Cliffhanger

1. Julie and the Numbers

I had always assumed that I knew what that number meant. Everyone who was anyone had a number on their wrist. It seemed to me like it was the number of people that you'd had sex with. I mean, it would make sense, because people only got their numbers later on in adolescence. My younger brother didn't have a number yet, and he was nine. All of the girls at my school had some kind of number. There were high and low numbers. The president of the drama club had a high amount. I think her number was thirty-nine. The football quarterback had around 104. I had previously assumed that was because he was a man whore. Wouldn't look good on that marines application though, no matter how he tried to play it off. Then there was the head cheerleader. She only had a three on her wrist. I guess that's good for her, but everyone looked down on her for it. Her sidekick, second only to the head bitch, had a big fat ZERO. But then, so did I, so it's not like it mattered. Tons of people had their own theories as to what the numbers were. They only showed up about four years ago, and nobody could figure it out. That is, until I did.

'''

It was time to get ready, and I had hopped into the shower for a few minutes, scrubbing my body down and washing my hair with my special grapefruit shampoo. Today was the day that I had to drive a whole seven hours to my grandma's house. She had recently passed, and I had always been the closest one to her. That didn't mean, of course, that other people wouldn't come. Right? I mean, sure, grandma had gotten kind of paranoid about the numbers and gone a little too far off the deep end. But hadn't most people?

Climbing my way out of the shower, I dried off and packed my duffle bag, getting ready to drive down to see my favorite grandparent in her new casket. Mom and dad were out of town and couldn't be bothered, so I'd called my older brother and forced him to take me. Daniel is a sweetheart, but he can be a real jerk. And he never liked grandma, so that didn't help. But I had been to all of my grandparent's funerals, and I wasn't about to stop.

Just as I pulled my pants up, I heard the familiar noise o a horn sounding outside of my house. Daniel was here, and he was impatient. I hurried as fast as I could, lest he decided to go home, and eventually made it out to the Mercedes, sliding into the passenger seat.

My brother went to law school at the age of nineteen, and had just graduated with flying colors. The number on his wrist was fourteen. When he'd left for college, I warned him about sleeping with too many people. You can get STD's from that kind of stuff. But did he listen? Clearly not, I decided as I glanced at his wrist. Hope he isn't a daddy already. That would certainly put a damper on his career.

And so the drive began, the sleek Mercedes screaming along down the road, across the barren state of New Mexico. It took the full seven hours, even with speeding, because of traffic. Not to mention, we were pulled over by a policeman. His number was 47. Relatively high I suppose, for a man of his girth. He gave Daniel a ticket, which the troublemaker gladly took with a comment about fighting it in court. Then he continued along his merry way, speeding as fast as ever.

We made it to Grandma's funeral with an hour to spare before the actual procession began. When I stepped out of the car, I looked around to find absolutely no one here. Sure, there was a minister and two grave diggers to do the grunt work. But they didn't count. After all, they weren't family.

Approaching the grave, Daniel sighed and looked at the open casket. Grandma's number was even visible from where I stood, twenty feet away. I glared at the black number two with all of the confusion and hatred that I could possibly feel toward this situation. My grandma was dead. And only two people had showed up to her funeral to mourn her. She deserved so many more than just us two. Not that we weren't amazing human beings. But she was a legend. To me at least.

It was a long ceremony, and the priest wouldn't shut his face. He spoke in such a monotone voice that made me cringe. He was speaking about a dead person, have a little life! No joke intended. But seriously, there were members of her family here, even if it was just the two of us. His fake eulogy was getting on my nerves before it was even halfway over, but I managed to hold my patience.

When it was finally all over, I took a good long look at the numbers on everyone in the cemetery. The priest had a whopping 219 on his chubby wrist. the gravediggers, who seemed to be twins, were one number apart from each other. I wonder why that was. And then there was that big fat two on my poor, pale grandma. After staring at her shrunken face for a while, I turned and walked back to the car. Together, the two of us sped out of there.

'''

So it took me a while to figure out and connect all of the dots. I'd been to four different funerals in the last four years, each having to do with a grandparent. They were all old and senile. But to be perfectly honest, I had still loved them each very dearly. My grandpa on my dad's side had a six on his wrist. That was a little bit of a bigger funeral, because my parents, me, and two of my uncles had made it to his funeral. Even the old man's wife made it, and she was nearly dead walking. When she later died, it was only me and dad, since mom was out of town, and everyone else hated her. She had a two on her delicate little wrist. Funerals are sad, but also necessary, for closure purposes.

On my mom's side, it was also her dad that went first. He was a kind old man, I suppose. Always giving out tips for grilling, and how to catch "the ladies". his number was around ten or so, if I recall correctly. It's a little hard to remember, because he always wore long sleeves. All of hi kids were there, and four of their respective spouses. One of them was a single pringle still. Sad, but true. And then of course I was there.

You already know about this most recent one, of course. So out of all for funerals, this was the only one that really clued me in.

The number on people's wrists were the number of people that would attend their funeral after they died.

I finally connected the last dot in the car on the way back from the cemetery. "I think I've got it." I said, and turned to my ever silent brother. "The numbers mean something. It's how many people attend your funeral. And I guess that if you have the number zero, like me, nobody goes to your funeral. Or maybe you just don't have one?" I marvelled out loud, mostly to myself.

Then I stopped talking as Daniel turned on his blinker and pulled off the road, turning onto an abandoned one. We drove for a while in silence. Maybe he just wanted to talk without traffic distractions. Whenever he did speak, he wasn't one to like interruptions.

The Mercedes came to a gradual stop along the side of the abandoned road and Daniel said, "Get out."

I was confused at first, but then he repeated himself in a harsher tone and opened his own door, sliding out. When I climbed from the car, into the scorching air, I breathed deeply and smelled the cow shit that was probably all around me. then I turned to face Daniel, only to take a step back when I saw a gun pointed at my face.

"You of all people weren't supposed to figure it out. Not I suggest you start running. Now."

I'd never seen this side of my brother, so I did exactly that. I ran, hoping he wouldn't pursue.