The Cemetery Boys Read Free

the school year would be like if we were still here this fall. If the adults stared us down this bad, what would the high schoolers be like?
    The other side of the gas station was home to graffiti—nothing special, just a large, roughly painted pair of stark black wings. Probably Spencer’s idea of what passed for small-town rebellion, when in fact the teenage punks were all just farmers’ kids or a close variation thereof. These kids had no idea what punk was, what a big city was. Kids in Denver would eat them alive.
    As Dad pulled into the surprisingly full parking lot of the Lakehouse Grill, he grimaced. “I swear this town never changes. It looks the same as it did the day I left.”
    I caught sight of two bumper stickers on the truck next to us. One read Pro Life: Have a heart. Don’t stop one. The other read Keep honking. I’m reloading.
    Awesome. Just . . . awesome.
    I opened the passenger door of the Beetle, hoping like hell the rust would hold it together and the door wouldn’t fall off completely. I climbed out, closing the door behind me with a slam. It was the only way to be sure the stupid thing would close at all. My actions apparently caught the attention of a group of four kids around my age as they exited the restaurant, because all four were staring at me and my dad’scrappy car. One of the three guys in the group—tall, tan, and probably into things like Ultimate Frisbee and racquetball—whistled at the rust monstrosity as he slipped his arm around the slender, just as tan, likely-into-gymnastics-and-discussing-everything-to-do-with-her-hair girl in the group. An embarrassed heat worked its way up my neck as we walked by them and headed inside. I hated the Beetle. I hated the way those kids had noticed it, had noticed me. My dad seemed oblivious to the stares.
    The Lakehouse Grill was small-town chic . . . in that it had panel-covered walls from the seventies, ripped-vinyl booth seats, and enough fake plants to choke a horse. A weird horse that ate fake plants. Probably a horse from small-town Michigan.
    As far as I had seen, it seemed like it was pretty much our only option for eating out unless we wanted to drive thirty minutes to the next town over, so I was hoping they had some fair-to-decent food. When we stepped inside, we were greeted by a woman who was basically every hostess in every small-town café everywhere. She was relatively short and relatively thin, and I could tell by her gravelly voice that she smoked way too many cigarettes when she wasn’t busy directing people where to sit. Around her neck she wore a pair of reading glasses on a chain. A younger, much prettier blond lady was arguing quietly with her. The hostess was losing her cool. “Iknow, Marjorie, but Spencer’s going through a bad time right now. You just have to be more careful is all. It’ll all be over soon. Now get your buns back in the kitchen.”
    She looked at my dad expectantly. “Two?”
    â€œYes, please.” We followed her into the main dining area, to a booth near the back. As we moved, I could feel eyes on me, wondering just who we were and what we thought we were doing here. Maybe some of these people recognized Dad or something. But from the look on Dad’s face as we moved past the tables, it was clear that he didn’t recognize any of them.
    The hostess handed us menus and told us that Donna would be taking care of us, then she called me “honey,” and, even resistant to her chain-smoking charms as I was, it felt nice. Maybe she could speak to the gas station guys on our behalf and tell them that my dad and I weren’t so bad. Or at least get the patrons to stop staring.
    Dad peered over his menu at me and cleared his throat. “It would be nice if you called your mom when we get back, and let her know we made it okay.”
    It was a nudge. I’d become very familiar with his nudges in the past six months. He’d