Page 1 of Shy Girls Can't Date Rockstars
One
Thefuneraldirectorkeepsasking if I want to eat something.
“There’s plenty of food, dear,” she says for the third time, gesturing toward the tables groaning under casserole dishes and sandwich platters. “Your parents would want you to keep your strength up.”
I nod and mumble something sounding agreeable, but my stomach churns at the thought.
Everything smells wrong.
The ham is too salty. The bread is too processed. The potato salad drowns in jarred mayonnaise.
If Mom were here, we’d have real flavor because she would have made her signature herb-crusted chicken with roasted vegetables. Dad would have insisted on fresh bread from the bakery downtown, not these soggy sandwiches that taste like cardboard.
But Mom and Dad will never make anything ever again.
It’s been two weeks since they died. There was a police investigation into their deaths to determine if it was a freak accident or if there was someone to pinpoint blame on to. The coroner had to do his investigations, and in the meantime, the funeral director had too many questions for me.
I put this day off for as long as I could. Social services have been arranging a new home for me while I continue to live at my actual home. I’m technically supposed to be staying next door with the Patels, but I keep sneaking back home. Mr. and Mrs. Patel seem to understand and haven’t pushed me to do anything I don’t want.
The same can’t be said for social services. I completely block out the grief counsellor they make me see. That person can’t say anything to make this better. I don’t want coping mechanisms. Coping with this isn’t possible.
I press my back against the wall of the funeral home’s main parlor. Despite its high ceilings and ornate crown molding, this room is suffocating. The walls are off-white and the curtains are thin to let in natural light. As if to signal we’re all supposed to move on. Live life even though we’re grieving those who can’t.
With no appetite, I watch people pile their plates high with mediocre food and talk about my parents in past tense.Weresuch good people.Hadsuch a bright future ahead of them.Would have beenso proud to see Alice graduate.
Would have been. If they hadn’t driven through that storm to cater the Henderson wedding. If I hadn’t stayed home sick with the flu. If Dad hadn’t taken the mountain shortcut to make up time because they were running late without their usual prep help.
If, if, if.
My hands shake as I reach for my phone, muscle memory wanting to text Mom that I’m okay. That the funeral wentfine. That people said nice things. Instead, I stare at our last conversation from thirteen days ago.
Me: Feel awful. Sorry I had to stay home.
Mom: Rest up, sweetheart. We’ll bring you soup when we get back.
Dad: Don’t eat all the ice cream while we’re gone!
They never came back.
Through the tall windows, I spy the parking lot and envision their catering van parked out front. The van that’s now a twisted wreck in some police impound lot. The insides smeared with the wedding cake intended to make the Henderson’s wedding day perfect.
An insurance agent inspected all the catering equipment in my parents’ commercial kitchen, and put a monetary value on everything. It was a conversation I did my best to tune out. Mrs. Patel stood beside me, taking notes as I escaped the cold reality. Apparently a commercial realtor will sell everything. The industrial ovens, professional mixers, all the tools that built their business from the ground up. These things take time, and I’m counting on it. While all my parents’ belongings stay put, I can imagine my parents are still here. I can just ignore the part where I need the money for my future.
I pull from my pocket the candy bar my friend Jill gave me. She did her best, staying through the service, but funerals and death freak her out. She hightailed it out of here after giving me a shaky hug and apologizing ten times.
My first bite tastes heavenly, until the flood of endorphins wears off. But I don’t care. I continue to shovel the caramel and chocolate in my mouth, hoping it’s enough to make me forget where I am right now.
“Alice?” A woman in a wrinkled blazer approaches me, consulting a tablet.
“Really?” I mumble with the last bite of my candy bar.
“I’m sorry for approaching you here, of all places,” she replies. “But you’ve given me no choice. You stopped answering my calls or opening the door when I knocked.”
Can she blame me? She’s my social worker. She’s arranging a new life for me. One that erases me from the home I grew up in. That deletes all the history I had with my parents.
“Mrs. Rodriguez, I already told you.” I swallow hard, even though my throat is closing up. “I can stay with the Patels. Mrs. Patel already said…”
“We’ve been in contact again with your mother’s sister in Victoria Falls. Miranda Knox has agreed to take you in.”
