Free Imperfect Spiral by Debbie Levy Page B

home, where people drain your bodily fluids and replace them with—what?—in an effort to preserve you—for what?—likesome kind of pickled biology lab specimen…. I’m sorry, but no. Just no.
    I realize it’s not as if the alternative is great. To think of Humphrey closed up in a box and put into a huge hole with six feet of dirt piled on top of him—again, no. Just no. Of course, Humphrey would be asking about how much dirt that is, exactly. To be specific, how much does that dirt weigh? As much as a kitchen chair? A living room sofa?
    Anyway, at long last, the funeral is at two o’clock, an hour from now. Dad came home from work a few minutes ago. Mom will go to the church directly from her office. I think, but I’m not sure, that Adrian will meet us there, too.
    The phone rings.
    â€œCan you get that?” Dad calls from upstairs. “I’m changing.”
    I can get it. But I choose not to. Ever since I talked to the reporter, I’m kind of not interested in picking up the house phone. Today it’s probably that Diana Tang, wanting to ask whether I’ve enrolled in the Red Cross babysitting class yet. I let it ring.
    â€œPick up the phone, Danielle!”
    It’s Mrs. Raskin. I haven’t seen her since Adrian pried my cell phone out of her hands in the ER. She gets right to the point. She’s pretty sure the Dankers don’t want me at the funeral.
    Oh. Okay. ’Bye.
    Dad comes downstairs. He’s put on a suit and tie, which is not what he wears to work. He asks if that was Mom on thephone. I tell him it was Mrs. Raskin un-inviting me to Humphrey’s funeral.
    â€œThere aren’t invitations to a funeral, Danielle,” he says.
    â€œShe said the Dankers don’t want me,” I say.
    â€œDon’t want you?” He turns his head to the side a little.
    â€œSo—do I not go?”
    â€œLet me call her back,” he says. It takes us a few minutes to track down Mrs. Raskin’s number—she’s not in our family telephone book (since she’s not exactly a friend of my parents) or on our emergency phone sheet (ditto). But she’s listed in a neighborhood directory. And she doesn’t answer when Dad calls.
    â€œHmm.” He calls Mom’s cell. It goes right to her voice mail, which means she’s on the phone, or the phone is turned off. “Hmm.” He’s not sure what to do. And I definitely have no clue.
    He fumbles around in the neighborhood directory. Looking over his shoulder, I see he’s turned to the listing for the Crenshaws, the Dankers’ next-door neighbors. He punches in the numbers and waits.
    â€œJune?” So Mrs. Crenshaw answered.
    The conversation is brief.
    â€œHmm,” Dad says after he hangs up. “June Crenshaw says they didn’t exactly say they don’t want you. But they did say something about—about how hard it would be to see you. She hemmed and hawed, so I really don’t know what, if anything, is going on. June didn’t feel that whatever they said warranted calling us. She says the Dankers are breakable—no,
brittle
ishow she put it—and she wasn’t sure they actually intended to exclude you.”
    This is way above my head. And the phone rings again.
    â€œHello?” Dad says. After a beat, he mouths to me, “Mrs. Raskin.” He listens. Then he says, “June Crenshaw had a slightly different impression.” More listening. “Uh-huh.” Pause. “Well, thanks for your insights.” Pause. “No, I really do appreciate it.” Pause. “We’ll make our decision.” Pause. “Okay, then.” Pause. “’Bye.”
    She was in the bathroom when Dad first called her, which is more information than we need. She says she heard that the Dankers said they would be more comfortable if I were not at the funeral. She is confident that what they meant was that I should not