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met him and Griffin, teary-eyed was my way of life. I was a wuss. But most other people could cry and it wouldn’t mean anything; when I cried, it turned heads. “Though you did seem a little rattled yesterday. Or do you normally suck that bad at giving eulogies?”
    Before I started dating Griffin, I’d have been insulted. But with Bret and Griffin, you learned to ignore the digs. They’d made me strong. They’d made the rest of the school see me as normal. Sure, Griffin had his sweet moments, but they were few and far between and always buried under sarcasm and practical jokes. I liked that. Maybe normal friends would sit around crying and trading Griffin Colburn stories until the end of the world, but not Bret and me. We’re light; we float; we don’t dwell on the depressing stuff. Not when there’s so much room for humor in the world. “If you were up there, all you would have done was tell fart jokes.”
    He nods. “Well, yeah. Did you see the place? It was like a funeral.”
    “But what about you?” I ask him. “Why aren’t you at home right now, crying into your pillow?”
    I know the answer already. It’s almost as if the smirk is glued to Bret’s face, because it never goes away, not ever. He’s like the Joker. Griffin and Bret never once talked about what happened to me when I was a kid, even though I know that they, like the whole town, were aware of it. They just accepted it, moved on. Similarly, if Griffin’s death had any impact on Bret, you’d never know it by looking at him. Considering they’d been best friends since forever, most people would think that’s kind of demented. And Griffin was more than Bret’s best friend; he was his master. Bret was Griffin’s little protégé; Griffin was the person he aspired to be. As I’m wondering how he can function without his fearless leader, his grin broadens. “I’m saving my tears for the candlelight vigil.”
    “Okay, well … just remember: I get to lead the group in‘Kumbaya’ this time. You did it during the Heath Ledger memorial.”
    He leans back and yawns. I get the feeling he’s trying to suppress a snicker. “All right.” There’s an unspoken rule to our sparring matches that if the other person laughs, he loses. Secondly, if you take too long to respond, you’re toast. I start counting the seconds, one … two … But he finally says, “You always did have a way with ‘Kumbaya.’ The smooth vocal stylings of Ippie Devine. Maybe you can delight us with ‘Thriller’ as an encore?”
    I turn to him, speechless, and then say, “Well, maybe you can sing … uh …” But I can’t think of a comeback. Three: if your comeback is pathetic, game over. Though I’m able to win sometimes, he’s usually the victor. Griffin was the undisputed champ, but Bret’s more of a natural at this than I am.
    “Bzzzz. Thank you for playing. This game called on account of lameness,” he says proudly, pushing on an imaginary game-show buzzer with the heel of his hand.
    Just then a couple of senior girls, who I’d seen at some of Griffin’s parties, walk by. They raise their eyebrows at us and start to whisper. “They think we should be wearing black, I think,” I say, nudging him.
    He starts to stretch his quads. “Black really doesn’t do anything for my complexion.”
    I’ve known Bret for a year and not once has he ever expressed any remorse for acting the way he does. He’s Griffin’s smaller, lighter twin—and he may even be a little cuter, too, except he isn’t half as outgoing as Griffin was. He was Griffin’s comedic sidekick; it was almost like he enjoyed being in Griffin’s shadow, following in his footsteps, being the butt of his jokes. And really,as both of us could attest, being known as Griffin’s shadow was way better than being known for other reasons. I say, “And my black singlet is at the dry cleaner’s.”
    Coach calls the guys to run the 400 m, which is Bret’s specialty. He gets to his feet, then