10:10 AM Saturday, the fake funeral

The next morning, all I can do is think of Raffa. If you really did it. If you really swam out into the rapids. She’s going to be devastated. I want to write her something. Just as you would have done if you were here right now. I find a paper and a pen, and sit down at the coffee table, and write.

I fold the letter into an airplane, head outside, and walk to your brown duplex. I can’t stand Raffa being so mad at me. She’s got a right to be mad, I know that, but I hope this helps her.

I pull open the screen door. My hand wraps around the knocker. I ignore the bell. It doesn’t work. I know this and so many other things about you—how can you be gone for good?

I’m about to knock, but then, from inside, I hear Raffa yelling. I’ve never heard her yelling before. I’ve never even heard her talk back. But right now, she’s screaming at your mom, “I’m not going to his fake funeral!”

“You will go if I say you’re going,” your mom says.

What are they fighting about? Did Raffa say funeral?

“Why are you giving up on him?” Raffa yells.

“Don’t speak to your mother like that.” It’s your dad. He’s speaking calmly. “We are having the funeral on Sunday. Unless Chris comes home. End of story.”

Your funeral is on Sunday. Oh no.

I bring the knocker down three times.

Inside it’s silent.

Then there are footsteps. Your mom opens the door. The smell of chocolate and bacon reaches toward me. She stares at me. Her makeup isn’t on today. Her hair isn’t done. No pearls. She’s wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt. I didn’t even know your mom owned sweatpants.

She touches my swollen cheek and clucks her tongue. She knows what happened. Her hand drops.

“I guess you heard that,” she says.

“You’re having his funeral?” I ask.

“I was going to tell you,” she says. “I talked to the elders and it’s time. It’ll be on Sunday.”

“But we haven’t found him.” I cannot say your body. “He might have just taken off. We still don’t know. It’s not—”

She rests a soft hand on my arm. “I know.” The edges of her mouth turn down and her whole face sags.

Most moms know. That’s what I hear. Moms are supposed to know.

I look down at my feet. Can’t barely talk. “I have something for Raffa.”

“She’s in the kitchen,” she says.

I slide off my flip-flops and follow your mom into the kitchen, where a timer is beeping. The counters are covered with casserole dishes.

Raffa and your dad are sitting at the table, eating eggs and bacon. Your mom turns off the timer and takes some chocolate bread out of the oven. Raffa chews on the edge of a piece of bacon she’s holding in her hand. She’s not looking at me.

“Raffa?” I say. “I wrote this for you.” I hold the airplane out to her.

Her beautiful brown eyes open in surprise. She doesn’t move. The airplane shakes in the air. I’m about to drop my hand, but finally she takes it.

I can’t watch her read it in case she doesn’t like it. I’m not a real good writer. It was hard to figure out what to say, and I knew I could never write it like you do, but I wanted to do something. So I turn to your mom. “Can I go look in his room?”

“You go ahead.”

I walk slowly out of the kitchen, down the hallway, and up the stairs. It feels like this might be my last time in this house.

When I open your bedroom door, your sweet body fragrance hits me. Do you know that smell is important for falling in love? There have been studies. I don’t like your stinky foot smell or the smell of you after a long workout, but this you-smell, in your natural state, it’s like honey. It permeates the room. How do your mom and sister not sit in your room all the time and breathe you in?

“Chris?” I whisper.

I stare at your blue curtains. Chris, if you’re dead, move your curtains. I look for any little movement. They are as still as curtains can be. It doesn’t prove anything except that if ghosts can move curtains, you’re not here.

If you’re dead, I don’t blame you. If I were a spirit, I sure as hell wouldn’t hang out in my bedroom. I’d fly through the air like a bird and then I’d flip in and out of the river and I’d circle the Earth and go to the Taj Mahal, maybe freak out worshippers, and I’d definitely open and close drawers in people’s kitchens. Johnson’s kitchen. Ha. That would be awesome. Please, if you are a ghost, please do that for me.

Oh god, I’m crying now. Please don’t be a ghost.

I step out of your room, creep down the stairs. I don’t feel like I belong here anymore. My hand wraps around the cold door handle to outside.

“Wait!” There are fast barefooted steps running down the hall toward me and when I turn around, Raffa is throwing her arms around me. I grip her skinny body so tight, it hurts.