Remembering Raquel (5 page)

"Are you going to be going to Maplewood in September?" Raquel's mom asked me.

I nodded, and her mother said, "Raquel, too."

"Great," I said. "See you," and I walked away, intercepting Stacy and Zoe before they could be brought into the conversation. I took one by each arm and headed them toward the games of chance. Zoe and Stacy both had their noses wrinkled.

"Eww, what's that smell?" Zoe asked.

"Someone threw up on the Roundup," I said, chomping energetically on my gum to release the wintergreen scent. The ride operator had tossed a bucket of water on the nasty heap I'd made, which spread it out more than cleaned it up, but he took down the entrance chain to let people on again.

"Eww," Zoe repeated. "I'm not going on that."

"Exactly," I agreed.

Stacy asked, "Was it that chubby girl?"

I could have said no. I could have said it was some other girl who had been on the ride near us, some other girl I could no longer see in the crowd. But I didn't think of that. I just thought how embarrassed I'd be if they knew it had been me.

So I said, "Yes."

Zoe said, "Fat girl's probably been eating all afternoon. No wonder she barfed." Even though Raquel wasn't really fat then, just a bit round.

"That's Raquel Falcone," Stacy said. "She lives down the street from me."

Even hearing that Stacy knew Raquel didn't make me fess up—I'd be revealed as a liar, which was even worse than being revealed as someone with a weak stomach who'd upchucked on innocent bystanders after a carnival ride.

"Eww," Zoe said yet again. "I hope that doesn't mean she'll be coming to school here."

Oh, yeah. Even though I'd responded to Raquel's mother, I hadn't really thought of that.

But it was definitely too late to admit anything.

I owe you, Raquel,
I thought.
I owe you big.

But I never paid her back.

I'm still sitting here in the funeral parlor, and I'm regretting my choice of clothing.

I figured I had to wear black to be respectful, but I'm not a black clothes kind of girl. I have a pair of Levi's that started life black, but they're gray now—and not even dark gray. So I borrowed my mother's black skirt, even though it was too tight. I managed to get it buttoned, but really it was cutting me in half at the waist. Still, I figured I could put up with a bit of discomfort in honor of my dead classmate. Besides, it wasn't like I was going to be eating or dancing or anything but sitting in it.

Though breathing, occasionally, might be nice.

My choice of black tops was also limited. There's one sleeveless souvenir T-shirt I have that says
OCHO RIOS, JAMAICA/NO PROBLEM, MON
. Not appropriate, I decided. One of my other tops is gauzy and has sparkles, which seemed a bit overdone for a funeral service. The last is black velvet, and when I tried it on at home it went perfectly with the skirt. I figured it might be a bit warm for May, but by evening the temperature would dip and I'd be fine.

I looked good at home, and in the car while my mother drove me here, and as she dropped me off by the front door. Then I walked into the funeral parlor.

Right beyond the front door at the Bauleke and Morrow Funeral Home, they've got this big ornate mirror that takes up half the wall. Why? I have no idea. As if people who are in mourning want to see themselves puffy-eyed and red-nosed. I caught my reflection, and saw that the black of my velvet top was a totally different black from the black of my mother's skirt.

They looked hideous together.

Okay,
I told myself,
the lights have to be bright out here because people are coming in from outside, and the management doesn't want anyone tripping over the doorway or the edge of the rug or anything.

Maybe,
I thought,
in the actual room where the body is laid out, they will have the lights dim so as not to be too bright and cheery.

Turns out the light in this room could probably give a person a tan.

I'd never seen an actual dead person before, and I wasn't eager to see one now. Thinking maybe I could work myself up to it—or not—I avoided the end of the room where the casket was set, surrounded by more flowers than I'd ever before seen indoors. I was amazed at the number of people, too, but it was too late to leave. My mom wouldn't be back for another forty minutes. There were a lot of sofas and chairs, so I headed for one and sat down in the hope that no one would notice my mismatched outfit.

Suddenly, I felt the waistband button of my mother's skirt give. I hoped it had just unbuttoned.

Yeah. What were the chances of that?

The thing was so tight, I was fairly certain it wouldn't fall off me, even with the top button gone, but since there were ten buttons going down the front, I was also fairly certain my mother would throw a hissy fit if I came home one button short because that would mean she had to either search out a store that carried a matching one, or change all of them.

I looked on the floor. But of course, no button. Deciding it must have rolled under my chair, I stood—taking care to adjust my velvet top over the waistband so no one would see I'd popped a button—and I got down on my knees to feel around on the rug.

Nothing.

People were trying not to look at me. They probably thought I was praying for Raquel but was too dumb to find the casket.

I got up, accidentally stepping on the hem of the skirt, and the button—which had been caught in the folds of fabric all along—fell to the floor and rolled under the chair.

Once again I genuflected and reached under the chair. Retrieved the button. Stood. Caught, once again, the trailing edge of the skirt. Felt it shift slightly southward, and threw myself into the chair before it could end up around my ankles. Knocked my elbow against the dried flower arrangement on the table by the chair. Caught vase and flowers before anything actually hit the floor, and only broke a couple of the stems by grabbing too tight. Stuffed them back in the vase, and set the vase back on the table. Hoisted the skirt back up to my waist.

I wasn't moving again, I thought, till it was time to leave. And until then, I would fervently pray that most of the other people would go first, before my mother arrived.

This was when I noticed how warm it was.

Much too warm to be wearing a velvet top.

Which was what my mother had suggested at home, but my lack of clothing options had made me hope she'd be wrong.

Don't think about it,
I told myself.
Think about something else.

So now I'm sitting here hating my clothes, realizing that there isn't much to think about—nothing that you
want
to think about, anyway—when you're at a funeral home for a girl you hardly knew and everybody you
do
know is clustered around the front of the room, talking to the dead girl's father or looking in fascinated horror into the open casket and saying such things as "She looks good, doesn't she?"

Hello?

I mean, I haven't checked, but doesn't she look
dead?

I run my finger around my black velvet neckline, trying to get a little air circulating.

It doesn't help, but I try it a few more times.

I happen to look down and notice that tiny fibers have shed off the velvet top and are now adhering to my sweaty hands. The effect is like a multitude of stunted eyelashes. I can only assume they are also adhering to the exposed area of my neck and upper chest, where they probably give the impression of being stubble. Wonderful. People will assume that I am not only overweight but incredibly hairy and in the habit—though haphazardly—of shaving my entire torso.

I wipe my hand on the skirt and then run my hand over my neck and chest. I'm sweaty and sticky, and I'm wondering if I could have by chance touched my face and left a black fuzzy trail there as well.

The more I think about it, the more my face itches.

I make sure my hands are defuzzed before checking. No velvet fibers come off my face, but that could be because my sweat is making them cling.

I start to go through my purse. I know there's a mirror in there somewhere, but it seems to be buried under packets of Lactaid (because I'm lactose intolerant) and tampons (because—regardless of what they told you in health class about twenty-nine-day cycles—a girl knows that her period can start at any time).

There
is
that huge mirror in the front hall, but I don't want to get up—hairy and sweaty and with my skirt apt to fall off—so I continue pawing through my purse. Empty gum wrappers and a clump of hair from my hairbrush escape my lap and land on the floor at my feet.

Finally, I find the mirror. It's facedown and covered with lint, but by now I'm accustomed to using my mother's skirt to clean things.

My face is flushed and sweaty, but there is no velvet residue. I wipe some of the sweat off. Otherwise, anyone who sees me looking in the mirror will think I am conceited and can't get enough of myself. Then I run a finger under each eye so that no one can mistake my sweat for tears. I don't want to look like a hypocrite like Zoe and Meg and Aretha, who are carrying on about how much they'll miss Raquel.

I
do
notice, however, just as I'm about to drop the mirror back into my purse, that my neckline is red and irritated.

Is that from being overheated and the velvet chafing?
I wonder. But only for a second.

I catch myself rubbing my palms on the skirt—not to clear them of velvet—but because they are itchy.

I check my palms. Sure enough, they have little red itchy bumps on them. Familiar little red itchy bumps. Because it isn't bad enough that I'm overweight and lactose intolerant—I'm also blessed with allergies. I'm guessing that something in that dried flower arrangement has set me off. And I've just touched near my eyes, which will make them start to itch and water.

I lean back in the chair, thinking
Why me?
and my head makes an audible
bump
against the wall.

I glance around to see if anyone has noticed.

Mara and her crowd still have Mr. Falcone cornered, so that's good. Mrs. Bellanca is chatting with a couple of the boys who have just walked in.

There's only one person looking my way, a girl I don't know. She's kind of red-eyed behind her glasses, and for a moment I hope she hasn't noticed me. She's raised her hand to her mouth, and I wonder if she's one of Raquel's relatives, and if she's about to start really crying.

Sigh.

Then I see—what she's doing is trying not to laugh.

I don't understand girls.

Last week nobody liked Raquel Falcone much.

As far as the guys were concerned, if she'd been one of those fat girls who are desperate, she wasn't so fat that a guy would have turned her down. If there'd been a few pounds less of her, you would have said she was kind of cute. She was smart without being in-your-face smart. I mean, it wasn't like she had her homework at every single class or waved her hand when she knew the answer. And she was funny when she spoke up—which wasn't often—the kind of funny that didn't make you worry that tomorrow it would be directed against you. So, all in all, Raquel was the kind of girl who—if she was your sister, you wouldn't have been embarrassed.

So, as far as the guys were concerned, you could take her or leave her.

Except...

Big
except
here...

EXCEPT: The other girls didn't like her.

Not understanding girls and all, I couldn't say why. It wasn't like she was competition for any of them or anything. I mean, she wasn't the smartest, or the funniest, and—with or without the weight—she wasn't
that
cute. And besides not having the looks, she didn't have the clothes, or the voice, or the moves, or most especially: The Attitude.

Girls can be merciless.

Tough? Girls have got guys beat on that any day.

Nobody had to say anything—you just knew: If you were the kind of guy who missed those cues, who would talk to Raquel, you might just as well have a big
LOSER
tattooed onto your forehead.

But now, all of a sudden, it's Poor Raquel, and Sweet Raquel, and No-I-Never-Talked-to-Her-in-School-but-She-Was-My-Role-Model-and-Best-Bud Raquel. They're gloomy in the halls and writing solemn poems for her for the school paper and buying teddy bears to leave by the road where she died. I think Mara Ravenell is talking to someone in the Catholic Church to see about getting her nominated for sainthood.

I don't understand girls.

I didn't especially like Raquel, but I know well enough not to admit that now.

I never knew anybody who died before.

Well, my grandfather—my father's father—died when I was about one, but that doesn't count. Someone who's only a year old doesn't really know anybody. In my grandmother's apartment, there are pictures of my grandfather, including one of him holding me in a blanket when I was a newborn. But I don't remember being a newborn, and I don't remember him: nothing, nada, zip, a total blank.

Sometimes I'll be watching an old movie, and I'll say to my mother, "That guy's kind of cute. Would he be like about a hundred now?" And she'll tell me, no, he died in a motorcycle accident, or of AIDS, or of some other thing she can't remember, but anyway he's dead. And I'll think,
How sad.
Or sometimes she'll say he's still around and making movies and she'll tell me some recent movie he's been in, and I've seen it, and I'll remember the part he played, and I'll go: Whoa, he IS like a hundred. Not to mention fat. And that's sad, too. Hard to say which is sadder: the beautiful young person who dies, or the one who doesn't.

Not that Raquel was beautiful. But she was young. She is—was—in fact younger than me. Mrs. Bellanca writes on the board who is having a birthday during the current month. My name was up there all November, sharing the month with Abigail Adams and Jamie Lee Curtis. Raquels was this month, on May 31. It was still up there for two days after Raquel died: "May 31—Raquel Falcone—15."