All the Forever Things

by Jolene Perry

  “Ah,” he says.

  “Anything else interesting down here?”

  “The one that came in tonight is an old-age death. It’ll be a cremation.”

  “Nothing good to add to the list then,” I say. Mom frowns every time our list is mentioned, so it’s now on Matthew’s phone instead of taped to the white subway tiles on the wall.

  “Nope.” Matthew agrees as he starts to rinse off the body again. He’s meticulous—always giving the cadavers a shower before and after embalming. “Your dad would kill me if he knew you hung out with me in the middle of the night.”

  Matthew will cover for me, but knowing he lives with my aunt Liza, I really should make an effort to not complicate his life.

  “Night,” I tell him as I back out of the room.

  He’s totally absorbed in his world, lathering soap and gently swiping over Mr. Clancery’s face. “Night.”

  I pull open the metal door that leads to the back stairs and start running up in the blackness. Now I have to get some sleep, or at least try to plan what I might say to Bree when she comes to work tomorrow.

  Chapter 6

  Music echoes off the walls of the steel-and-white sterile room. “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” because Bree is going through another Beatles phase.

  The deceased, a Mrs. Farmer, rests between us, a bright light shining on her face so we can match her makeup to a photo we’ve been given by the family.

  Bree’s frosted, glossed lips move slightly as she sings along and dumps the first bit of foundation onto a small sponge.

  “Um, you owe me details,” I tell her. “I haven’t forgotten that you left me totally in the dark last night.”

  “Me either.” Bree smirks before continuing.

  I readjust myself on the stool. Short skirts and stools don’t mix well.

  “Too dark,” Bree says, pointing to the liner I pick up.

  I point to the picture of Mrs. Farmer. “I’m trying to match the picture.”

  The elderly woman is fully dressed but still on the prep table that rests between Bree and me. Her coffin is waiting off to the side next to a few empty gurneys.

  Bree lets out a sigh. “That picture is from a big anniversary celebration. I don’t think she needs to be so made up at her own funeral.”

  She pops her lips together a few times as she studies the woman’s face.

  Narrowing my eyes at Bree’s work and then at the picture, I loosen my hold on the brown pencil. “Funerals are sort of like a party,” I mumble.

  Bree snorts through her dainty nose and gives me a sideways look. “Funerals aren’t parties.”

  “So you, like, dropped off the planet last night.”

  Bree snatches the eyeliner with a grin. “It was just really late when I finally got home.”

  “Did your grammy freak?”

  Bree rolls her eyes. “Whatever. She goes to bed at, like, eight.”

  I know I’m not normal in this moment because all I can think is, Who is going to keep Bree safe if her grammy doesn’t even know when she comes and goes?

  “It was…” Bree pauses for a moment. “He was so super relaxed, and we just talked and it was not at all what I expected.”

  Nerves and bewilderment ping around inside me, making it hard to consider sitting. “What did you expect?”

  Bree’s smile has to be hurting her cheeks.

  Mrs. Farmer has been forgotten.

  “I expected…I guess I expected that he’d be sort of loud and conceited and talk about sports the whole time or something. I don’t know.” She sucks her lower lip into her mouth, but her smile is still there. He’s totally going to weasel his way in as her boyfriend or something—at least until he’s done with her. “He’s just…so cute and so fun. It was totally his idea to set our cell phones aside and hang out. Like, no one does that anymore, you know?”

  I fold my arms. “Everybody thinks he’s sweet until the guys on whatever team Bryce is on start wagging their brows at whoever he’s dating and hinting they’ve seen pictures, or hinting that Bryce is big on embellishing his kiss-and-tell stories.”

  “Kiss-and-tell stories?” Bree quirks a brow.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Is it so strange that I had fun?” she asks. “He might not even like me past being friends. He didn’t make a move to kiss me or anything. We ate, and we just had so much to say that we kept talking and talking. And then we went down the stairs to the beach and walked up and down until we could barely see, so he had to use his dying phone’s flashlight to get back up the stairs.”

  She’s all giggly and starry-eyed and…He was supposed to act like his stereotypical self so she’d run screaming. What is his endgame? And how did any of this keep her from writing me?

  “You know it’s my job as your friend to, like, keep warning you about his reputation, right?” I take the eyeliner back and begin Mrs. Farmer’s eyes again.

  Her smile doesn’t even waver, and her eyes don’t lose an ounce of sparkle. “We spent most of the time saying things to each other that we don’t say in the after-school group that the counselor does.” Bree shrugs. “His dad just stopped coming home for weekends from LA, and they don’t talk. I barely talk to either of my parents, so Bryce gets that about me.”

  There is a feeling swirling inside me that I can’t totally place, maybe a touch of jealousy mixed with worry mixed with…I don’t know what else. I was the one who sat next to Bree through her parents’ divorce. Just like she was the one who sat next to me after my grandparents died. Doughnuts on the beach, sugar and sand, and now suddenly Ego-Bryce has insights I don’t?

  “I know that look.” Bree’s smile falls. “Please let me be happy.”

  I let out a sigh. She helped me pick up the pieces after Bryce’s teasing made me want to stop going to school. I don’t understand how she could move forward with him now.

  Bree shifts on the bed. “I think you’re getting weird.”

  I start to rub my face, but stop the second my finger touches my sore nose. “I’m not getting weird. I’m just worried.”

  “I’m not stupid, but the really, really vain side of me is doing cartwheels right now. Bryce. Johnson. He’s like…the guy, you know? He’s the guy who would be the unattainable hottie in every teen movie ever made. And the other part of me knows he’s got this reputation, but I can’t reconcile the guy I went out with last night with this jerk we’ve painted him to be.” Every word of hers is pleading for me to understand. To share her excitement. I just can’t. And Bree isn’t the kind of person to let herself be fooled this way.

  “Several ex-girlfriends have had pretty nasty things to say about him,” I point out. “So he has to be pretty good at pretending at first.”

  “And ex-girlfriends’ rants are so accurate.” I wait for the confident Bree to roll her eyes or tilt her head, but she’s still staring at me with doe eyes. “This is someone I’ve wanted to talk to you about, and I never have. Just…”

  I stop with the eyeliner and try to think of some kind of argument, but maybe it’s stupid to fight against her wanting to be with him. I don’t know.

  “But it got me thinking a little…” Bree opens an eye shadow compact. “Like, you and I do our thing, and it doesn’t change. I mean, when was the last time you sneaked out?”

  “I sneak down to chat with Matthew,” I say. And where would I even go if I left here? It’s not like I’m going to drive in the middle of the night. I don’t even like driving during the day. “And we’ve snuck a few bottles of wine from Liza.”

  “Matthew doesn’t count.” Bree snorty-laughs. “And sipping on wine we don’t even like in one of the million spare rooms in this place only half counts. I don’t know. I guess…I guess I feel like this is when we should be really out there, you know?”

  No, I don’t know. I have no idea how to respond or what to think. We have fun together. I work a lot. We hang at my house or her grammy’s house or at Audrey’s Boutique. It’s good. I love our
routine. A long time ago, we both decided that high school was just something to endure until we could live our real lives. How could Bryce change that in one night?

  “Well, anyway. We texted for like an hour after I dropped him off. He promised that he’d drive next time, and…” Her shoulders come up and her smile widens even further and she takes in this long breath. “And I’m happy there’s going to be a next time.”

  I try to shade the violet shadows together over the woman’s lids without thinking about the eye caps underneath the skin.

  “So. I’m going to ask you for a monster favor because I really need my friend to not make that face.” Bree points.

  I look up. “What face?”

  “The face that says I’m betraying you for not hating Bryce until his death for minor crimes committed against you years ago.” Bree’s smile turns sheepish. “Please, please consider giving Bryce a blank slate.”

  I feel my brows rising before I can form words. “A blank slate for Bryce?”

  Bree clasps her hands, her eyes back to the same pleading as in the library. “Pleeease?”

  We both know there’s no way I’m going to tell her no, but seriously, Bryce Johnson.

  “Ruined my first kiss,” I say.

  “That same guy took your best friend out on one of the best dates of her life,” Bree counters.

  “Fine.” I push out an exaggerated sigh. “You win. Blank slate.”

  “Yay!” Bree throws her arms around me. “Now I can actually talk about him.”

  And I will have to pretend I can actually forget what an ass Bryce is.

  Chapter 7

  Bree stands at the doorway of my big walk-in closet, tapping her chin. “I’m so proud, Gabe.” She dabs at fake tears. “You’ve come so far, but how do I forget how much black you have?”

  I step beside her, glad my closet is so massive. “I need it for work.” Which isn’t really true. Mom and Dad only wear black about half the time.

  “But…” She steps inside and starts tapping some of my favorite things—almost all of which I bought while we were shopping together. “What about this?” Her fingers stop on a turquoise dress she bought me for my birthday.

  “I love it…” But then I falter. “I feel neon in it.”

  Bree’s gaze flits to her own outfit. Lime green, orange, and yellow flowers dot the 1960s shift dress.

  Her fingers tap a few more things. “Next time we hit Audrey’s, I’m going to make you branch out a bit.”

  Branch out?

  Bree’s phone chirps in “Brown Eyed Girl,” and she steps out of my closet with a face-splitting smile.

  I cross my arms. Every piece of clothing in my closet is a mix of Bree’s funky, vintage style and my need to blend. And it’s not all black. I have some charcoal plaids and a few bits with ivory or white on them. Almost everything in here was purchased while I was with Bree—how can she be criticizing my closet?

  Tweezers snap in front of my face. “I haven’t forgotten…” she singsongs.

  I groan, but she’s totally right. My brows need help every couple weeks.

  “You.” She points to me and then to the small white chair that sits in front of the antique vanity Mom bought me. “Sit.”

  I flop down like a petulant kid, pushing out my lower lip. This is going to be extra painful with my sore face. I’m going to have to try super hard not to flinch.

  Bree snorts. “You’d die without me doing this for you.”

  “Truth.” There is no way I can tweeze my own brows because every time I pluck a hair, I jump, and pretty soon I’m jumping before I pluck. I stabbed myself in the eye once and had to do medicated drops for a week.

  “You try to relax. I bet the pain meds you took for your face will help.” Bree taps her toes on the hardwood floor as she studies my face with tweezers in hand. “Your nose doesn’t look quite as bad as I thought it would. Little shiner. Little purple. Not horrible.” She snaps the tweezers a few more times as she squints and gets closer to me. “How was your drive home with Hartman? You got my text, right?”

  “Yes, I got your text. I have no idea how to take interesting, but I guess I’d say the same thing about him. It was sort of awkward but fine.” I close my eyes because I’d rather not know when she’s going to start.

  “Hands under your butt,” she directs, and I do as she says.

  I’ve been known to jerk at unfortunate times.

  “And that’s it?” she asks. “Fine? He totally seems like your type.”

  “I have a type?” I ask.

  “You prefer Q to James Bond. You’re obsessed with The Sorcerer’s Apprentice because you like that skinny guy. After that movie night with your cousin, you made me watch Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist because you think Michael Cera is hot. So yeah, I think you have a type.”

  “Hartman is the new guy. Weird or not, girls are going to think he’s awesome because he’s new. I’m not into competing for the interest of a guy I probably will barely remember when I’m thirty.” Besides, he’s friends with Bryce. But since I just gave Bryce a blank slate, I can’t say that.

  A sharp pain slices over my eyelid. “Ouch!”

  “Relax!”

  “Hartman’s sort of strange and awkward anyway,” I say.

  She plucks a few more brows, and I attempt a relaxed breath out, which hiccups when she pulls another brow.

  “You know I love you, but you’re sort of strange and awkward, Gabe. Or crazy aloof at the very least. I mean, I think the guys at our school have pretty much given up trying to get your attention.”

  Guys have tried to get my attention?

  “Thanks to Bryce.” I clamp my mouth shut.

  “No,” she says, jerking out two hairs with a little too much force. “Thanks to your reaction to his juvenile comments over three years ago. And blank. Slate.”

  “I liked Davis!” I laugh to try to show I’m over it, but the memory still pinches a little, so I’m not really over it.

  She plucks a few more hairs, and I wince again.

  “It was middle school,” she says. “Davis moved away three months later anyway.”

  I hate that she’s right. But it’s still Bryce’s pattern of jerk-off behavior.

  “Bryce texted,” she says, and I can tell by her tone she wants me to ask her about it, but…

  I choke before the words come up my throat. “And?”

  “We’re maybe getting together later.”

  “But—” But I had to share Bree yesterday.

  “Seriously.” She bends forward to look me in the eye. “You’re not at all happy that I’m happy?”

  “I’m…” Still at a complete loss as to what I’m supposed to say right now.

  Bree stands. Stab. Stab. Stab. Stab.

  “I don’t care about my brows!” I yell.

  “Two more.”

  “Liar.”

  “Really, it was Bryce’s comment about Wednesday Addams that made you research movies to figure out who he was talking about, and that research led you into heaven on earth.”

  Audrey’s Vintage Boutique.

  “And led you to the fabulous sense of fashion you have now—aside from all the black.”

  “Job hazard,” I say automatically, and jump off my hands when she plucks out another hair. “Stop! I want to be Oscar the Grouch. Stop!”

  “I’m done.” She snaps the tweezers a few more times. “I just want to point out that maybe you have Bryce to thank for your quirky and fantastic sense of fashion as well as our disdain for everything high school, and maybe even, in a small way, our friendship.”

  I point up at Bree. “That is completely ridiculous.”

  She rolls her eyes in the way that says I’m not going to be able to convince her of anything. “So, you’re not really giving Bryce a do-over, are you?”

  “I’m…trying?” I offer.

  Two knocks are followed by Mom.

  “Hey, Bree.”

  “Hey, Mrs. O.” Bree smiles. “
What’s up?”

  “Make sure you write down your hours before you leave, so we can get you a check, okay?”

  Bree gives her a salute, and then Mom’s eyes turn toward me. “I have two more things to finish up, but I’m sure your sister is ready to come home. Can you go pick her up?”

  “At Liza’s?” I ask with a groan. “When will you let her walk home on her own?”

  Bree snorts. “It might be fun, Gabe. Maybe Aunt Liza will grab your chest again and remark on your growing bosoms.”

  “Please, Gabe,” Mom says.

  I let my head fall back in mock exasperation. “Fine. But I’m digging through the snack closet before I go.”

  “Thanks, honey.” Mom smiles before leaving.

  Bree drops the tweezers in her bag. “Your parents are the best.”

  “They’re…something,” I offer, but I clamp my mouth shut before I complain too much. Bree’s parents are pretty much the worst right now.

  The need to apologize is still bugging me.

  “Hey, I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I’ll try to, like, be excited for you.”

  Bree says nothing, just goes back to looking at my rows of clothes. She’s silent for so long that I’m scrambling for something to fill the space between us.

  “You’re being quiet. Guys don’t come between us,” I say, even though evidence is now supporting the opposite.

  “No, I know…” But her gaze doesn’t find mine.

  “Website?” I ask, knowing that working on our vintage-y blog is the one thing we can always agree on.

  Her eyes brighten immediately, and she leaves my closet before crawling onto my bed and sliding my laptop off the nightstand. I join her. Now, we’re back in our Bree and Gabe zone.

  Bree shows me a new photographer she found who takes for-real Polaroids from one of the original cameras instead of all the new knockoffs. Her comments go from the really fantastic pictures to something else Bryce said, to the pictures, to something Bryce said, to a dress, to Bryce…

  I do lots of smiling that involves my jaw being tighter than it should be for a smile. This isn’t what it’s like to hang with Bree. When I hang with Bree, I don’t have to put on any kind of face or front or politeness. How has that shifted with one Bryce date?