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half-assed “band” she’d formed with Todd and Greg. I’m thinking about the little white Miata she drove too fast. I’m thinking about the way she wore her black hair in braids even when she was too old for pigtails. I’m thinking about how fantastic it was just to hold her hand. I’m thinking about the funeral, too. About the way Greg followed me across the snow-covered cemetery, all the way to my truck. Watched me swat away every I’m so sorry that came my way. Watched as I told my parents I wasn’t going right home.
    “ What ?” I snapped at Greg as I unlocked my driver side door. We were both still in our black overcoats. Uptight wool things our moms had bought, insisting we’d need them for special occasions, that we were getting to the right age for them. We kind of looked stupid though, not really even like ourselves.
    “You think I’m gonna crack or something?” I shouted at him. Greg shrugged, his hands hidden in his pockets. “I dunno, man. I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”
    “Yeah, well, I’m not. Okay?”
    “It’s okay to—”
    28/262
    “To what ?” I yelled, the driver side door of my truck screeching open in the cold.
    “To—I don’t know—want to—scream—or something. I’m just saying—if you want to scream—”
    “I gotta go to work.”
    “You can’t be serious.”
    “Work,” I said again. “Inventory. Pike’s.”
    “We just buried your girlfriend ,” Greg said. “You can’t tell me your parents—”
    “I gotta go,” I said, climbing into the cab.
    I flicked the radio on and drove through the winter streets until I hit Baudette. When I got to Pike’s, I parked two spaces over from my usual spot and unlocked the front door of the restaurant, even though I always used to come in through the back. And I tossed my coat onto the first table inside, even though I always used to keep it on the hook in Pop’s office. And I swore that everything would be different. Where I put my shoes. What I ate for breakfast. Where I went every weekend. Because if I changed every single thing I did, wouldn’t that mean I had a different life? Wouldn’t that mean that I’d feel different, too? I wouldn’t hurt so bad anymore?
    I’d work. I’d work like I never had before. Starting with counting the jars of mustard in Pike’s.
    “Sure you’re okay?” the twelve-year-old’s dad says again. I pull myself back to the hiking trail. Everybody’s looking at me with that awful worried look .
    Suck it up , I tell myself.
    “Of course,” I answer, smiling at the entire group. “Fine.” By now, I’ve said it so many times over the past two years it’s practically a mantra. What’s done is done. 29/262
    I hate that being here, remembering, has suddenly made me as tattooed as that tree. I figure I’ve got disaster and heartache written all over my face.
    “Just feeling for the poor tree, you know?” I say.
    “Yeah,” the dad agrees, snorting a chuckle as he glances back to the carved-up trunk.
    His daughter cocks her head at me. When she catches my eye, she blushes again. Her thumbs jab her phone. She lets out a squeal of frustration when she realizes her reception sucks. I cringe as I lead the group up the hill.
    We press forward. The sun shines down on us like she’s completely oblivious that anything bad could ever happen on the beautiful planet she lights every single morning.
    Chelsea
    air pass
    The entire senior class is packed into Hill Toppers’ Pizza, which, in Fair Grove, is pretty much the only place to celebrate commencement. Like every single year on graduation night, one of the pretty corn-fed girls in camisoles and tight jeans (sitting on the laps of the more-than-willing boys) will turn up pregnant. One of the football players who passes a bottle of Wild Turkey under their table and spikes their Cokes will be rushed to a Springfield hospital to get his stomach pumped. And five or so kids from the honor roll, who were never so much as tardy to a single