My probation officer isn't the worst. She's in her thirties, not bad-looking, and has a sense of humor. But she's a pain in my ass about school.
"How did your history exam go?" We're sitting in the kitchen for our usual Sunday meeting. cash's hanging out on the table, which she's fine with since she likes him. My mom is upstairs, something I always arrange before Officer mia comes over. Part of her job is to make sure I'm being adequately supervised. She knew her deal the first time she saw her, but she also knows I've got nowhere else to go and state care can be way worse than alcoholic neglect. It's easier to pretend she's a fit guardian when she's not passed out in the living room.
"It went," I say.
She waits patiently for more. When it doesn't come, she asks, "Did you study?"
"I've been kind of distracted," I remind her. She'd heard the Ariana story from her cop pals, and we spent the first half hour after she got here talking about what happened.
"I understand. But keeping up with school is important, abel. It's part of the deal."
She brings up The Deal every week. Hollywood is getting tougher on juvenile drug offenses, and she thinks I was lucky to get probation. A bad report from her could put me back in front of a pissed-off judge. Another drug bust could land me in juvie. So every Sunday morning before she shows up, I gather up all my unsold drugs and burner phones and stick them in our senile neighbor's shed. Just in case.
Officer Mia holds out her palm to Cash, who crawls halfway toward it before he loses interest. She picks him up and lays him across her arm. "How has your week been otherwise? Tell me something positive that happened." She always says that, as if life is full of great shit I can store up and report every Sunday.
"I got to three thousand in Grand Theft Auto."
She rolls her eyes. She does that a lot at my house. "Something else. What progress have you made toward your goals?"
Jesus. My goals. She made me write a list at our first appointment. There's not anything I actually care about on there, just stuff I know she wants to hear about school and jobs. And friends, which she's figured by now I don't have. I have people I go to parties with, sell to, and screw, but I wouldn't call any of them my friends.
"It's been a slow week, goal-wise."
"Did you look at that book I left you?"
Nope. I didn't. I don't need a brochure to tell me how bad it sucks when your only parent's a drunk, and I definitely don't need to talk about it with a bunch of whiners in a church basement somewhere. "Yeah," I lie. "I'm thinking about it."
I'm sure she sees right through me, since she's not stupid. But she doesn't push it.
"That's good to hear. Sharing experiences with other kids whose parents are struggling would be transformative for you."
Officer Mia doesn't let up. You have to give her that. We could be surrounded by walking dead in the zombie apocalypse and she'd look for the bright side. Your brains are still in your head, right? Way to beat the odds! She'd love, just once, to hear an actual positive thing from me. Like how I spent Friday night with Ivy League–bound Bella Hadid and didn't disgrace myself. But that's not a conversation I need to open up with Officer Mia.
I don't know why I showed up there. I was restless, staring at the Vicodin I had left over after drop-off and wondering if I should take a few and see what all the fuss is about. I've never gone down that road, because I'm pretty sure it'd end with me comatose in the living room alongside my mom until someone kicked us out for not paying the mortgage.
So I went to Bella's instead. I didn't expect her to come outside. Or invite me in. Listening to her play the piano had a strange effect on me. I almost felt ... peaceful.
"How is everyone coping with Ariana's death? Have they held the funeral yet?"
"It's today. The school sent an email." I glance at the clock on our microwave. "In about half an hour."
Her brows shoot up. "Abel. You should go. That would be a positive thing to do. Pay your respects, gain some closure after a traumatic event."
"No thanks."
She clears her throat and gives me a shrewd look. "Let me put it another way. Go to that goddamn funeral, Abel Tesfaye, or I won't overlook your spotty school attendance the next time I file an update report. I'll come with you."
Which is how I end up at Ariana Grande's funeral with my probation officer.
We're late and the Church is packed, so we barely find space in the last pew. The service hasn't started but no one's talking, and when the old guy in front of us coughs it echoes through the room. The smell of incense brings me back to grade school, when my father used to take me to Mass every Sunday. I haven't been to church since then, but it looks almost exactly the same: red carpet, shiny dark wood, tall stained-glass windows.
The only thing that's different is the place is crawling with cops.
Not in uniform. But I can tell, and Officer Mia can too. After a while some of them look my way, and I get paranoid she's led me into some kind of trap. But I don't have anything on me. So why do they keep staring at me?
Not only me. I follow their gazes to Bella, who's near the front with her parents, and to Justin and the brunette girl, sitting in the middle with their friends. The back of my neck tingles, and not in a good way. My body tenses, ready to bolt until Officer Mia puts a hand on my arm. She doesn't say anything, but I stay put.
A bunch of people talk—nobody I know except that Goth looking girl who used to follow Ariana everywhere. She reads a weird, rambling poem and her voice shakes the whole time.
There's music, more readings, and it's finally over. The priest tells us the burial's going to be private, family only. Fine by me. I've never wanted to leave anyplace so bad in my life and I'm ready to take off before the funeral procession comes down the aisle, but Officer Mia has her hand on my arm again.
A bunch of senior guys carry Ariana's casket out the door. A couple dozen people dressed in dark colors file out after them, ending with a man and a woman holding hands. The woman has a thin, angular face like Ariana. She's staring at the floor, but as she passes our pew she looks up, catches my eye, and chokes out a furious sob.
More people crowd the aisles, and someone edges into the pew with Officer Mia and me. It's one of the plainclothes cops, an older guy with a buzz cut. I can tell right away he's not bush-league like Officer Budapest. He smiles like we've met before.
"Abel Tesfaye?" he asks. "You got a few minutes, son?"
