Page 2 of Four Weekends and a Funeral

“Why didn’t you correct anyone?” Mara asks. Her tall frame settles against the beige cubbies lining the school hallway.

“I tried!” She challenges my excuse with a barely perceptible eye roll. “What did you want me to do? Say ‘No, Mrs.Lewis, I’m sure you don’t have enough on your plate today, so let me be the one to tell you that we broke up six weeks ago’?”

She dismisses her pulsing phone with a frown. “At least he dumped you. Less culpability.”

My teeth worry at my bottom lip. “I think that makes it worse somehow.”

Mara’s phone pulses again, more violently this time, and she soundtracks her question with furious thumb taps. “Why’d you want us to come then?”

My feet squelch as I pace the small opening of Ms.Dubicki’s classroom door. “His mom wanted me here…which suddenly makes a bit more sense. But we’re trying to stay friends. Were, I mean,” I correct myself, an apostrophe the difference between life and death. “Who’re you texting during my crisis?”

“The Guy,” she grumbles. Mara manages the campaign of a potential mayoral candidate whom she refers to only as “the Guy.” Her texting demeanor—all stiff shoulders and flared nostrils—broadcasts her frustration with her newest candidate. “And since we’re clearly doing this”—she gestures in a circle between us—“I’m briefing Chelsea to get us all on the same page. She has thoughts.”

“This? What is…” I rip my silent phone out of my coat pocket and groan at my missed notifications from Chelsea Olsen, the other member of our trio. “You can’t text ‘Al is dating Sam’ in the group chat with no further context. Chelsea’s asking if it’s a ‘Devon Sawa Casper scenario.’ ”

While Mara is a classic old soul—with the confidence and jaded perspective that comes from having done it all and seen it all—Chelsea’s soul is fresh and new. The possibilities for her are always endless, so when Mara texts a coded message about my waking nightmare, Chelsea’s first thought is that I’ve fallen into a paranormal romance with a ghost.

“Don’t answer that. Never admit to anything in writing. Keep all your statements on message. Right now, the story is you’re still dating Sam.”

“I don’t need a story. I need to set this straight.” I take a deep, restorative breath before losing steam and slumping next to Mara against the cubbies. “How do I do that?”

“The Notes-app apology on Instagram is always a classic. But I think you can just tell his mom there’s been a misunderstanding.”

“Yeah. Yes, of course.” Anxiety twists my stomach. “I think I need a second.”

My eyes drift to the glowing fire exit and the sign below it that reads caution. alarm will sound.

Before I can properly consider escape routes, a gorgeous blond woman barges through the hallway doors. “Is one of you Alison?” the stranger asks. “Russell said Sam’s girlfriend went this way.” She stops short, somehow perfectly positioned in the single ray of sunshine pouring into the dark, nearly windowless hallway so that she’s bathed in light like an angel of death. But then her wild eyes slam into me with recognition. Damn it, Russell. “Alison? I’m Rachel, Sam’s sister.”

As soon as she says her name, I see it. Rachel Lewis looks so much like her brother, the same ocean-blue eyes and beachy blond waves. Without a stitch of makeup, she glows in her simple black cotton dress. I suppress the inappropriate urge to ask for her skin-care routine.

The words Sam’s girlfriend ring in my head like an alarm. This is the confrontation I’ve been hurtling toward—to rehash my dumping by the man we’re all here to mourn. My body braces for impact. “There’s been a misunderstanding,” I explain in the passive voice like a true politician. Mara should be proud. “I’m Sam’s ex-girlfriend. I’m not sure how, but—”

She cuts me off with a dismissive hand wave. “I know all of that. Who have you told?”

I stop analyzing each of her eerily Sam-like features and finally take in Rachel’s demeanor. She’s shifting her weight from foot to foot and peering over her shoulder like an intrepid reporter handling an increasingly volatile source, the kindergartners’ coat hooks a stand-in for a darkened parking garage.

I squint at Rachel. “Told?”

“That you’re broken up. Tell me you didn’t tell anyone.” Her eyes are pleading with me.

I look at Mara before answering. “I tried to correct Russell, but it went over his head.”

“Wait, I’m sorry. You know?” Mara asks, transforming into “Work Mara” like a corporate Animorph.

“He had me take Alison’s name off the plane ticket to Chile. Of course I know,” Rachel explains, leaning toward us. “But I’m the only one who does.”

Back when I was dating Sam and feigning wild impulsivity, Sam promised he’d “figure out” my flight and accommodations if I’d join him in Chile. Just say yes. The rest will work itself out, he assured me. I’d thought it was some sort of “the universe will provide” mantra, but apparently, “the universe” was his flight attendant sister.

Mara snaps her head in my direction. “Plane ticket?”

“Sam invited me on his January Patagonia trip,” I answer, my shoulders stiffening under my friend’s narrowed gaze.

“And you agreed?” Mara asks. “Of your own free will?”

Rachel’s waving arms cut into our aside of meaningful looks and shrugs. “We don’t have much time,” she instructs, her voice vibrating with a panicked energy. “I’m giving the eulogy in a few minutes, and I need to know that you’ll go along with this.”

“What do you mean, ‘go along’?” Mara folds her arms.

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