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“That sunset looks like a popsicle,” I said as we drove on that unpaved, winding road. I placed my finger onto the car window to trace the graveyards that lined the sidewalk. “What do you think of this one?” he asked as he pointed to a new grave. It was one of those tiny box ones. Plain Jane’s we called them. “He must’ve been fat. No one named Greg isn’t.” We laughed. “What about the one next to him? Same last name, maybe his wife?” he asked. “No,” I said as I opened a can of coke and placed my feet up onto the dashboard. “Greg’s are never buried next to their wives. They don’t have any. Definitely his mother.” “You’re right!” he yelled. “The one next to our Greg died thirty years earlier!” We burst out laughing, causing me to spill my drink onto my white shirt. “Crap,” I said. “New shirt?” he asked. “How’d you know?” I smiled. Then we drove past the McPhearson family graves. These graves were the tackiest skyscrapers anyone’s ever seen. “Shall we say hello to young McPhearson’s grandpa?” Luke asked mockingly. Claire McPhearson was in our grade, and I was convinced that she was the biggest smartass in America. We opened the windows and I felt the cold air on my eyeballs. Damn wind. Then, Luke and I did our ritual. Our middle fingers waved hello to Grandpa McPhearson. As the popsicle sunset faded into a sky the color of a Goth kid’s eyeliner, I argued with Luke over visiting our favorite grave, the place we first met. He had an assignment from Ms. Heathers, our P.E teacher, due that night. “C’mon Luke, we’ll go quick. I promise. It’s P.E for God’s sake. Relax,” I said as I slammed the car door and escorted Luke out of the front seat. “My Lady,” I said as I took his hand. “Ok. Move away, crackhead,” he said with a smile. I skipped down the pebbled path leading to the grave. I placed my fingers into the shape of a square and took a picture of him in my mind. But I’m blind without my glasses and so I could only make out his dirty blond hair. The awkward way he moved one foot before another started to tear me up. God, I hate crying. “You walk like a penguin!” I screamed, wiping my tears as I smiled. It was the last time we’d go grave watching before he’d leave this crappy town for college in New York City. He’d be surrounded by skyscrapers taller than the McPhearson graves. I wondered if there were graveyards there like this one, where young and sad people with nothing to do drove around and laughed for a while. I wondered if he’d visit them and think the same thoughts we always did: thoughts of cans of coke, new shirts, plain Jane’s, and popsicles.
Arielle Levy Ari Porter
