Cemeteries could be very intimidating. They were eerie, deadly silent, and unless there was a funeral in progress, it was usually empty as well. Sydney had been to the cemetery at least a hundred times since her father had died two months ago. She, however, could not work up the courage to actually go past the tall, iron gate. She didn't exactly know what was holding her back, but every time she thought she was actually going in, her stomach would flip and she felt as if she were going to be sick. She pressed an uneasy hand to her stomach and took a couple of steps back.
"Hey, are you alright?"
The voice came out of no where and startled her, almost making her jump right out of her shoes. It belonged to a boy and as Sydney turned to face him she realized that she actually knew him. Archer Sanders. Baseball MVP, straight A student, and, surprisingly, a loner.
"I would say I'm okay except I was just scared within an inch of my life," she snapped.
Archer didn't look offended at her tone and her grey eyes twinkled as he smoked. "I was just making sure you were okay. You looked scared or something." If possible, his smirk broadened a little. "You afraid of ghosts, Sydney?"
"Of course I'm not afraid of ghosts," she said angrily. "What am I, five years old?"
He shrugged and leaned against the gate, hands in his pocket and ankles crossed. To be standing outside a cemetery, he looked really relaxed. "Did you come here to see your dad."
His change of subject had her back stiffening and her fists clenching. She turned her back and began walking in the opposite direction.
"It's not good to be angry at the world when you're trying to grieve."
This has her whirling around, her green eyes dark with anger. "And what would you know, Archer? What would you know about my anger," she demanded.
He shrugged again. "I wouldn't know anything about your anger. I experienced plenty of my own when my mom died four years ago." He pushed off the gate and began walking towards her. "I went to visit her grave today. She would've been forty-two."
Sydney's anger had died out and in its place sat regret, shame, and a little embarrassment. "I'm sorry," she said awkwardly. "I didn't realize-"
He waved off her apology. "I never stop missing her, but I realized a long time ago that my anger was useless."
Her response was hesitant. "How did you do it?"
"Baseball was a big help. I took up boxing for a couple years."
"Boxing?"
"It feels really good to punch something," he said with a smile.
She looked through the gate of the cemetery at the tombstone that was her father's. She couldn't see what it said from where she stood, but she knew the words engraved on it like she knew the back of her hand.
Andrew P. James. Loving Father, Brother, and Son. April 17, 1972- May 23, 2015.
"Two days after we buried my dad, my mother threw herself into her work. She took the pictures off the wall and she hates to bring him up." It was embarrassing that her eyes were full of tears, but she continued anyway. "It's so easy to be angry, to not talk about my feelings or what happened..." She wiped her tears away with the sleeve of her jacket and looked up at his face. "But, I don't wanna hold it all in anymore."
He gave her a proud smile. "That's good. Come on." He turned and began walking away from her.
"Wait. Where are we going," she yelled at his back.
"You'll see. Come on, Sunshine. We've got all of a Saturday to waste."
"Yes, but it's also ten o'clock in the morning."
"Hence the term 'all of Saturday', Sunshine."
"Stop calling me that," was all she could say as she followed behind him.
