When Mom and Dad and I got in the car, I said, “I don’t want to go. I’m tired.” “Hazel,” Mom said.
“Mom, there won’t be a place to sit and it’ll last forever and I’m exhausted.
“Hazel, we have to go for Mr. and Mrs. Waters,” Mom said. “Just...” I said.
I felt so little in the backseat for some reason. I kind of wanted to be little. I wanted to be like six years old or something.
“Fine,” I said. I just stared out the window awhile. I really didn’t want to go.
I didn’t want to see them lower him into the ground in the spot he’d picked out with his dad,
and I didn’t want to see his parents sink to their knees in the dew-wet grass and moan in pain,
and I didn’t want to see Peter Van Houten’s alcoholic belly stretched against his linen jacket,
and I didn’t want to cry in front of a bunch of people, and I didn’t want to toss a handful of dirt onto his grave,
and I didn’t want my parents to have to stand there beneath the clear blue sky with its certain slant of afternoon light,
thinking about their day and their kid and my plot and my casket and my dirt.
But I did these things. I did all of them and worse, because Mom and Dad felt we should.
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