The Secret Society of the Pink Crystal Ball (4 page)

I've never been to a memorial service before, but I can tell you with the utmost confidence that this memorial service is not normal. I mean, we are talking freak show here. We are talking Weirdness with a capital W.

First of all, my parents and I and about fifty other people are sitting in my aunt's living room. Which would be fine, except for the fact that all of the furniture has been removed and we're sitting on the floor. In a circle.
Holding hands
. And to make it even creepier, the lights have all been turned off, the curtains have all been drawn, and there are candles in all four corners of the room. In the middle of the circle sits the urn holding my aunt's ashes. All they need is dry ice and the sounds of chains clanking and people moaning and it would be an awesome setting for the B-movie version of a haunted house.

On one side of me is my mother, and on the other side of me is a man who is a dead ringer for Jerry Garcia. He's wearing a black leather motorcycle vest with a Hells Angels patch on it. And did I mention that we are holding hands? My father, who is on the other side of my mother, is holding hands with a woman dressed in a flowing, flowery sleeveless number. The woman has a giant graphic tattoo on her arm of a mother breast-feeding two babies at the same time.

Then there's the woman leading the service. She's wearing a long black robe, her eyes are abnormally large, and her gray wiry hair is sticking up everywhere—as if
she
were struck by lightning. (Sorry. Bad joke.) She could pass either for a judge hopped up on amphetamines or a substitute teacher at the Hogwarts School.

I'm also really uncomfortable (physically, that is), because my mother said that I had to wear a dress and high heels, and now. I'm having a hard time figuring out how to sit on the floor without flashing my underwear to the man sitting across from me in the circle (who, incidentally, has a gray ponytail and is missing four fingers on his left hand).

But the worst part is that I'm too distracted by the oddity of it all to feel anything.

The lady in the robe keeps talking about my aunt Kate, saying really nice things about her…and I keep glancing over at my mom to see if she's going to start crying again. But she doesn't, and I wonder if she's feeling the same way I am. I look past my mom over to my dad, but I have to turn away because I can tell that he's trying really hard not to crack up—and I know that if he catches my eye, we'll both burst out laughing. I don't want to be disrespectful. Although, Jerry Garcia's palm is really sweaty, and I am wondering if it would be considered disrespectful if I were to let go of it and wipe my hand on my dress.

“Will everyone now please rise,” says the lady in the black robe. “One at a time, take your turn to speak to our beloved Kate. Tell her whatever you need to. Help her in her journey into death.”

Jerry Garcia smiles at me and drops my hand as he stands up.
Oh, thank God
. I notice, however, that he has tears in his eyes, and I wonder how he knew Kiki. Actually, I wonder how
any
of these people knew Kiki.

The lady in the robe approaches the urn and kneels down next to it.

“Kate,” she says to the urn, “I wish you peace in the afterlife. May you be reborn into a better world.” She walks over to an empty spot on the floor and sits down, cross-legged. I notice that under her black robe, she's wearing jeans and Birkenstocks. Her toenails are yellow, gnarled, and unpolished, and I'm sorry that I even looked at them.

Everyone else has stood up and is now in line, waiting to talk to my aunt's ashes, except for me, my mom, and my dad. I started to stand up when the lady in the robe said that we should, but my mom gave me a look of death, so I sat right back down. Now she's staring straight ahead. Her teeth are gritted and her face is a deep shade of red. I recognize that face. It's the same face she made when I was ten and I captured a squirrel and brought it into the house because I wanted it to be our family pet.

“What do we do?” I finally whisper to her.

“We sit here,” she hisses. “And when this ridiculousness is over, we will take my sister's ashes, and we will go home and have a proper memorial service for her. In a church. With chairs.”

So
that's
what's bothering her. It isn't the ceremony itself, it's that she's not in charge. Out of the corner of my eye, I see that Jerry Garcia is next in line. When he kneels down to take his turn, I strain to hear him. There are obviously a lot of things about Kiki that I didn't know, but I can't really imagine her as a bad-ass motorcycle chick.

“Kate,” Jerry Garcia says, dabbing at his eyes. “I will never forget how good you were to my Sadie. When she was a kitten and she broke her little paw…” His voice breaks, and the guy behind him pats him on the shoulder. “You just fed her from that eyedropper and you were so patient.” He pauses again to get control of himself. “We're really going to miss you. You were a very special lady.”

He stands up and hugs the guy behind him, sobbing into his shoulder.
Huh
. I definitely was not expecting a kitten story from the Hells Angels guy. That'll teach me to judge a book by its cover.

I listen to a few more people talk to my aunt—

“Kate, I hope they have tofurkey bacon in heaven, I know how much you loved it…”

“Kate, thank you for showing me that meditation can give me a better high than mushrooms, or even LSD…”

“Kate, if you ever want to send a sign that you're with me, just blow out three candles, and that way I'll know it's you…”

—but then I tune them out and focus instead on trying not to let my empty stomach grumble too loudly.

Finally, when everyone has taken their turn and sat back down in the circle, the lady in the robe stands and moves back to the middle.

“Journey on now, my sister Kate. We will follow when we can. May you be born again at the same time and in the same place as those you knew and loved in this life. May you know them again and love them again.”

She lights a candle resting on a tall pillar, and then she picks up the urn and walks slowly out of the room. When she's gone, everyone else stands up and follows her, except for me and my parents. We just look at each other, not quite knowing what to say.

“Even for Aunt Kooky, that was pretty out there,” Dad finally mutters.

My mom takes a deep breath, trying to steady herself. “She's dead, Peter. Must you keep calling her that?” Then she straightens out her jacket and dusts off the back of her skirt. “I'm going to get my sister's ashes,” she says with resolve. “I'll meet you at the car in twenty minutes.” She walks out of the room, leaving my dad and me there by ourselves. I look at my watch. It's almost 3:00.

“I'm starving,” I say to him. “Do you think there's food out there?”

“Tofu, maybe,” he says, sulking a little after getting yelled at by my mom. “But I don't know if there's any food.”

As soon as we step into the dining room, my father is surrounded by a group of people who want to hear stories about my aunt Kate from before they knew her. I somehow manage to slip by unnoticed. I wander over to the buffet table to see if there's anything I can scarf down quickly before my mother comes back and drags us to the car by our hair. I do a quick scan of the table: carrot sticks, celery sticks, some fruit, aha! Bagels and cream—no wait, that's tofu cream cheese. Whatever. I'm so hungry right now I would eat a tofu horse if that's all there was.

I scrape some of the faux cream cheese onto my plate, and as I reach for a bagel, I notice the picture hanging on the wall above the table. It's a poster of a Thomas Hirschhorn sculpture titled
Camo-Outgrowth
, my aunt's favorite work of art. The piece is made up of about fifty or sixty globes, sticking out horizontally from the wall, each one partially covered in camouflage. It's always hung there, but with the furniture all moved around, it looks strangely out of place. I stare at the poster, and for the first time today my throat tightens and my eyes begin to sting. I remember when Aunt Kiki bought it, right after the piece had been installed at the county art museum. She'd said it was “haunting her.” So she went back and bought the poster, and every time I came to visit her she had come up with another explanation for what it was supposed to mean. I must have spent a good twenty hours of my life talking about that poster with her. In fact, it was the sole reason why I decided to take AP Art History this year.

Someone taps my shoulder, startling me.

When I spin around I find a thin, petite woman with very pale skin and very dark hair standing in front of me. Her eyes are red-rimmed and swollen, but her face is otherwise pretty. She's older, but not as old as my mom. Mid-thirties, maybe. She's holding a small, brown cardboard box.

“Sorry,” she says. “I didn't mean to scare you.” Her voice is calm and steady, and I recognize it instantly. She's the one who called the other day.

“That's okay,” I tell her. “I'm Erin,” I announce, holding out my hand.

“I know. I'm Roni.” She shifts the box to her left hand and shakes my hand with her right. Her skin is smooth and cool. “I'm very sorry for your loss.”

“Thanks.” I hesitate for a moment. “Were you and my aunt close?” It's obvious that they were, but I don't know what else to say to her. It's not like I can be all,
Hey, was that the weirdest freaking memorial service you've ever been to or what?

“Kate was my best friend,” Roni says, her eyes beginning to water again. “She loved you very much, you know.”

I want to ask Roni,
Then why didn't she call me for an entire year?
But I'm worried that if I open my mouth, I'll cry too, and I won't be able to stop.

She holds the box out toward me. “She wanted you to have this.”

“What is it?” I manage to croak, without taking it from her.

“You'll see,” she says. She reaches out and places the box in my hands. “Just please, don't open it until you're alone. It was very important to Kate that you not open it until you're alone.”

I shrug. “Okay. Um…thanks.”

She attempts a smile, but it comes out as more of a grimace. As if even her mouth muscles are too sad to make the full effort. “And here,” she says, taking a piece of paper out of the back pocket of her jeans. “This is my phone number. Call me when you're ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“When you're ready, you'll know.” With that, she turns around and walks back into the crowd.

I look down at the piece of paper she handed me.

Roni, 555-9436. When you're ready
.

At that moment, my mother comes barreling toward me, with my father following behind. Her face is even redder than before, and I can tell that she's been crying.

“Come on,” she says, grabbing my arm. “We're leaving.”

“Can I just eat my bagel?” I ask. “I'm starv—”

“Take it in the car,” she orders. “Now.” She pulls on my arm and I have to almost run to keep up with her.

“Where's the urn?” I whisper loudly as we snake through the crowd of people toward the front door.

“They won't let me have it,” my mother states. Her voice is even and matter-of-fact. She's gone into doctor mode. “Apparently, Kate instructed in her will that her best friend was to keep it. They even had a lawyer here, ready to stop me in case I tried to take it.” She swallows hard. This is hurting her. A lot. What was my aunt so angry about? Why did she want it to be this way?

When we get to the car, I realize that I'm still holding the box. My parents are so upset that neither one of them even notices. I slide into the backseat and place it on the floor next to me. I'm tempted to open it now during the drive home. But then I remember what Roni said. I look at it again. It's just a plain old, regular cardboard box. There's no writing on it, no label, nothing to give me a clue as to what is inside.

I guess it can wait.

A piece of paper folded into a tiny square lands on my desk about seven minutes into homeroom. I glance around to see if Mrs. Schroeder is looking, but she's too busy inhaling her daily piña-colada-flavored yogurt to notice. Samantha swears that she actually has a piña colada in there, and that the yogurt container is just for show. I have to say, it would explain a lot.

Keeping my hands below my desk, I unfold the paper and read the note. It's from Samantha, via Lindsay.

Aiden is going to see the Flamingo Kids at the Corridor this weekend. You guys have to come with me. This is my chance to show him that I am not just a dumb girl he drives to school, but a hot woman whom he intensely desires. And actually has a brain, unlike Trance. Pass to Erin when you are done.

Samantha talks a big game, because in spite of her hotness, Lindsay and I both know that she has kissed a total of three boys in her life, and one of them is her cousin. I turn the piece of paper over and read Lindsay's response.

Sorry, Sam. I am at my dad's this weekend. But let me know if you want that love potion. You can slip it in his drink when he's not looking! xo L.

I take out my pen and write my answer under Lindsay's.

I think you have mistaken me for someone who enjoys going to concerts. Sorry! xoxo E.

I fold the paper back up and discreetly toss it onto Samantha's lap. I watch her as she opens it up and reads our answers. She frowns, then takes out her pen and writes something else. A minute later, the square lands back on my desk.

You should try to live a little. No wonder you have nothing to write about for your essay. L S.

***

Mr. Wallace is standing by the blackboard, his brown goatee freshly trimmed, his black, plastic emo glasses resting comfortably on his nose. His whole look is so entirely “art teacher” that it's almost as if he's wearing a costume. He picks up a piece of chalk and writes
1/3
on the board in massive numerals.

“Your final project for the year will be a team project. Each of you will be assigned a partner, and each team will be given a topic. Teams must visit the Museum of Art together at least three times, and then each team will give an oral presentation to the class, reporting their findings.”

He lifts his left arm and points to the fraction he's written. “This project will represent one-third of your final grade, and you will have one week to complete it. For those of you who are planning to apply for the trip to Italy, your grade on this project will count in your application.”

This trip is going to be the end of me
, I think.

I had completely forgotten about it after the memorial service yesterday, but then Samantha so nicely reminded me this morning in her note. Now I've been thinking about it all day again. That and, of course, what's hidden in that little cardboard box Roni gave me. When we got home from the memorial service last night, I thought about opening it, but I was so tired and I had a ton of homework to do, and I just wasn't in the mood for any big surprises or family revelations. So I'd left it sitting on my desk…

Whatever. I
really
need to figure out what I'm going to say in that essay.

Mr. Wallace picks up a piece of paper and starts reading off the teams. I listen intently for my name. I just hope he puts me with someone good, because I do not want to get stuck doing all of the work on this project. I do a quick calculation of my grade in this class so far: A-. Which means that I need to get at least a B+ on this project in order for me to be eligible for the trip. I glance around the room, searching for potential partners. Emily Gardner would be good. She's smart, and she works hard. Or maybe Phoebe Marks. I've seen the outlines she makes when she's studying for a test, and they are
sick
. My gaze stops, however, on the seat two rows up in front of me. Just not
him
. Please, do not let my partner be Jesse Cooper—

“Emily Gardner will be with Phoebe Marks,” Mr. Wallace announces.

My heart sinks as the two girls smile at each other across the room.
That's okay
, I think, trying to stay positive. There's still Jack Engel, or Maya Franklin. Even though Maya is a bitter and jealous girl who has been trying to oust me from my place as number one since the day they began tallying class ranks, she still would be better than Jesse Cooper. “Jack Engel will be with Carolyn Strummer. Erin Channing will be with…” I hold my breath.
Please say Maya. Please say Maya—

“Jesse Cooper.”

Oh God
. I sink down in my seat.

This is a nightmare. How could Mr. Wallace be so dumb? Has he not noticed that Jesse Cooper is the one person in the entire class that I never speak to? I sit back up, and I focus on the back of Jesse's head. His jet black hair is standing up, like, two feet. Okay, not really—but still, he's going for a spiky punk rock thing that seems thirty years too late and might have been hot once but now is just…confusing. He's got a tiny silver hoop hanging from his left ear, and he's wearing a yellow Volcom T-shirt and black jeans. (To his credit, not too tight and actually pretty normal looking, aside from the holes.) I look down at his shoes: black Converse high tops. The bottom of his foot is lifted off of the ground, so that only his toes are touching the floor. I notice that there's thick, black writing on the bottom of his left shoe, and I lean forward to try to read it.

I see you looking
.

I can feel my face turn red. I quickly look back at Mr. Wallace. A few seconds later, I glance at Jesse's shoe again. Now it's flat on the floor. Did he do that on purpose?

What happened to him?
I wonder for the zillionth time.

Jesse Cooper didn't used to be this way. In fact, up until the beginning of ninth grade, he was one of my closest friends. When we were in middle school, we had almost all of our classes together, and we ate lunch together almost every single day. He was smart and funny and flirty. And yes, he was my first kiss. (And so far, shamefully, my last.)

It happened at an eighth-grade graduation party at Jeff DiNardo's house. Jeff's parents were upstairs in the kitchen and a group of us were hanging out in the rec room, when somebody suggested that we play a game of Seven Minutes in Heaven. We were using a spinner from Jeff's sister's Twister game, and when it was my turn, the spinner landed on Jesse. Which I will admit, I had sort of been hoping for, because I guess I might have had a little crush on him back then. Emphasis on the “might have.”

But anyway, we went into the closet, and he asked me if I wanted to kiss him, and I said I guess so, and we kissed. But it wasn't just like, a little peck on the cheek or anything. It was a real kiss. With tongue. It surprised me at first, that he opened his mouth and everything, but I kind of liked it—okay, full disclosure, I liked it a lot—and before we knew it, the seven minutes were up, and people were opening the closet door. And I remember being disappointed because I didn't want it to end, and all I wanted for the rest of the night was to take another turn and have that spinner land on Jesse again, so that I could go back into the closet with him and stay there forever.

Okay, so maybe it was more than “might have.”

But then, just a few days later, his father had a heart attack and died. It was awful. His dad was young and healthy. He exercised and ate right. After we heard about it, I remember my mom saying that you just never know what's lurking in your genes. I also remember being really angry with her for saying that, even though she hadn't said anything wrong. And then right after the funeral Jesse's mom sent him off to some art camp for the summer, and I didn't even get to say good-bye to him, or to tell him how sorry I was about his dad. And then, when he came back, he wasn't the old Jesse anymore. He was, well…he was like
this
. With the hair and the shoes and the earring. Soon he was hanging out with this whole new group of artsy/punk rock kids, and we just sort of stopped talking. I mean, yes, it was weird in the beginning, because we had been really good friends, and then we just weren't. And to be honest, I was angry at him for not opening up to me. There he was, three months after the most tragic event of his life, spending time with all of these kids he's never even talked to before, and he doesn't even call me? So we went our separate ways, and that was that. Or at least, it was, until Mr. Wallace took it upon himself to force us back together again.

Like I said, this trip is going to be the end of me.

***

Jesse is waiting for me in the hallway when class is over.

“So, cool topic, huh?” he asks in an impossible-to-read tone.

On our way out, Mr. Wallace handed us all papers with our topics on them. Ours is to look at one work of art from each of three different time periods and to discuss how spirituality is represented in each. I'm not sure that I would describe it as “cool,” though. Spirituality isn't exactly my thing. But I'm also not sure if Jesse is being sarcastic or serious, so I don't answer him.

Maya Franklin walks over to us, and she's giving me the evil eye.
Now what did I do?
I wonder.

“Sorry we're not partners, Jesse,” she says. “I think we would've made a good team.” Wait a second, is she flirting with him? Does Maya Franklin have a thing for Jesse Cooper? Ew. Just thinking about her liking a boy gives me the creeps, let alone thinking about her liking Jesse Cooper.

“Um, yeah,” Jesse says, looking confused. “Good luck, I guess.”

Maya flashes a fake smile at me and walks away. Weird.

“
Anyway
,” I say, choosing not to comment on the bizarreness of that exchange, “we don't have a lot of time, so we should figure out a schedule for going to the museum.”

He thinks for a second. “You know, they're open late on Thursday nights. Do you think you could go tonight? Like, around 6:30?”

Wow
. He really has changed. The Jesse I knew was a total procrastinator. There's nothing I'm supposed to do tonight—aside from some science and math homework, my schedule is wide open. I think of Samantha and Lindsay's note again. My life
is
boring, isn't it?

“Sure, I can go tonight,” I say. I notice that he has a small tattoo on the inside of his left wrist—though from this distance I can't quite make out what it is. My mind starts racing with questions. When did he decide to commit so permanently to this look of his? Does he think that this is at all weird, because he's acting like we were never good friends and then not friends? Why does he act like that kiss in the closet never even happened? Maybe he's had so many kisses since then that he doesn't even remember?

“Great,” he says. “I'll see you then.” He chews his bottom lip, and staring at those lips, I feel my face get hot. I turn away before he sees me and think for the hundredth time in a very short while:
God, I am so lame.