Playlist for the Dead (2 page)

I scanned the list for something funeral-appropriate. Most of the songs were pretty depressing, so there wasn’t an obvious choice; I started with a song that reminded me of the first time I’d worn the suit I was about to put on. It was gray and a little shiny and I’d worn it with a bow tie. My cousins, preppie throwbacks, already thought I was weird, so why not give them some proof? Mom was cool about it, just said she was happy I had a sense of personal style and an opinion about my clothes. She’d been a sharp dresser herself, back when she and my dad were still together, when she used to try. Now she rarely changed out of the scrubs she wore to work. Rachel, my older sister, was less cool about the suit and called me a dork in a bunch of different ways before Mom made her go back upstairs and change out of the dress she’d wanted to wear. Which, let’s be honest, was kind of trashy for a family wedding.

Hayden had come over as I was getting ready, to see if I wanted to go to the mall with him. And by “mall,” he basically meant one store—the only store we ever went to. The Intergalactic Trading Company. The rest of the kids at school tended to hang out on the other end, near the sporting goods store. We rarely went down there. I’d forgotten to tell him about the wedding.

“Nice suit,” he said, in his quiet way, making it hard for me to tell if he was being serious or sarcastic. I was never sure, with Hayden. With me it was easy; I was always being a wiseass.

“Whatever. You wouldn’t be caught dead in one, right?” I winced now, remembering it, but even then I knew it wasn’t really true. Hayden would do whatever his parents told him. He didn’t like it, but it was better than the alternative.

He shrugged. “The bow tie helps,” he said. “But it would look way cooler with a T-shirt under it. Like this one.” He picked up the Radiohead shirt lying at the foot of my bed, the one he’d given me after going to see them on tour. It read
HOW IT ENDS, HOW IT STARTS
.

I rolled my eyes. “Does it really have to be Radiohead?”

“What’s wrong with Radiohead?” he asked, but he knew what I was going to say. We’d had this argument a million times.

“Some of their stuff is okay,” I said. “But what really makes them different from Coldplay? White English dudes who went to fancy universities and are probably too smart for their own good. But girls think Chris Martin is hot, and they think Thom Yorke is weird looking, and so Coldplay sells a bazillion albums and Radiohead has to reach out to geeks like us. Something about it just doesn’t seem right.”

“You’re way off,” he said. “Radiohead is on a different planet than Coldplay.
Kid A
might be the greatest record ever made, and Coldplay gets sued for plagiarism every time they release a single. Just talking about them at the same time, is, like, disrespectful to Radiohead.”

I loved getting Hayden all riled up. Back when we were little, Mom would worry about how much we fought. She’d come into my room when we were yelling at each other—okay, I was yelling; Hayden was rationally and patiently trying to explain his position, even as a kid—and she’d knock on the door. “Everything okay in there?”

“We’re fine,” we’d both say. And we were.

Just remembering it made me miss him.

I stopped getting ready for a minute and focused on the music coming out of my speakers. I wasn’t surprised he’d put “How to Disappear Completely” on his mix, since it was his favorite song (“Idioteque” was mine—despite how I needled Hayden, I agreed, Radiohead was infinitely better than Coldplay). I tried not to think too hard about the lyrics, about Hayden sitting there making this mix before making his final decision. I hated imagining him wanting to fade away like that.

My fists clenched, fingernails digging into my palms, and I tried to calm down. I’d spent the past few days alternating between missing him and hating him, feeling guilty and shitty, not knowing how I was supposed to be feeling but wanting it to be different, somehow. He’d left me alone, and I’d never have done that to him, no matter how mad I was. It had made it almost impossible to sleep, so on top of everything else I was exhausted. Exhausted and angry. A great combination.

Except being mad just started the cycle again, a cycle that was becoming familiar. Get angry. Blame Hayden. Feel guilty. Miss him. Get angry again. This was punctuated occasionally with the urge to scream or hit things, neither of which I could manage to do. Why couldn’t I be normal and just feel sad, like other people?

“Sam, get a move on!” Mom called from downstairs.

Back to missing him. I needed to do something to make myself feel better, though. I went to the laundry basket, dug out my old Radiohead T-shirt, and put it on under the suit.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

THE CHURCH WHERE THE FUNERAL
was being held was on the east side of Libertyville, the rich side. The Stevenses, Hayden’s family, lived there. Mine didn’t.

From the outside the church looked almost like a really fancy ski lodge, all dark wood and exposed beams—it had probably been built by one of the architects responsible for all the McMansions on that side of town. The wood was lighter on the inside, which had a high arched ceiling and a sparkly modern-looking chandelier hanging down. Almost like they wanted people to forget it was a church.

My family was Jewish, so the only church I’d ever been to was the Catholic one on my side of town, where all the kids I went to school with had their First Communions. We’d just moved to town so I didn’t really know anyone, but one of the kids in my class had invited everyone to his and Mom said I had to go if I wanted to make friends, though it didn’t really work out like that.

The Catholic church had looked more like what I’d expect a church to look like: white on the outside, with a crucifix at the altar and lots of stained-glass windows. This church looked almost nothing like it, except for the fact that there were two columns of pews that ended with an altar. At the foot of that altar was a coffin, and in that coffin was Hayden. Probably also wearing a suit.

By the time we showed up the place was almost full. Rachel had taken off to sit with her friends as soon as we walked in the door, shocker, and so it was just me and Mom walking up and down the aisles, trying to find seats. The first few rows were filled with Hayden’s family—I saw his family and Ryan, his older brother, as well as some aunts and uncles and cousins I recognized from the times I’d gone to Hayden’s house over the holidays. Since my family didn’t celebrate Christmas, Hayden would invite me over to have dessert with them after they’d finished opening their presents and having their big fancy dinner. Hayden was always grateful if I showed up, since it got him away from the table faster. His mom was always on his case about how much he ate, and Christmas was the worst. If he even looked at a second piece of pie, she’d give him a sharp look and say, “Do you really need that, Hayden?” But Hayden would never fight back. He wasn’t like that. He’d do anything to keep the peace.

They’d never deserved him, his family.

The rows behind Hayden’s family were filled with obnoxious rich people from his side of town and their obnoxious kids, friends of Ryan’s who’d spent years torturing Hayden, some at Ryan’s direction. They all thought life would always be as easy for them as it was right now. Rich jocks like Jason Yoder who hired tutors to get them through the hard classes, girls like Stephanie Caster with nose jobs and personal trainers who would have been beautiful without either but who now all looked exactly alike. I mean, they were still cute, don’t get me wrong, but it wasn’t the same. It made me furious, seeing them all sitting there, acting like they were so sad when all of this was at least partly their fault. How could I feel so out of place at my own best friend’s funeral?

Mom put her hand on my shoulder. The weight of it was comforting; I was glad I didn’t have to be here alone. “We’ve got to sit somewhere, sweetie.” She steered me toward the back of the room, into one of the pews near the church door. “I know you want to sit closer, but they’re going to start soon and there just isn’t room.”

I nodded, reminding myself to unclench my fists.

“You’ll need to check in with Rachel—she’s going to arrange for you guys to get a ride home, okay? I’m so sorry,” she said.

“Sure.” It wasn’t surprising, but I wasn’t upset by it—Mom was always having to take off early, or come home late. When Dad left for good she’d gone back to school nights to become a nurse practitioner, and since the hospital was understaffed she’d signed up for as much overtime as she could get, especially since Dad was kind of a slacker about sending checks. We weren’t in bad shape, she told Rachel and me, but we weren’t working with a whole lot of cushion, either. Not like the people sitting at the front of the church.

I struggled to get comfortable on the wooden bench as everyone began to settle down. It was already fifteen minutes after the service was supposed to start, and I could still hear people coming in behind me. For a guy with basically one friend, his funeral was pretty crowded.

He’d have hated it, I was sure. He’d have been sitting here in the back, with me.

I felt hot and itchy. I was starting to sweat under my shiny suit. I thought about leaving, but I was trapped in the row—Mom had snagged the seat on the end so she could duck out quietly, and some random woman in a brightly flower-printed dress had me pinned on the other side. Weren’t people supposed to wear black to funerals? She looked like she was off to a fucking garden party.

I felt the urge to hit something again and tried to find a way to focus so I could calm down. I listened to the music that was being piped through the speaker system. No organ here. I didn’t recognize the song; it was some kind of New Age elevator music, all soothing, with flutes. Another thing that would have made Hayden nuts. I wondered whether he’d picked one of the songs on the playlist especially for his funeral, and I tried to figure out which one it might be. The best I could come up with was an old Arcade Fire song from their
Funeral
album. We both loved Arcade Fire. We actually watched the Grammys when they won Album of the Year, the first time either of us had had any interest in that show since we were little kids.

After another ten minutes the minister stood up at the altar. He began to drone on about the tragedy of losing someone so young, all platitudes and euphemisms and none of the words that described what had really happened. It made me so crazy I just stared straight ahead at the backs of people’s heads. A few rows in front of me, a girl with long white-blond hair with black streaks in it leaned on the shoulder of some tall hipster dude. I didn’t recognize either one of them, at least not from the back. I couldn’t help but think it was funny that her hair seemed funeral-appropriate, compared with the woman in the garden-party dress.

When the actual prayers started Mom kissed the top of my head and said, “Gotta go,” leaving as quietly as her nursing clogs would let her. I felt bad she had to work so many hours on her feet that she’d soak them when she got home, most nights. I’d offered to get an after-school job once I’d turned fifteen, a few months ago, but she just laughed. “Long gone are the days that teenagers could get jobs at the mall,” she said. “Half the moms I know at the PTA are working at the Gap. You don’t have a shot, kiddo. Just keep studying and I’ll hit you up for some help when I retire.”

She was joking, but only sort of. I knew there were kids at school whose moms were waiting tables at Olive Garden, or selling makeup and jewelry from their east-side basements, pretending it was just for fun, as if they didn’t need to start helping out if they wanted to keep living there. Ever since the Liberty Appliance Factory closed, a few years ago, the line between the rich people and the people who were struggling to get by had gotten blurry. It was nice of Mom to at least go in late; I tried to remember not to be mad at her for leaving me here.

After the prayers, the minister started asking for testimonials. “Anyone who wants to speak, anyone who has something to share,” he said. There was an awkward pause. Finally, Hayden’s father stood up. I couldn’t bear to look at him, to see him crying as if he’d lost something so valuable to him, when I knew the truth, how he spent all his time at work or traveling or visiting the woman Hayden knew he was sleeping with, the one who went on all his business trips with him.

But I couldn’t block out the sound of his voice. “Hayden wasn’t the son I expected to have,” he said. “I’d imagined playing catch in the yard, watching football on the weekends, going fishing. The things I’d done with my dad; the things I do with Ryan. It was the only kind of relationship I knew how to have with a son.” His voice cracked. “But my second son didn’t enjoy any of those things. He loved music and video games and computers. I didn’t know how to talk to him. And now I’ll spend the rest of my life wishing I’d learned how.” He lowered his head, as if he were trying to hide the fact that he was crying.

It was a great performance. If only a single word of it were true.