The Killing Chords

3 - Violet

Car horns blare all around me. It changes nothing about the dead stop traffic. Heh. Dead stop. Get it? Too soon? Probably.

Anyway, I'm pretty sure the reason I've been driving no more than 2 miles an hour for at least half of my "Blast From the Nineties" playlist is because there's a funeral procession. Or that's what I think they call it when a family of a dead person follows the hearse from like the church or, I don't know, hotel conference room, where they had a funeral to the graveyard.

It's like a really morbid, low budget version of the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade. Not a fan, to be honest. If I died I'd want at least one giant Snoopy balloon - oh and some soul-sucking, off key high school marching band. I'd have them play this song I'm listening to right now - "Mmm-Bop" by Hanson. I'd want everyone at my burial to feel really uncomfortable. That's non-negotiable.

Zoey would totally be on board. I shouldn't text and drive, but I'm serious. Dead. Stop. I pull my Iphone out of my purse and text her.

I'm appointing you master of ceremonies at my funeral. But we're calling it a death day party.

A few moments later my phone buzzes:

Like in Harry Potter?

Yeah, Z. Duh. Oh and I want you to play Mmm-Bop as you lower me into the ground.

If Zoey was anyone else, she probably wouldn't play along. Or think I was being gross because of the actual people actually dying thing, but she gets me.

I'm bedazzling tf out of the coffin. Your name in hot pink studs right on the side.

You own a bedazzler?

You don't?

A few seconds later and another text:

Seriously, Vi. Don't freaking die on me.

Even if it means an Mmm-Bop funeral?

She texts me back, but I don't see it because the traffic starts moving again, and I put my phone away. Eventually, I pass by the cemetery. Its green rolling hills are dotted with white and grey stone. Towards the edge of the property, near the road, there's an open grave. It seems small, but I'm not sure. I haven't seen a lot of open graves. The hearse and a black town car are parked near that open spot.

It's weird to see a burial, even at a distance.

A woman and man step out of the town car's front seats. Seconds later, a teenage boy steps out of the back.

He's tall with light brown skin and soft, dark curls. He's wearing a grey suit. His blazer has elbow patches. He's cute. He's sad.

My stomach hits the floorboards. I recognize him. Milt - the boy next door for like one summer when we were 7.

Once, I made him eat a worm. Another time, he gave me the oreo cookie out of his lunchable. I drew a daisy on the inside of his wrist. He made me a paper airplane.

Milt Harper - my first crush.

What are the odds?