Please Don't Tell Read Free

THOUGHT ABOUT HOW BIG A coffin a six-foot-tall person needs. The lid’s open and I can’t see him from our spot in the back, but I can feel his ghost. Since it happened, any room he was in was on fire. This one’s barely smoking.
    November slouches beside me, her earbuds twisted around her wrist. “You okay?”
    I make myself smile. “I’m always okay.”
    She nods. “So, Grace isn’t . . .”
    â€œNo, she’s not coming.”
    She nods again.
    Above us, there’s a dustless plaster Jesus on a glossy black cross, even though it’s a funeral home, not a church. There’s another service going on across the hall,smaller but with people crying louder. How many funerals does a town like Stanwick have per week? How often do people die?
    I look around. Half the school’s here. Even Principal Eastman sits in front, tall and straight so people notice he came. Ms. Bell, a beaded black scarf around her neck, murmurs to Ben Stockholm, quick hands illustrating everything she says. Cassius is in the corner, hunched like something’s fighting its way out of his spine. I can’t tell if I feel bad for him or if I want to yell at him.
    And Mr. Gordon—Adam’s dad—stands near the casket, fumbling to shake people’s hands as they greet him. His alcohol stink battles the smell of all the flowers, makes the hidden bottle in my pocket burn. His hair curls in gray waves under his cheekbones, skin too taut over a jawline that probably cut through hearts like butter when he was eighteen. Adam would have looked like him.
    â€œI don’t care how famous this song is,” Nov grunts. “It’s creepy how they keep playing it on repeat.”
    Abe Gordon, Adam’s grandfather, sings over the speakers: “And I’ll carry you down to the quarry, once it’s dark and there’s no point sayin’ sorry . . .”
    Suddenly everyone is shuffling, taking their seats, and Mr. Gordon picks up the microphone.
    â€œAdam was . . . my son.” Mr. Gordon strangles the mic. His voice filters through gravel. “And he was . . . his grandfather’s grandson. He’d’ve made it as far as my father, that’s the musical talent he had. . . .”
    Parents have no idea how little they know about the people they gave life to.
    â€œAdam—” And then Mr. Gordon shakes his head, takes a deep breath, and pukes. The mic broadcasts the sound, the smell hitting us all at once. He staggers. An Asian guy I’ve never seen before—his hair gelled in short spikes and a T-shirt blazing orange underneath a too-small black vest—leaps up, catching Mr. Gordon’s elbow. I can’t hear what the guy says as he quickly steers Mr. Gordon past us and out the door, but his tone’s low and comforting.
    â€œJeeesus,” November mutters.
    â€œWho’s that guy?” I whisper. “Why’s Mr. Gordon his responsibility?”
    She shrugs.
    Two funeral home employees clean up while Abe Gordon continues to sing about the quarry where the grandson he never met died. It used to be a love song, now it’s a dirge. Sweat laminates my shirt to my back. I want to take off my skin.
    There’s whispers throughout the crowd. No one knows what’s happening now. But then Cassius approaches the mic, his black eye puffed purple. The overhead lights wash out the paler parts of him. From here, it’s like someone splattered him with paint.
    â€œWhat’s he doing?” November mumbles.
    â€œI was Adam’s best friend. . . .” he starts.
    Cassius is the school artist. Adam was the school musician. The sweet-voiced daydreamer and the smirkingasshole. I grip the minibottle in my pocket.
    â€œAnd I’m here to tell you he was a fucking prick.”
    An audible gasp sounds. A new kind of silence washes over the room. My throat seals shut.
    I should have been the one brave enough to say it.
    Cassius stares