Darnell was almost a stranger to me, but his death has shaken me, and only the heat of Lottie’s body pressed against my shoulder keeps me from running away from the grave.

Mr. Vincent opens his Bible and says the words “‘By the sweat of your face you shall eat bread, till you return to the ground, for out of it you were taken; for you are dust, and to dust you shall return.’”

Four senior boys lower the pine box into the ground, and I swear I can’t breathe. I can’t find the oxygen to feed my lungs. I am afraid the pressure that began to build up inside my throat three days ago, when I found Darnell lying in the valley, will tear me apart. Mr. Parns is silent, but I want to scream on his behalf. I want to scream till the hills ring with the sound of it. My heart aches, and my throat burns.

Lottie grabs my hand, and my fingers will break if she holds on any tighter. The pain brings me to, and I feel her shoulder slump against mine. I grind my feet into the dirt and take her weight. Darnell was Lottie’s friend. She knew him and talked to him and had a sympathy for him that was real and not for show. The scream frozen inside my throat is for all the things that can’t be changed.

I hold Lottie up, and when the time comes for us to throw dirt on the coffin, I lead her to the graveside step by steady step. For her, I am the mountain. Mrs. Vincent and Nancy Breeland, the best voice at Keziah, sing “How Great Thou Art” and then “To God Be the Glory.”

Darnell loved music.

I didn’t know.

• • •

We return to the big-girls’ dorm with swollen eyes. Our footsteps are slow and drag along the ground. If it was nighttime, we’d fall straight to sleep, but it’s late Saturday afternoon and the hall is filled with curious girls waiting for us to get back from the funeral at the Parns farm. They keep their distance, and some girls take shallow sips of air, to avoid being contaminated by grave dust. Peaches crosses her arms and purses her lips.

“Crocodile tears.” Delia’s loud voice carries the length of the hallway. “Imagine crying for a dimwit just to get attention.”

“Shame,” Natalie intones. “What a thing to do.”

Lottie lets out a ragged sigh and turns to Dead Lorraine’s room. Her defense of our honor will have to keep. She’s spent. I reach across and grab the door handle, exhausted from the service and the heat and the sadness.

“What would your mother think, Adele . . . the way you’re carrying on,” Delia says. “You didn’t speak one word to that boy when he was alive.”