet, and I can hear the page crinkle as he flattens it against the podium. He twists his sealed lips this way and that, and then opens his mouth and sings—half reading, half crying—part of a hymn. The song is beautiful, and I wonder if music is the real language of grief.

“Mom always sang that when she worked in the kitchen.” Ben stares at the ceiling as he says, “I don’t know how to make it without you, Mom.”

His pain and fear pass through the air like electricity. I don’t know how they’re going to make it either.

“Thank you, Ben,” the pastor says. “Bodee, come on up here, son.”

All eyes look to the left, where Bodee rises from his seat in the family section.

Bodee’s hair is blond today. I’d thought his Kool-Aid–colored locks were intended to disguise his misfit jeans and generic white T-shirts. Make him look artistic instead of just poor, but now I’m not so sure.

Mom moves her arm from my shoulder to crumple a tissue in her hand and dab at her tears. “Oh, this is just awful.”

I can’t take my eyes off Bodee. His shoulders bend like
the wire hanger in my closet that sags under the weight of my winter coat. I want to put my hand in the center of his back, force him upright. His sluggish shuffle is as sad as his shoulders.

“I think he’s wearing Craig’s old khakis,” Kayla says. “See the faded ring on the back pocket?”

“Half the guys at Rickman chew,” I say. But Kayla’s right about Craig’s khakis; I’ve seen those same threads spoon and fork and maybe even tongue around Kayla on our couch.

“Well, they’re somebody’s khakis.” There’s sympathy in her voice. “Maybe
you
should take him shopping.”

Even though it’s the kindest thing Kayla’s said, I whisper, “Why don’t
you
take him shopping?”

“Maybe I will.”

Craig rolls his eyes at me, because he knows as well as I do that the last thing Bodee needs is to become one of Kayla’s pet projects.

Now Bodee’s at the podium, and Mom’s not the only one who needs a tissue. While the room sucks and snorts and wipes, he grips the knot on his tie like it’s a lap bar on a roller coaster.

He doesn’t look at any of us. The microphone broadcasts his short breaths into the room.

Come on, Bodee. Say something.

But he just breathes and tugs at the tie again with one hand and wedges the other into the pocket of Craig’s old pair of pants. I pull at the folds of my dress. Kayla does the same.
Mom squeezes Dad’s hand. The rest of the room shifts in their discomfort for Bodee.

“That poor, poor boy,” Mom whispers.

Lyrics drift into my head as I watch Bodee drown.

Alone.

Before this crowd.

Alone, in this terrible dream.

Who am I in this visible silence?

Can they hear me scream?

I wonder if Bodee knows that song. Doubtful. I toy with the idea of writing the lyrics on the back of the program. I could drop it in his locker on Monday. But he might take that the wrong way.

My mysterious desk guy wouldn’t take it the wrong way, though. He penciled those same lyrics on my desk the first week of school. August 8. Nineteen days after my life changed.

I don’t think random lyrics are going to help Bodee.

He’s not going to talk.

It’s like there’s a muzzle over his mouth. A word-thief at work.

Bodee bolts from the podium and out the side door.

“Go,” Mom says.

For once our instincts are the same. My knee collides with the hymnal holder on the pew in front of us. The crack announces my movement to the room and effectively ends the
silence that Bodee started. Craig steadies me as I climb over him and Kayla.

“Good idea,” Craig says as I exit.

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.

Photo by Jen Creed, 2013

COURTNEY C. STEVENS
grew up in Kentucky and lives in Nashville, Tennessee. She is an adjunct professor and a former youth minister. Her other skills include playing hide-and-seek, climbing trees, and being an Olympic torch bearer. She is also the author of
Faking Normal
, which
Kirkus Reviews
called “a story that resonates” and
Publishers Weekly
called a “rich debut,” as well as the e-novella
The Blue-Haired Boy
. You can visit her online at
www.quartland.blogspot.com
.

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