by Lenore Look
Gulp. Why did I say that???
But GungGung’s face changed.
“You would do that for me?” he asked.
I nodded, but nothing moved. GungGung put his arm around me.
“Thank you, Alvin,” he said. “Charlie would like that.”
He would?
“And it would mean a lot to me,” GungGung added. He squeezed my shoulder. Then he didn’t say anything for another long, long time.
I didn’t say anything either. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t even know why I’d said what I did. The words had fallen out of my mouth before I could stop them. Go to a funeral? Isn’t that the creepiest thing you could ever do?
Then GungGung took some deep breaths.
I thought he was going to pass out.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he cried like a tree on a rainy night.
Crying is really great. Everything is always better afterwards, except when your best friend has died. Then you just cry some more. When my dad came in and saw my gunggung crying, he put his arms around him. I think it’s one of the rules of being a gentleman, but I’m not sure, I couldn’t remember. I was all freaked out.
By the time my mom came home with Calvin from karate, my gunggung had run out of tears. He talked to my mom for a while, then he went home.
“Alvin,” said my mom. “I’m really proud of you for wanting to go to Charlie’s funeral with GungGung.”
“I’m very proud of you too, son,” said my dad. “It takes a man to bury a man.”
I said nothing. I didn’t know what to say. I wasn’t a man … and I didn’t want to bury anybody.
Swoosh went Calvin’s karate leg, right over the top of my head. He’s always in a karate mood after lessons.
I wobbled like a bowling pin.
“Alvin’s going to a funeral?” asked Calvin, turning on one foot and throwing his other leg over my head.
I wobbled again.
“Charlie died and GungGung’s devastated,” said my mom. “And Alvin offered to attend the funeral with him.”
Calvin stopped. He looked at me. The look on his face said that he didn’t quite believe it, but if he did believe it, he would have new respect for me.
I felt a little better.
“I’m proud of you too,” said Anibelly, slapping herself across the chest with a long wooden spoon. “You never volunteer to do anything, but today you did.”
Anibelly blinked.
Then she smiled.
Then she tapped me on one shoulder with her long wooden spoon. Then she tapped me on the other. This is something you do when you’re especially proud of someone; Anibelly learned it from the Queen herself on the BBC.
“Lalalalalala,” Anibelly began to sing. It was time for us to help my mom with dinner. Anibelly had already laid out all the spatulas and ladles and salad tongs, and put out all the pots and pans. I liked helping too, but I could hardly move.
“As Charlie would say,” my mom continued, reaching for some vegetables to chop, “ ‘you’re coming along nicely, Alvin.’ ”
I smiled.
Whoooosh went Calvin’s karate leg over my head. He was just jealous.
Then my dad added, “I’m sure Charlie would be proud to see you there with your gunggung.”
Proud? He’s going to see me?
I thought he was dead.
Anibelly’s spoon went round and round.
My dad’s pots went clang-clang-clang.
My mom’s cleaver went chop, chop, chop.
Calvin’s karate leg went whoosh!
I wobbled.
The lights dimmed.
My breathing stopped.
Anibelly’s singing stopped.
“Alvin?” said Anibelly. “Are you okaaay, Alvinnnn?”
It was the last thing I heard.
the good news about making a Horrific Big Promise (HBP) and having everyone say how proud they are of you was that it made a greater disturbance than getting busted for walking into town by ourselves. And greater disturbances, as everyone knows, will blast away any memory of the lesser disturbance as though with dynamite!
The bad news was that it was like the other HBP (Hit By Pitch). In baseball, if you get Hit By Pitch, no matter how much it hurts, you can’t rub the spot. It’s one of the rules. You gotta take it like a man; there’s no crying in baseball, ever.
That’s also how it is when you make a Horrific Big Promise. No matter how freaked out you are by it, you can’t say so, it would be like rubbing the spot.
Lucky for me, I had a chance to rub the spot without looking like I was doing it when my dad read to us from Homer’s Odd Sea at bedtime. It’s the true story of Odysseus going home from the Trojan War. Horrific adventures are great! Especially when they involve spies and pirates and Lotus Eaters, whatever they are. Plus they make you want to tell your dad just how frightful your own day has been and get it over with.
But before I could get the words out, he turned to me and said, “Son, you were a real hero today.”
I love it when he calls me that. Son. I love it more than my own name. And hero? My dad had never called me a hero before in my entire life.
Anibelly nodded.
Even Calvin looked at me differently.
“A hero?” I asked. “But I didn’t save anyone.”
“You don’t have to save someone,” said my dad. “Mostly, a hero knows what the right thing to do is, and does it. No hesitation. And no calling any attention to himself.”
I thought about it. My dad is like that. He always knows what’s right and he does it. And most of the time, you’d never even know he’d done it.
“You’re a hero, Dad,” I said.
My dad smiled. “Thank you, Alvin,” he said. “I hope that I am.”
I nodded. I liked being a hero, just like my dad.
But after that, I couldn’t let him know how really freaked out I was, like I normally do, could I?
No, I couldn’t.
“Good night, boys,” said my dad, turning off the light.
Then the door shut, click. And my dad and Anibelly were gone.
Suddenly, it was as silent as the grave in my room.
And just as dark too.
“Calvin?” I peeped.
Silence.
Usually this is the time when I ask Calvin for advice and favors, on account of Calvin’s pretty agreeable when he’s falling asleep, not like he is during the day when he’s wide-awake.
“Cal?” I tried again.
“Go to sleep,” said Calvin, turning over in his bed.
“Why did Charlie die?” I asked.
“You’re asking me? You’re the one who was here when GungGung got the news.”
“GungGung didn’t tell me,” I said. “And you know everything.”
Calvin sighed. He rolled over.
“People die when they get to be that age,” he said.
“What age?” I asked.
“GungGung’s age,” said Calvin.
GUNGGUNG’S AGE???!!!
I sat up.
“Does that mean—GULP—GungGung’s gonna die soon too?” I asked.
Silence.
“Cal?”
“ZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.”
The problem with talking to Calvin at this time is that he can fall asleep just like that. He’s like a video game that switches off by itself. But I am not. I’m afraid of the dark and when the lights go out, I’m as wide-awake as a car with its high beams on.
“Cal!” I cried, turning on my flashlight and shining it across the room on Calvin. His face looked calm, like bread baking in the machine.
“Turn it off,” said Calvin in a sleepy voice. “And go to sleep.”
“But you just said—”
“I’m really tired,” said Calvin. “And I don’t want to talk about it.”
Long silence.
“Why not?” I asked.
Calvin sniffed.
Silence.
Then C
alvin sniffed again.
“Cal?” I said. “Are you crying?”
Calvin sniffed like crazy.
Calvin hardly ever cries. Not like me. I cry all the time. I like crying. But I think that Calvin does not.
“Do you want me to sleep with you?” I asked.
“Okay,” squeaked Calvin.
So I hopped out of my bed and jumped into Calvin’s.
It was very warm in Calvin’s bed, not like mine, which is always very cold. And Calvin himself was like bread in the oven. But he smelled like soap.
“Don’t worry, Cal,” I said, putting my arm around his middle. “GungGung’s gonna live for three hundred years.”
“He’s not,” sobbed Calvin. “No one lives for that long.”
“Well, maybe GungGung will,” I said. “He’s already halfway there.”
“But the human brain shrinks with age,” said Calvin.
“So?” I asked.
“So if GungGung lives to be three hundred,” said Calvin, “his brain will be the size of a walnut.”
Silence.
“Is that bad?” I asked.
“Bad?” cried Calvin, hugging his pillow. “It’s horrible!” Then he really cried. “Waaaaaah!”
There’s no fooling Calvin, that’s for sure.
Poor Calvin.
And when Calvin cries like that, I cry too.
“Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!”
Then we cried ourselves to sleep.
That night I had a dream that GungGung and I were on our way to Charlie Chow Fun’s funeral.
Up the street we went, hand in hand. People came out of their shops and greeted us.
“What a brave boy,” said the cookie maker.
“Courageous,” said the mail carrier.
“He deserves a medal,” said the sandwich lady.
I kept my head down.
I kept my hand in GungGung’s hand.
We hurried along.
As we got closer to the cemetery, I began to see Charlie’s face everywhere—in the trees, in the clouds, in the shop windows, on the parking meters.
“I’m not brave,” I wanted to tell GungGung. “I’m not courageous. I’m not coming along nicely. I don’t want to come along at all. I just want to go home.”
But I couldn’t.
Nothing came out of my mouth.
At the cemetery, everyone stepped aside to let us through. Hand in hand, we walked to the front where—there was—the casket.
And next to the casket was a big picture of—gasp!—my gunggung!
I wanted to ask GungGung what his picture was doing next to Charlie’s coffin, but when I looked up, I wasn’t holding GungGung’s hand at all, I was holding Charlie Chow Fun’s!
“I’m sorry about your gunggung,” Charlie began.
That’s when my heart exploded and I sat up with a start.
BEEEEP-BEEEEP-BEEEEP! The alarm was going off like my heart. It was time to get up for school.
dreaming that my gunggung had died was a sign from Above, I was sure of it.
“I need a sick day,” I moaned, coming into the kitchen, where my dad was packing our lunches. Unfortunately, he’s harder to fool than my mom, who had already left to drop off Anibelly at day care.
“Are you sick?” asked my dad.
“Urrrrrrr,” I groaned.
My dad stopped. He looked at me.
“Sick days are for being sick,” said my dad.
I groaned a little scarier.
But my dad didn’t even put down his mustard knife. It was not a good sign.
“Maybe I need a personal day,” I tried.
“A personal day?” asked my dad.
“Isn’t that what you do, Dad?” asked Calvin, slurping down the last of his cereal. “When you don’t have any excuses but you want to stay home from work anyway?”
My dad stopped.
A drop of mustard went splat on the counter.
My dad looked like he wanted to have a word with Calvin, but he had a few words for me instead.
“If you take a personal day from school,” he said, “I assure you, you’ll be getting lots of personal attention from me.”
Gulp.
“C’mon,” said my dad. “I’ll personally take you to the bus stop today.”
It’s a good thing he did. I never would have made it out of the house on my own after a bad dream like that, that’s for sure.
I never would have made it onto the school bus either.
My dad even stayed to watch my bus pull away like it was full of convicts going to prison.
Then I sat down next to Flea. Phumph. She’s a girl. But all the other seats were already taken. It was my normal seat anyway, unfortunately.
“Did you rob a bank or something?” Pinky asked, turning in his seat when the bus rounded the corner. “Your dad looked like he was expecting you to make an escape. And you look like you’ve been crying.”
I shrank. Pinky’s the biggest boy in my class and the leader of the gang on account of he started kindergarten late, and I’m the smallest boy and the leader of none. So normally, I’m not even on his radar.
“I had a bad dream,” I said.
“A BAD DREAM?” shrieked Pinky, falling back into his seat and roaring his evil, wicked laugh. “BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”
The noise on the bus went round and round.
The wipers on the bus went woop, woop, woop.
But Pinky’s voice still came in loud and clear.
“You’re scared of a BAD DREAM???” Pinky hollered. “A WEE LITTLE SCAREDY DREEEEEAM???”
Oooh. It really shook my soda can.
“YOU’D HAVE A BAD DREAM TOO IF YOU WERE GOING TO A FUNERAL!” I burst.
Pinky stopped.
He stared at me.
His mouth opened, but nothing came out.
He looked so impressed that you’d think I was a fourteen-pound salmon.
“You’re going to a funeral?” asked Scooter.
I nodded.
“A real funeral?” asked Eli.
I nodded again.
“One with a dead body?” asked Hobson.
“The works,” I said.
Sam whistled. “Man,” he said. “You gotta be brave to go to one of those.”
I sat up taller. “You gotta be a man to bury a man,” I said. “That’s for sure.”
“Dude,” said Scooter respectfully.
“Dude,” said Jules solemnly.
“Dude.” I swallowed.
“How’d you get invited?” asked Nhia. “Normally, kids aren’t allowed at funerals.”
“I invited myself,” I said. My words floated like shiny balloons above my head.
Mouths opened.
Eyes blinked.
So I sent up the shiniest balloon of all.
“My dad says I’m a hero,” I said, puffing out my chest.
The heads on the bus nodded up and down.
The eyes on the bus grew big and round.
Everyone was very impressed.
Everyone, that is, except Pinky. He was jealous.
“You’re not a hero,” he sneered. “You’re a scaredy-cat. I bet you’re making it up.”
“I am not!” I cried.
“I bet you’ll chicken out,” said Pinky. “I bet you’re not going to go at all.”
“Am too!” I said.
“Are not!”
“Am too!”
“Are not!”
I stopped.
What was I saying? Not only was I getting closer and closer to that funeral by the minute, I was pushing myself right into the grave! Worse, now I really couldn’t tell anyone how freaked out I was!
I sat back down. When you regret something that you’ve said, count to ten, my dad says, and keep your mouth shut. It’s one of the rules of being a gentleman, I think, but I can’t be sure. I don’t remember. So I counted to ten and a half, just in case.
“Who died?” asked Flea, who’d been unusually qu
iet. Usually, she has a lot to say. And girls, as everyone knows, ask dumb questions that have nothing to do with what you’re talking about.
“My gunggung’s fr—” I began, but Jules interrupted.
“Are you going to the wake too?” asked Jules.
“What wake?”
“It’s the night before the funeral,” said Jules. “That’s when you sit around and wait for the dead person to wake.”
I gasped. GungGung didn’t say anything about that.
“If the dead person wakes,” Jules continued, “everyone goes to the pub to celebrate and that’s the end of that. But if the corpse doesn’t sit up and say, ‘Hey, I’m hungry, let’s get something to eat,’ then you go to the pub anyway to celebrate without ’im—but some people might drag ’im along anyway.”
My ears buzzed.
My eyes crossed.
The toast and milk in my stomach went up and down.
I clutched my PDK, which contains all sorts of useful items for surviving emergency situations, but nothing for waking a dead guy to go to the pub, that’s for sure.
“Have you ever been to a funeral?” Flea asked.
I shook my head no.
“I didn’t think so,” said Flea. “I have. And I can tell you there’s nothing to worry about.”
I looked sideways at Flea. If there were anyone on the bus that I would have guessed had been to a funeral, it would have been Flea. She wears an eye patch over a blind eye and has one leg that is longer than the other, which she swings like a real peg leg. If there’s anything good about Flea, it’s this. She was born into piracy. And pirates, as everyone knows, plunder and kill, which means that they must go to funerals too.
“If you have any questions, just ask me,” said Flea, thumping herself on the chest. “I’ll give you the four-one-one.” Her eye blinked. Maybe she was giving me a wink, but it’s hard to tell when there’s not another eye to compare it to.
“A lot of people are uncomfortable talking about deadly circumstances,” Flea continued. “But I’m not. You know, been there, done that.”
Just as I’d thought.
“Was … it … the funeral … creepy?” I asked.