Eddie flipped the padded kneeler up and down with the toe of his scuffed shoe. He nudged me and said, “How’d you come up with the idea for this freak club? You wanna be an undertaker or something? You look like you could be one. All you need is a creepy hat.”

“There’s a club like this near San Francisco. I saw it on the news.” I didn’t admit to watching teen news on the kids’ cable network, Nickelodeon.

“And you thought, ‘Wow, that sounds fucking neato.’ ”

I looked to Cayla, like she was going to answer for me. She walked away from us and the coffin. I said, “I wanted something that would stand out on a college application.” I left out So I can get into a school far away from here and far away from you, Eddie, and all the other fucking Eddies.

Cayla removed her black banana clip and adjusted her hair. She said, “Oh, this is going to stand out.” She laughed and covered her mouth, which made her laugh harder.

I wondered if Cayla was here because she decided to make me her social charity case. Upon seeing the morning announcement, she figured no one would join my club and I would be embarrassed/crushed/hurt and so she attended the first meeting and when Eddie was the only other kid who showed up, she had to stick it out (because, come on, Eddie) as an unspoken favor to poor, outcast me. If any of that was a mitochondrion in one cell of the truth organism, I loved her and hated me for it.

* * *

Father Wanderly (white, early middle-aged, and as short, svelte, and fastidious as a plastic groom atop a wedding cake; he told us to call him “Father W.”) and Mr. Stephens were all business as they entered the room along with two other men in black suits, presumably employees at the funeral home, who did not introduce themselves.

After we signed a blank page of a guest book, Father W. took his place at the head of the coffin. We moved back and formed a semicircle facing the priest. He read a prayer from his leather-bound book. We said “Amen” when instructed to do so. Mr. Stephens said his amens the loudest. Cayla was second loudest. Yes, I inventoried the volumes. I mumbled, which was more than what Eddie was doing, or not doing. Maybe Eddie had suffered abuse or tragedy and the anger oozing from his pores was how he coped, and he had joined the club to confront the pain and emotions he’d never been able to properly process. Or maybe he was an unrepentant dick with nothing better to do.