Page 44 of Love at a Funeral and Other Awkward Conversations

Her voice changes, and I can almost picture how her smile drops on the other end. “Love you, Cassie.”

“You too.”

While it’s on my mind, I find Mr. Alvarado’s number and dial. He doesn’t answer, I’m sure because it’s the middle of a school day, and I leave a message asking him to call me back as soon as he can. Then I dig out the to-do list I’ve started in a notebook and add all the tips Aunt Joanie gave me, plus some names of people and places I can possibly ask for donations.

The lined paper is filled with my chicken scratch, and I’m overwhelmed by all the things I haven’t accomplished yet…which is basically everything.

Groaning from exhaustion, I put everything away and get ready for work, taking time to style my newly colored hair with purple highlights. Part of me hoped my mother would pick a fight about the color. She used to dislike that I’d dye my hair so dark, almost black, but now she didn’t even bat an eye at the purple. My father noticed, though. He rolled his eyes and reminded me, “You’re an adult, Cassandra, not a girl playing dress-up.”

I tossed him the middle finger behind his back. Ever since I hit my teenage years, Dad had, for the most part, left me alone. It wasn’t great, but at least it wasn’t this. All of us have changed from Before to After Ray, but Dad has, by far, become the worst. He’s just plain mean now.

At work, I constantly check my phone, hoping to hear from Mr. Alvarado, but by close, there’s still nothing. I’m sure he’s busy with the end of the school year coming up, yet I need some help. I haven’t been this frazzled since—since the funeral.

I call Vince from the back of the kitchen. When he answers, I say, “I’m freaking out.”

“What?”

“I’m freaking out.”

“Why?”

“I have so much to do for the tournament. A tournament… Who said that was a good idea?”

It sounds like he shuffles something, and his voice is hoarse when he says, “You want to grab a drink?”

“On a school night? How wild.”

“I could use a stiff drink.”

“Yeah?”

He murmurs an agreement and, after a few moments, says, “We buried a little girl today. She was eight years old. Cancer.”

I have no words. It’s awful. And a stiff drink seems like the right answer, but I don’t want to go to a bar after finishing my shift of serving drinks. “How about I bring drinks and some food over to your place?”

“You’ve never been here before,” he says in a voice higher than usual.

“Don’t sound so nervous.” When he doesn’t respond, I grin. “I promise not to take advantage of you.”

He huffs out a laugh. “I’ll text you the address.”

A minute later, his address comes through, and in twenty minutes, I’m on my way to his house. It’s small, not too far from the Mancini Funeral Home, but it always strikes me when someone my age lives on their own. They seem so much older, more mature than me…perpetually a child living in my parents’ basement.

The porch light is on, shining down on the space in front of the door, and I hold open the screen door to knock. Vince answers wearing dark athletic shorts and a T-shirt that shows off the contours of his chest. He smiles and holds his arm up for me to walk under. The living room to my left is sparse, with a coffee table, TV, and big couch, while a well-worn wooden staircase in front of me leads upstairs. I lean down to kiss Gracie’s head.

Vince accepts the greasy paper bag and box of wine from my hands before leading me to the back of the house. Gracie races ahead of us to the kitchen. It’s straight 1960 with teal cabinets, white countertops, and patterned laminate flooring. It’s kind of quaint in its older style and totally Vince. When he sets the food and drink down on the kitchen table, I explain, “I got Potter’s. It’s the only thing open this late.”

“I’m not complaining.” He sticks a couple of fries into his mouth before retrieving two glasses from a cabinet above the sink. He hands one to me, and I waste no time opening the spout on the box. “Like a pro,” he teases.

I fill up my glass, hold it aloft to him in a silent toast then down about half of it. When I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, all ladylike, he gives me a goofy smile, filling up his own glass. He sits down with the burger, fries, and wine, sighing like it’s the best meal he’s ever had.

“Sorry about your day,” I offer.

He nods, mouth full. I eat a few fries then give some to Gracie, who’s at my feet.

“You’re going to spoil her,” he tells me.

“That’s why she loves me more.”

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