The morning after the sleepover, with my back brace re-hidden in the closet and my torn jean shorts Jimmy Hoffa-ed at the bottom of a garbage barrel in the garage, I endured jokes, winks, and pats on the back from Dad. Mom was more direct during our cornucopic donut brunch, saying she hoped I was smart enough to use protection and you couldn’t be too careful these days. She otherwise didn’t perseverate on the prior evening, didn’t ask where Mercy and I went or what we did. I think she sensed I was upset, that something was off. I didn’t share details, as much as I might’ve wanted to. I told them nothing had happened as I set about the task of making myself believe that nothing had happened. It was easy to do in the light of morning: all that secondhand smoke I’d inhaled had to have affected me, plus that terrible I-can’t-breathe nightmare further messed with my head, and I wasn’t feeling well, and the weirdness in the TV room including seeing a face (face? what face?) in a jacket and seeing Mercy dead and desiccated was all a trick of the light.

*Eye roll*

[If you, reader, pause here and are honest with yourself, you know how easy it is to cobble together the truth you want, particularly when you are young, confused, and lonely.]

I did not allow myself to dwell on that night and its implications, ramifications, repercussions, or insinuations, but the part I was unable to dismiss or compartmentalize was Mercy chasing after me for the photo I shot of her and the “Fuck me” she said outside my bedroom door. Those two words ended the weekly ritual of my calling to provide an update on the upcoming Pallbearers Club weekend itinerary. Mercy did not call me either.

I phoned Mr. Stephens and told him that with prom (not that I was going to prom; I did ask Cayla but knowing she already had a date, so it wasn’t a real ask, not an ask that risked hope for a yes) and graduation, all the weekends were filling up with high school senior shenanigans and bacchanalia, sure to result in friendships and memories to last a lifetime, and I’d scheduled my back surgery six days after graduation, all of which meant that the Pallbearers Club was going on an extended hiatus. I couldn’t bring myself to say the club was no more. Mr. Stephens thanked me for my volunteer service and proffered that if I needed a summer job or if the college thing didn’t work out, he’d be happy to have me in his employ. He flourished with “We’ll always save a space for you here at the funeral home,” which was sweet, but also a little creepy.

* * *