The Bucket List

Chapter 1

A/N
This book is your typical highschool drama except sprinkled with mental problems and characters on the spectrum. Do me a favor and let me know what you think of it so far

K

"He was a good man. A faithful man. One who always knew where to turn..." and on and on.

I've listened to just about every eulogy speech there was. "He was a good man," is a particularly predictable one. Not to mention mainstream and boring.

Of course they are going to say the person was good. It's not like they are going to tell the truth, of how the person was a misogynistic jerk who felt up drunk women at parties. Of course I'm only assuming about this mans life.

I have to assume for all of them.

Let me explain, I work at a mortuary. It's not my first choice. It's not like I wanted my first summer job to be at a funeral home helping sew together dead bodies.

I was born into this profession. My father and step mother own this funeral home. And I have been helping them ever since I was a child. Not by choice, I didn't come out of the womb yearning to learn how to glue someone's eye sockets closed. Rather, I was forced to help out at the family business when I turned 16.

I know what your thinking, why would parents force their daughter to help them do something so grotesque? Well, my family is a little different. You have to understand, where most families watch "It's a Wonderful Life," every year on Christmas, we watch horror movies and try to contact the dead.

So I guess you could say we are a little eccentric. To say the least. From an early age, my parents taught me about the human anatomy. So much so, that I grew up not being squeamish when it came to dead bodies. Where some families play operation, we do operation... on dead people.

It's not like I want to be a 17 year old girl from Haxtun Colorado high school who works at a morgue. It's weird. Nobody wants to go to prom with the girl who brought a taxidermy squirrel to show and tell in second grade that she made herself.

Yes, I'm still remembered for that. High school is a troubling time. I'd say it's hard for every teenager, but it's especially hard for me.

But enough about my sob story, this eulogy is almost done. "Would anyone like to say a few words on his behalf?" The preacher asked. Crickets. This wasn't uncommon. It actually happens more than you think. No one wants to speak on the dead person's behalf. And by judging from the lack of people here, the whole "good guy" thing was widely embellished. I'm guessing this "Broderick James" wasn't such a good man after all.

Seriously, only like seven people are here. Not counting me and my parents. When a customers funeral is poorly attended, we will often sit in the main hall to fill out seats. It's the least we could do.

When the funeral is over, we mingle with the people who showed up. Or lack there of. Though I often am able to slip away to the back. Like today.

The lack of snacks in the break room fridge was disappointing as usual. I nibbled on some baby carrots while I thought about my own funeral. It's a subject I think about often actually. Would it be as empty as this man's? Judging from my unusually small friend group of one, I'd say so. Would anyone speak on my behalf? What would they say?

I like to imagine I could attend my own funeral and make sure it wouldn't be as boring as the one I just went to. There would be streamers and games, everyone would get drunk off their asses, and everyone would get to witness my severely mangled body.

"You snuck off again, Avery," my step mother scolded me as she walked into the break room. I didn't justify her accusation with an answer. She grabbed a cup and filled it with coffee before spitting it back into the cup. "God damn it's cold."

I had to hide my amusement at her expense. She wore her tacky sequin blouse that accentuated her muffin top and had her hair in the ugliest fake blonde curls I have ever seen. She had her makeup cakier than usual and her nails longer than before in that bright red color making her hands look paler than usual.

I crunched my baby carrots louder than I was before to get on her nerves. She clenched her jaw and rolled her eyes before opening her mouth to say something. But before she could, my dad walked into the room.

"Honey, Carter is here to see you," he said. He stood tall, a slim white man with bright blue eyes that sparkled under these fluorescent lights. He adopted me when I was a baby as he had always wanted a daughter. But before I turned two he married Glenda. My step mother. I only call her that to get on her nerves. I love her like a real mother but sometimes she irks me.

I ran outside to see Carter, my best and only friend. He had black curly hair and the brightest smile you ever did see. It was a wonder why he didn't already have a girlfriend.

"Your my savior," I said to him.

"Another boring day at the morgue?" He asked sarcastically. He thought my job was cool. He found it interesting that I got to work with dead bodies. Which is why he is the only person to become friends with me. Ever since second grade when I brought that squirrel to show and tell, he was the only one who could stand to talk to me.

"You have no idea, most of my job is just sitting through people's funerals."

"That's not boring. You get to listen to people's lives and see the person they got to become," he said dramatically. "What's boring about that?"

"Trust me, after ten of those same eulogies, you'd be begging for a break too." He rolled his eyes and shook his head. "I'm telling the truth, they are never unique. Every person has the same funeral. Because in the grand scheme of things, everyone lives the same lives. No one is any different that the person who dies before them."

"Damn, that's dark Ave." I shrugged my shoulders. We walked over to the snow cone stand across the street and ordered our usual as we sat on the sidewalk staring at the morgue. "Lewis Funeral Home," stood in big black letters though some were faded. We were the only morgue in town. Though this is a small town of less than one thousand. "Senior year starts tomorrow..."

"It does?" I asked sarcastically.

"Shut up. What are you going to wear?"

"I dunno... jeans, a tee, and my sneakers."

"Are you serious?" He asked with a judgmental tone. "That's what you wear everyday. Don't you want this year to be different?"

"I'm sorry that I don't care about clothes. Besides, clothes aren't going to change how people see us this year," I said.

"It's called making a statement, check it," he said pointing to the old yellow Jeep parked in our lot.

"That's your new ride?" I asked once again being judgmental.

"'Our' new ride," he corrected. "No more taking the bus or walking to school, from now on we will be riding in style."

"Your kidding."

"Nope. It's all ours. My dad was just going to take it to the junk yard! Can you believe that? But after a few tweaks I got it running again."

"Great, at least it runs." I rolled my eyes eating my last bite.