A chill inches up my spine. The paper that I'm holding suddenly weighs a tonne.
"This... No... It can't be..." A whisper escapes from my lips and my heart jumps into my throat.
Who knew she'd run out of answers this quickly?
I re-read the strip of paper because it isn't making any sense.
I lay it back into the stack of pages and continue to leaf through the file folder.
I stop and scan the article. It is dated from last week. I wonder how the detectives gathered so much information in seven days.
Before I close the folder, that is stuffed with documents - birth certificate, school information, awards and pictures - I scan the article again.
Police are investigating the sudden death of 16 year old Tiffany Parr. Miss Parr was found in the bathroom of Room 116 in the Pacific Lenz hotel, in Connecticut, early Sunday morning. Autopsy results are expected by Friday. Those who knew Miss Parr say she was 'sweet and caring' and they are shocked over her death. The wake for Miss Parr will take place on Tuesday morning.
I crumple the paper and throw it into the waste basket. Well, now I know why she wasn't in school today. Yeah, I should have more sympathy for the dead, but if she'd asked for help she wouldn't have fallen off the map.
I read through the file again, until a magic wand turns the sky into a black net.
Morning comes too fast. Before I know it, my alarm clock is blaring.
I swiftly look at the calender that hangs over my desk. It's waking Tuesday. I wonder why it's called a wake. No one wants the dead to rise... do they?
I hop out of bed and let my feet touch the cool hardwood. The frost on my window is melting and sunlight is streaming through it.
Good timing, weather. The sun rarely ever shines here.
"Are you up yet, Cassie?" My mother knocks on my door before barging in.
"I'm up," I say, rummaging through my closet. She tucks a lock of auburn hair behind her ear and sighs.
"What are you looking for?"
"My black skirt." I scan the hangers.
“Here. Let me look.” She pushes me aside and scans through the hangers. She pulls out my black skirt and passes it to me.
“Thanks.” She shuts the door behind her. Parents...
I shrug into my favourite black shirt, a tight-fitting top with sleeves that hug my elbows and a sash around the waist. I pull my skirt up and slip into a pair of black flats.
I don’t bother putting on any makeup.
“Hurry up, Cassie!” My mother ushers me out the door as soon as I get downstairs. We slide into the car and head to the funeral home.
The funeral home is one of the ugliest buildings in town. It’s a crappy, broken building with lots of trees around it and stained glass windows that are purposely cracked, “to give it character”.
The parking lot is full. Everyone in town must be here.
As I file inside behind my mother, I recognize a lot of people from my school, who I used to be friends with.
They stare at me as I shuffle into a pew. I quietly ignore them.
"Please stand and turn to page sixty in your hymn books.” The minister stands at the front of the church in a cream coloured gown with blue stripes.
The crowd shuffle and wait for the organ to begin. Its sombre notes ring through the church.
The ragdolls mumble through a song and then the minister speaks. What’s his name? I’ve been to church before but stopped going when I turned nine.
“Friends... we are gathered to celebrate the life of Tiffany Lori Parr. Her life may have been short, and her death tragic, but her spirit still lives ian our hearts.”
The entire church goes silent, hanging on to every word.
“Tiffany was the type of young woman who was full of life. Perky, outgoing, and bubbly, she was the type of girl you just couldn’t resist being friends with.” Yeah right. Think again.
He continues, “I thank you all for coming today to celebrate the life of a beautiful young woman who will forever live in our hearts.” He bows his head.
re The organ sputters and everyone prays.
“Just so you all remember... Tiffany will be buried tomorrow at the St. Lee cemetery. All are welcome.” He closes his little black book and slips through a door, avoiding the mourners.
As everyone leaves, they step up to Tiffany’s parents to leave condolences/hug/whisper sorryforyourloss.
I wheel out of there as fast as I can.
Once the chilly air hits my face, my breathing becomes easier. If I had stayed in there any longer, I would have suffocated.
I sit on one of the concrete steps and wait for the service to end. With bleary eyes, everyone in the church emptied a short time later. I swam through the crowd to find my mother and quietly followed her to the car. She followed the funeral traffic, bumper-to-bumper with Tiffany’s ride, a sleek, black limo.
We crawled down the street. The closer we crept to the cemetery, the colder it felt.
The mourners trouped into the cemetery, past headstones, rotting flowers, fresh tulips and various monuments. I slid through the people, close to her grave. If her parents stepped any closer to the hole, they would fall in.
The minister spoke briefly and then threw some kind of ash in the air. People sobbed quietly as the pallbearers lowered her pink casket with a hundred roses into the ground. Before they throw dirt in with her, I dig through my pocket and throw in a pair of knitting needles and some yarn, so she won’t get bored.
My mother glares.
Game over. The minister hollers and shuts his prayer book. He waves a hand and guides us back through the cemetery.
My muscles contract and my breath hollows. I can’t stand the cemetery.
“Cassandra?” I freeze and twirl around, nearly missing a step. I pitch forward, catching myself before I tumble down the stairwell.
“Yes, Mother?” I call. Sure, I’ll have a heart to heart talk with you.
“How are you?” She asks, lines of worry etch into her forehead. I am doing just fine.
“Fine,” I squeak. I’m not okay.
“Are you sure...? You and Tiffany were pretty close. Just to make sure, I’ve scheduled an appointment with a psychologist for Friday morning.” A shrink? She’s got to be kidding.
“Um... okay. Why?”
on“Though you’ve basically overcome your recent... challenges, I’m frightened that Tiffany’s death may trigger you.” She explains the straight-forward sentence then launches into a textbook description.
“Maybe it won’t.” I snap. I have no time for this.
“Well, just to make sure... I’ll pick you up from school at ten.” She walks away. Simple. As. That.
At least I’ll be missing Geometry and Physics.
I thunder back upstairs and lock my bedroom door. I turn on my CD player and turn the volume up until the frame of my window is vibrating.
Im scratch through some of my homework and curl into a tight ball on my bed. Eventually I fall into a deep sleep, filled with nightmares.
Turns out, I forgot about the CD player.
“Cassandra!” My mother pounds on my door. My alarm clock was blaring. I hop out of bed.
“What? I’m up.” I say, opening the door.
“All right... but hurry up and get ready. I have a meeting at eight-thirty.” She examines her watch and stalks into the hallway, her heels click-click-clicking.
I scrub my eyes and slide into a dark pair of skinny jeans, a purple Garage tee and my favourite shoes. I rush to do my makeup and fly down the stairs. Mom throws a granola bar at me and hurries me out the door.
I sigh and keep my head down as I walk through the front doors of my school. People stop and whisper as I walk by them.
“She used to be friends with Tiffany. I heard she’s the one responsible for her death.”
“She’s a loner.”
“I heard that she made Tiffany depressed.”
“Yeah? Well I heard that she smokes/got pregnant/is mentally ill.” The whisperlies float around me. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
I wasn’t responsible for Tiffany’s death. I don’t even know how she died. No one has told me anything.
I open my locker and cram some books into it. I really should organize it.
I angrily shut it and go to my first class. The teacher drones on about cellular anatomy or something. I listen to the angry whispers around me. I got stabbed in the back with a pencil at least twenty times.
I turn around. “Can you leave me alone? I don’t know how Tiffany died. We haven’t even been friends for like three years.”
“No wonder. Why would anyone want to be friends with you?” A blond cheerleader says, twirling her hair. She snaps a piece of bubble gum between her teeth.
Her friends giggle. I sink lower into my seat.
The bell finally rings and I skitter towards the door. The Barbie’s linger behind me, and I can feel something sticky on my back.
I rip it off and read it. It’s in preppy, swirled writing.
Hey freak,
We know you killed Tiffany. Though you might not have directly killed her, you had something to do with my death. She was perfectly content until you came along and screwed her up. If your not careful, we'll spread your secret to the entire school.
- Anna, Britney and Leah
I purposely walk past them and shred the note. Britney squeals and I smile. I throw the paper at their feet. “You’re such a freak...” Anna hisses and whispers to Leah. Leah giggles and twirls her brown hair.
I roll my eyes and duck into the bathroom. I don’t need to attend Physics. I hate that stuff anyway.
I slip into a stall and twirl the roll of toilet paper, to make it seem like I’m actually using the bathroom. I even flush the toilet.
I shut the lid and sit down. I can’t take this. If Tiffany was still alive, none of this would be happening.
The last time I saw Tiffany was a few days before she died. She came to school, like usual, but something didn’t seem right about her.
Her eyes were sunken, her hair shoved into a messy bun, and her face drooped a bit. I weakly smiled. She didn’t see me. I wondered what was wrong with her, but of course, I didn’t ask. She was a zombie.
Tiffany didn’t come to school the day before she died. No one had heard anything from her, not even her mom. She’d told my mom that Tiffany had left that evening, but didn’t say where she was going.
The following morning, she was found... dead.
If she was alive, her bitch friends wouldn’t be harassing me. If she was still alive, the entire school wouldn’t be mourning. If Tiffany was still alive, there would be no funeral.
The last funeral that my school attended was for Rita Harrington who died in Grade Six from leukemia. The entire school turned into zombieghosts for at least two weeks. It wasn’t extremely shocking for any of us, though she was only eleven we all knew she was going to pass on at some point.
I really should get out of the bathroom. I think the bell had rung. I tiptoe into the hallway and swim through the crowd to get to my locker.
I yank it open. The metal is cool against my fingers. I check my schedule. I have Trigonometry. I would skip it, but I can’t afford another demerit.
I slam my locker shut and drag my feet towards Room 130. I slip through a crack in the door and try to creep to my desk without being seen.
“Ah, Cassandra... nice of you to join us, don’t you think?” My teacher peers over her glasses, adjusting the beads on them. She’s only forty-seven, but she wears glasses like an eighty year old. Maybe she’s going blind.
“Yes, Mrs.” I mumble, opening my binder.
“Don’t let it happen again,” She stands up. “Now, copy the board into your notebooks and start. If you don’t finish the problems, they’ll be for homework.”
But Mrs, I have enough problems without your Math ones.
I scribble, scribble, scribble on my notebook and then stare out the window into the bright sun until my eyes hurt. The teacher doesn’t seem to notice.
The cow bell sounds, and the cows shift from room to room, chewing their cud, and letting the teacher-farmers inject them with Subject A and Subject B.
I wonder if the teachers ever consider having a teacher-mental-health-day. They could use it; every year, their eyes start to cloud over in February, they have more complaints about their personal lives/the school board/their crappy job.
Someone should start a petition.
By the time the day ends, my zombieghost appearance has turned darker. I am much worse. School only complicates things.
Just before the final bell ends, I am called down to the Principal’s office. Whispers zip around the room. Did they notice that I wasn’t in Physics today?
“Cassandra, the Mr. Han wants to see you.” The secretary taptaptaps on her computer. She points behind her to his office.
I know where it is. I haven’t been there often, but I have been in his office a few times.
I drag my feet on the grey carpet and knock on his door. “Cassandra, is that you?”
“Yeah, it’s me.” I say.
“Come in,” He opens the door and I step inside. I sit in a comfortable chair and he sits behind his desk in a plush office chair. He scratches his head.
“Do you know why I’ve called you here today?” He asks. His voice is quiet.
“I guess so.” I say. I already know. Tiffany.
ab “It’s about your friend, Tiffany.” He says.
“What about her?” It sounds dumb, but I can’t stop the question from tumbling out of my mouth.
“I’d like to talk with you about her... What it’s been like since you two had become friends. I’d just like to know what you and she had done together, and how her death has affected you.” He explains. Sure. I’ll have a grand chat with you about my ex best friend. I can’t really explain what it was like when she died. Yeah, I was shocked, kind of. But the only thing I’d like to know is how she died.
“Um, okay.” My throat is closing.
“So... let’s start with something... a little easier. How close were you and Tiffany? I want the entire truth.” He is holding a notepad.
“Well... Tiffany and I were really, really close when we were younger. We became friends when she moved on the same street as me when we were eight. My parents brought me over to her house and we shared dolls. I guess we just kind of clicked. We were very close until grade eight.” Two years makes a difference, you know.
“Alright... so, what happened to your friendship?” He scribbled on his notepad.
“Well, she started to hang out with Anna, Britney and Leah... and she changed.” I say. My memories are burning through my head.
“How exactly did she change after she started being friends with Anna, Britney and Leah?”
“She got really peppy, wore a lot of designer clothes... lots of pink. Before then, she loved soccer and doing things like camping. And she just blew me off.”
“Did she talk to you at all after she started to hang out with those girls?”le
“Yeah. She did, but only to insult me.” Not true. “I mean... she insulted me, but she also phone me every night, crying. She would complain about Anna, Britney and Leah, telling me that they were pressuring her to be perfect/that she won’t be perfect/that they were too obsessed with themselves.”
“So... then what happened?”
“Then she started to do drugs... and cut herself. And just got I don’t know. Not really depressed, but strange.” I clutch the arms of the chair.
“She told you all of this?”
“Yes. She showed me her scars sometimes and offered me weed once.” I explain.
“When was this?”
“Not long before she died. Like, maybe two months ago.” I tell him.
“Did you reconnect with her after that?”
“I guess I did. We hung out, and she called me almost every night. We went to the mall sometimes too.”
“And then she turned to you to help her with all her problems?”
“Yes.. She asked me for help. I don’t know if she was going through anything a few days before she died. She hadn’t come to school for a few days, didn’t answer her phone, she must not have stayed at her house because her mom called me asking was she with me and she wasn’t, and was a bit off the last day she went to school” The dam won’t stop flowing.
“Do you know much more than that?”
“No. I would really like to know more though.” I stare above his head.
“Well, I can’t help you there... The hospital might be able to give you more information though. If you need to talk anymore, you know where to find me.”
“Um, thanks.” I spring from the chair.
“Cassandra?” He stops me. “You’ve made good progress... but I’d like to schedule another appointment for next week.” He scans his planner.
“Do I need a therapist?” I hate psychology therapy. I tried it before, it didn’t work/I refused to let a bunch of people with PhD’s poke through my brain.
“Well, you’ve made good progress with me... but considering the circumstance I think you should seek professional help.” He says. “I can call a therapist and schedule an appointment for you. But I need to contact your mother first.”
“Whatever. Can I go now?” He nods and I slip upstairs to get my books. The hallway is empty by the time I get to my locker.
My mother is waiting for me in the kitchen. The phone dangles in her hand. “How was school, Cass?”
“Fine,” I mumble. I shouldn’t linger in the same room as her.
“Alright... I got a call from your school guidance counsellor and he told me that he is recommending you for some professional help because of Tiffany’s death.” She recites her lines.
“I know. He said he’d call you.” I say.
“Oh? Well, he informed me that he’ll call a therapist and schedule an appointment.” She hangs up the phone. “I think it’s a good idea.”
“Uh huh,” I mumble. I don’t want to go to a damn therapist, but if I argue with them, they’ll definitely lock me up.
“Well... I’ll let you know when your appointment is.”
“Okay. I have homework.” I go upstairs. Homework isn’t an option. I turn on my computer and Google Tiffany.
There are a bunch of hits with her name in them. I click through some of the stories. There are no recent ones.
“Cassie?” My mother calls up the stairs. I shut down my computer.
“What?” I yell back, walking to the stairwell. The hardwood is cold.
“Can you come here for a minute? I’d like to talk to you.” You want to talk? Well I don’t.
“I’m coming,” I meet her in the living room. We only use the burgundy leather couches when company is over. She is sitting on one of the couches with her hands folded in her lap.
I sit down across from her. She rakes a lock of her hair behind her ear.
“Tiffany’s mother called me earlier today...” She begins. The autopsy results must be in. I want to know. Don’t tell me.
“And...?” Stop pausing.
“She shared Tiffany’s autopsy results with me. Are you sure you want to hear this? If you don’t, it’s fine.”
I swallow. “I want to know.” No I don’t. I’m not prepared.
“Alright. Tiffany told her parents that she was spending the night at one of her friend’s houses. They let her go because they knew that she wouldn’t get in any trouble. She called them and told them that she would be home the on Sunday.”
I breathe out. My lungs hurt.
“When she didn’t return home Sunday evening, her parents called the police. They looked for her a little bit, but couldn’t find her. By the time they located her at the hotel, she was already dead.”
I fiddle with my necklace.
“They did extensive tests on her to determine the cause of death. The hospital said that she had high levels of alcohol in her system, she was taking strong drugs, and she was also covered in cuts and bruises.”
“So... she OD’d?”
“Yes. The hospital wasn’t sure where the cuts came from though.” Neither do I.
“Okay,”
“What an awful way to die...” She muses. I nod.
“What I – and Tiffany’s parents – would like to know is why? Why would she throw everything away?” The usual twinkle in her eyes eclipses. I stay silent. I don’t know the answer to this one.
I drag myself into my bedroom. I need a distraction. I turn on my television and the news blares at me. “And we have gathered more information on the sudden, tragic death of sixteen year old Tiffany Parr.” The news anchor announces. A picture of Tiffany flashes on the screen; her seventh grade picture. Her blond hair hangs around her shoulders, her blue eyes are shining and she is wearing a pink blouse and a jean skirt. Her face is plump.
This was taken before she got lost in the darkness.
In every picture taken of her after the start of eighth grade, her eyes were hollow, her hair limp, and her face was sunken. I hate looking at her eighth grade picture. Some news reporter rambles on about how the family isn’t releasing autopsy reports yet/how she will always live in their hearts/never to be forgotten.
The news quickly switches to a story about a farm. I change the channel.
Anyone else want to offer me a distraction? I can’t be alone with my thoughts. As long as it doesn’t involve Tiffany, I’ll be fine/not okay/perfect.
I wander into the kitchen and paw through the cupboard. I dig out a bag of full-fat chips and crunchcrunchcrunch my way through the bag.
I can’t/don’t want to deal with anything emotional... so I eat to rid myself of the emotions? No. Wrong. I can’t emotionally eat.
That’s a big no-no in Mr. Han’s book. Emotional eating = bad for you.
I stuff the empty bag into the garbage and slam the cupboard door. I’m considering taping a sign to the handle.
What to do now...? I have to be distracted, but what will I distract myself with?
I flick through television channels. I try to read, but the letters swim all over the page. I don’t have anyone to call because Tiffany was the only one I talked to and well... I need something constructive. Knitting maybe?
I lunge over the side of the leather couch and poke through my mother’s knitting basket. I stab myself with a sewing needle and come up with a pair of knitting needles and a ball of bright pink yarn. Pink?
I sigh and grip the needles until they burn my hands. How does this work again? I haven’t
done this in a few years.
How can I knit when I don’t even know how to?
Knitting isn’t an option. I toss the yarn and needles back into the basket and slip into my room. The sky is turning purple.
I switch my television to the news. Tiffany is on the screen again.
“As reported earlier today... we have gathered more information on the sudden death of sixteen year old Tiffany Parr.” The news reporter says. “Autopsy reports were completed before the funeral, but the family of Tiffany did not want to share them. I spoke with them briefly today and her mother has agreed to share the results with me. Tiffany was found at the Pacific Lenz hotel on Sunday morning at 4:20 am. By the time a hotel employee found her, her heart had already stopped.”
“Coroners say that she had very high levels of alcohol in her body, she was intoxicated from various drugs and she had various cuts all over her body. Authorities did not determine how she received the cuts. Reporting for A6 News, I’m Anna Jennings.”
The cuts were self-inflicted.
It’s already ten pm and I still have homework. I slink upstairs and turn on the lamp by my desk. Light floods my room. I sit down and try to focus on the homework I had to do for English and History – the only classes that I attended today.
If anyone asks about my Trigonometry, French or Physics homework, I’ll just feed them a lie. I should figure out that lie first.
I have an essay for History due in a few days and some verbs to conjugate for English. Not too complex.
I turn on my iPod and listen to some music while I work on my torture devices homework. I hope I don’t get too distracted... because I cannotforanyreasongetanotherdemerit, itisonlyaburdentomyrecord. My mother complains too much.
I spin through my homework anyway... not because I care about another demerit or getting yelled at, but because I can’t find anything to do that will help me forget about Tiffany.
Her ghostly presence is everywhere.
