by Anna Hecker
Britt grabs a sparkly cosmetics bag from her desktop and rummages through it. My stomach twists as I realize the bag, and all the makeup inside, is Yelena’s.
Was Yelena’s.
“But you still have to go to her funeral.” The words are slow and sticky on my tongue. I’m sure, on some level, Britt is right—Yelena probably would prefer for everyone to go out dancing. But Yelena’s not here anymore, and funerals aren’t really for the dead. They’re for the living.
“Says who?” Britt swoops silver shadow across her lid. “There’s another party at the lot today, and DJ Headspin is spinning, and I’m going to that.”
“Britt, you can’t.” Even as I say it, I know I’m fighting a losing battle. There’s no arguing with Britt when her mind is made up. But this feels too important to let go. Britt needs to go to the funeral if she’s going to start processing Yelena’s death—and I need her to come with me, because I don’t want to have to do this alone.
“I can!” Britt insists. “You should come. We’ll dance till we drop.” She spins in a circle with her hands waving over her head, just like Yelena always did when she first hit the dance floor.
“I’m going to the funeral,” I choke. “And you should too. You’ll regret it if you don’t.”
“Too bad.” Britt grabs Yelena’s backpack from her bed, swinging it over her shoulder so the doll’s empty eyes meet mine. The sick feeling churns in my stomach. That backpack was creepy even before Yelena died.
“Gotta go!” Britt chirps, bouncing past me into the hall. “Have fun. Tell people I say hi,” she calls back over her shoulder as she thunders down the stairs.
“Britt, wait!” I turn to chase her but she’s already slamming the front door, her patent leather Doc Martens thundering down the sidewalk. I’m left standing alone in her room, my mouth hanging open and my hands balled into fists.
I know, rationally, that Britt is still in denial, the first of the five stages of grief. Nicky got me a book about grieving when Grandpa Lou died, so I’m aware that eventually she’ll move into anger, bargaining, depression, and finally acceptance. According to the book everyone goes through the stages at their own pace—so, really, I should be more patient with Britt. But it’s hard when she’s running around pretending nothing happened, as if Yelena had just taken a weekend trip. She even went clubbing in the city the other night, and didn’t come home until dawn.
“At least turn off your music,” I mutter, stalking to her computer. I jiggle her mouse and her iTunes pops up. DJ Skizm, the track reads. Pax Summerfest Live Set.
A wave of nausea sweeps through me as I hit PAUSE. This is the tune Britt was humming in the car, the one I recognized but couldn’t quite place. It’s the track that was playing when Yelena collapsed.
For the millionth time I wonder if I should tell Mom and Dad. But then I remember again how they were after Grandpa Lou passed, and how stressed Mom has been about the gym. Telling them might not make anything better, and I’m not sure it’s worth risking Britt’s trust to find out.
Still feeling sick, I lock up the house and text Derek one more time before driving to the funeral. I haven’t seen him since the festival last weekend—I’ve been trying to play catch-up with audition practice, and worried about leaving Britt alone—but his sweet, flirty text messages have been the one bright spot in an otherwise very dark week. He says he’s been in touch with Jake from Electri-City and is working on getting me a good slot … and a good rate. And even though I know I should probably back out, walk away from this music and this world and never look back, I can’t bear to disappoint Derek after what we’ve shared. Plus there’s the money, and the siren song of spinning for a giant crowd.
I’m almost late and buzzing with fatigue by the time I pull into the funeral home’s crowded parking lot. I tiptoe into the hall and find a seat in the back, behind weepy Russian families and college students with sunken, tear-streaked faces. As the priest approaches the podium I scan the crowd for Derek; in his last text, he said he was on his way.
I don’t see him, but I do notice Shay sitting with a few of her friends, her pink hair tucked beneath a black velvet cap. She turns and I duck my head, hiding my eyes. She still hasn’t returned my texts from Summerfest; I’ve picked up the phone to contact her so many times this past week, but then I’d look at the seven unanswered messages from last weekend and darken my screen. Shay knows I want to talk to her. It’s up to her to make the next move.
A priest approaches the podium and begins a hushed soliloquy about a Yelena I never knew: an honor-roll student who loved tennis and books about dragons, who went to college for psychology because she wanted to help people who were hurting. Then her best friend from high school, a girl named Hannah with a fake tan and hair the color of bread, reads a speech off of index cards about the time Yelena volunteered at an animal shelter and tried to adopt all the dogs. Sniffles echo through the hall and I swipe at my own eyes, wishing I’d thought to bring tissues. This is a side of Yelena I never saw, one I wish I’d had the chance to get to know.
Yelena’s mother is next. My heart constricts as she shuffles to the podium, supported by her husband. Even now, as she speaks in a halting Russian accent, I’m haunted by her wail in the hospital, the moment she learned her daughter was gone forever. I’ve been hearing it when I try to sleep at night, jolting me upright just before I sink into dreams.
As Mrs. Andreyev describes a young girl who loved dolls and animals, she dissolves into big, hacking sobs, weeping until makeup pools in the lines above her lips and she’s no longer able to speak. Then there’s sad organ music and a receiving line, the choking scent of lilies and a reception with platters of mayonnaise-y sandwiches that everyone’s too sad to touch.
Snippets of conversation brush my ears as I move slowly through the crowd, looking for Derek: her poor mother … camping trip … beautiful service … autopsy report …
I stop moving.
Autopsy report.
I still don’t know exactly how Yelena died: whether it was drugs or dehydration or a preexisting condition. But it sounds like someone here does.
“So shocked,” the voice—young, female, bland—continues. “Like, what happened to her in college?”
Very slowly, I turn my head and see Hannah, the girl who gave the speech about the animal shelter. She’s talking to a trio of people who look like they could be Britt’s high-school buddies: clean-cut, preppy, athletic-looking. Their eyes are wide with shock.
“So what did it say?” asks a girl with a face like pizza dough and watery green eyes.
“They found drugs in her system,” Hannah whispers. Her voice curls around the words, cupping them like a secret. “Crazy drugs.”
The trio gasps. I freeze next to them, hoping they won’t notice me lingering too close. I take out my phone and hit random buttons, trying to look like I’m absorbed in whatever’s on the screen.
“Like what?” someone asks.
“Like meth,” Hannah hisses.
My phone tumbles from my hand.
“Yelena was on meth?” someone repeats as I crouch to retrieve it. I sneak a glance at the group, but they’re too absorbed in their conversation to notice me scrambling around on the floor.
I stand, my heart pounding. The air in the room feels hot and close. I grip my phone harder, my palms slippery with sweat.
“Uh-uh,” says a guy with acne scars. “That’s got to be wrong. Do they have, like, false positives? Or maybe it got mixed up with someone else’s or something?”
I fight the urge to nod. Those results can’t be right. There’s no way Yelena could have been taking meth at that festival, not without us noticing. Sure, Yelena was manic and full of energy, but that was just because she was Yelena. It couldn’t be from meth. Could it?
“That’s what her parents said,” Hannah’s voice is coiled tight. “They made them go back and check again. So they did, and …” She trails off, but I can almost feel her nodding.
The
tiny logos on my screen swim in front of my eyes. How could Yelena have kept something like that from us? She wasn’t shy about telling people she did molly—but maybe she had other vices, hidden addictions she never let anyone see.
“Man,” a reedy male voice pipes in. “I mean, she got weird in college, but meth?”
“They found other stuff, too,” Hannah’s voice dips low. “Like, MDMA—which is like molly, I guess?—and this stuff butylone that I’d never heard of, but I googled it and it’s nasty.”
I still have my phone in my hand. I google butylone, my fingers shaky and unsure on the screen. A page full of dense scientific language dances in front of my eyes: Entactogen. Cathinone. Methylenedioxyphenethylamine. Somewhere in all of that, I find the only phrase I need: psychoactive drug.
My dress feels claustrophobic. I tug at the too-heavy fabric as I dig through my memories of Yelena, looking for clues. When she claimed to be gulping down molly, was she really swallowing other stuff, too? Was she sneaking more pills in the porta potties, crushing and snorting and smoking and huffing things when we weren’t looking?
“That just can’t be true,” Hannah’s friend says again, her voice quivering.
The air quivers along with it. It presses in on me until I feel like lilies are crawling down my throat. Did Britt know about any of this, I wonder? Did Derek?
“Shhh, her mom’s coming,” Hannah spits. “She’d kill me if she knew I was telling you this.”
Behind me I feel the group shift. I turn in time to see Hannah rearrange her face into a blank wall of sympathy for Mrs. Andreyev. The sight of Yelena’s mother’s grief-deep eyes is more than I can bear. I start toward the exit, needing air. I’m almost there when I spot Shay.
She’s signing the guest book. When she puts down the pen, our eyes meet and I’m glued to the spot, all the things I just heard and everything from the past week roaring in my head.
Yelena died before I even got to know her: before I knew that she volunteered with rescue animals or was into books about dragons. She died before I could thank her for buying me a dress and inviting two hundred people to my first set.
But Shay’s standing right here. It’s not too late to really get to know her. And life is too short to lose another friend.
She must be thinking the same thing because suddenly we’re rushing toward each other, not stopping until we’re crushed in a big, weepy hug.
“I’m sorry,” I say into her ear as she squeezes back, her cheeks leaving damp spots on my dress.
“No, I’m sorry,” she replies, her voice muffled. We pull apart and look at each other, trying to smile through our tears.
“That thing with Electri-City …” I start.
“No.” Shay cuts me off. “That’s my own bullshit. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”
“It should have been you,” I confess. “You deserve it more.”
“Yeah, well … like I said, DJing is ten percent music and ninety percent knowing whose ass to kiss.” She reaches for a paper cup of lemonade. “I just … I don’t know. I would’ve stayed with him longer if I knew he could get gigs like that.”
“Who?” I ask, confused.
“Never mind.” She shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Wait.” It dawns on me slowly. “You mean Derek? He was your manager?”
Shay gives a short, dry laugh. “I guess you could call it that.”
Suddenly, everything I’ve noticed about Derek and Shay starts to make sense. The strange chill between them. The way he changed the subject every time I mentioned her name.
“You used to go out,” I say slowly. “Didn’t you?”
Her cheeks turn pink. “Just for a few months, like a year ago. It’s not a big deal. I’m over him. It’s just—”
My mind skips back to everything Derek said about Shay, everything Shay said about Derek. There isn’t much, because Shay and I never talked about boys that much—we were usually too busy talking about music. Except for one time …
“Hold on.” I flash back to our conversation on her rooftop, the very first time we hung out. “When you said you used to sell molly for your ex. Did you mean Derek?”
“Uh, yeah.” Shay draws back. “How many dealers do you think I’ve hooked up with?”
My stomach drops as everything I thought I knew about Derek comes into sharp, sudden focus. How he was always ducking off to “meet someone.” The fact that he always seemed to have money, even though he told me he didn’t have a job. How weird and cagey Britt got when she learned I was hooking up with him—she must have known. And how he was always the first person Yelena looked for when she went to a party, and then suddenly she’d have a palm full of molly that she’d want to take right that second.
And then it hits me even harder: Derek’s not just a dealer. He was Yelena’s dealer.
Yelena, who died from taking a cocktail of drugs I can’t pronounce.
Yelena, who will never dance in a circle with her arms above her head again.
Yelena, whose body is in a casket about to be lowered into the ground.
“Derek sells drugs?” I ask, my voice tiny.
Shay raises an eyebrow. “You didn’t know?”
My heart plummets. The air attacks me with the smell of egg salad and lilies.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I mean, everyone knows.”
Everyone. Even Britt. No wonder she didn’t want me going out with him. I wouldn’t want my sister dating a drug dealer, either.
“I didn’t.” My throat is raw and my eyes sting. I can’t stand to be here anymore, standing in front of Shay, feeling like the world’s biggest fool. I turn and start through the crowd, gagging on the scent of too many bodies pressed together, too much heat and food and flowers.
“Text me?” Shay says to my back as I stumble out of the funeral home.
CHAPTER 27
Sweat soaks my dress as I drive to Brooklyn. Even with the windows open and the air conditioner wheezing away I can’t seem to cool down or catch my breath. All I can think about is Yelena convulsing in the dirt, her mother’s agonized cry in the hospital. Could Derek have done that to her—my Derek, the guy I lost my virginity to? The guy with whom I was maybe, possibly starting to fall in love?
I don’t want to believe it. I can’t imagine my sweet, gentle Derek slipping meth into Yelena’s hand. But I also couldn’t imagine Shay selling molly, or Yelena taking meth. I’m starting to think that nobody I’ve met this summer is who they seem to be.
My hands shake as I buzz Derek’s loft. My heart races with unanswered questions.
“Mira.” He answers the door in an undershirt and track pants, his eyes dark and sad. “Damn, it’s good to see you.”
He opens his arms and I long to pitch forward into them, to bury my face in his neck and let him kiss all this confusion away. But that’s not why I’m here.
“We need to talk.” I march past him into the loft.
“Um, okay.” His eyes widen in surprise, but leads me past a girl making smoothies in the kitchen, three guys playing video games on a couch, and a couple in leotards practicing a dance routine. In the cramped quiet of his room he sits on his bed and pats the spot next to him. I tuck my dress around my thighs and leave a few inches between us, but Derek doesn’t seem to notice. He takes my hand and runs his thumb along my palm, sending electrical currents up my arm. I want to melt into his touch, but I can’t. I yank my hand away.
Hurt flickers across his face. “What’s wrong?” he asks.
“Why weren’t you at the funeral?” I demand.
The hurt flares. “You think I didn’t want to be there? Yelena was one of my best friends.”
“So why weren’t you?”
He sighs and drops his head into his hands. “My fucking mom,” he says. “She ruined everything. Again.”
I train my eyes on him, tucking my head to one side.
“I told her I was going to a funeral,” he continues. “But she said it was an eme
rgency and I needed to come right away. When I got there, it turned out she just needed someone to drive her home from a dentist appointment.” He laughs a sharp, tuneless laugh. “They didn’t even use general anesthetic.”
I shake my head slowly. “That’s messed up.”
“It’s totally messed up. I missed her funeral for nothing. One of my best friends, and now I’ll never get to say goodbye.” He turns and punches a pillow, his back heaving. Then he pulls back and punches it again.
“Dammit!” he screams.
His back is coiled with tension, and it takes everything I have not to put my hands there and try to melt it away. But I can’t. Not now.
“I need to ask you something,” I say quietly.
“What?” He turns to me, still breathing hard. I notice a rim of red around his eyes, tiny blood vessels crossing the white.
“Did you sell her drugs?” The question stings my throat.
“Whoa.” Derek pulls back, his jaw hanging open. “Is that why you’re being like this?”
“Did you?” Now that it’s out it feels urgent, filling my head with pressure.
He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter if I did or not. Nobody dies on molly.”
The pressure pops, the truth leaking through my body until I feel like going limp. Shay was right. The guy I lost my virginity to is a drug dealer.
“What about meth?” I ask.
“What?” He gives a sudden, harsh laugh.
“They found meth in her system,” I tell him. “I heard at the funeral.”
He shakes his head. “Yelena wasn’t on meth.”
“Did you sell it to her?” I ask.
He drops my wrists, his face creased with sudden distrust. “How can you even ask me that?”
“You just told me you sell drugs.” A tear cuts loose from the corner of my eye. “How am I supposed to know what to think?”
A slow, sad smile crosses his face as he sits back on the bed. “You’re really innocent, aren’t you?”
I squirm under his gaze. “What does that have to do with it?”