Free Scam by Lesley Choyce Page B

a five-dollar bill. “I only had five dollars.”
    “I know,” she said. “Poor you.”
    “Yeah, poor me. But I don’t care about the money.”
    “What do you care about?”
    I didn’t want to show her at first, but then I realized I needed to tell her what she had stolen from me. I wanted to show her how nasty her actions were. I fumbled with the wallet, lifted a leather flap and pulled out the crinkled, yellowed photograph. “My mom,” I said. “This is the only picture of my mom that I own.”
    “You must really like your mom,” she said, still acting like this was all a joke.
    “Screw you. My mom’s dead. She only died a few days ago.” Just saying those words made the pain of her loss much more real, much more awful.
    Everything about Lindsey changed then. She looked down at the sidewalk. Then she looked up at me. “You’re not joking, are you?”
    “It’s no joke. I was on my way to her funeral service at a church I’ve never set foot in before.”
    “No way.”
    “I didn’t want to go. I don’t want to be there. But I was trying. I thought it was the right thing to do.”
    “Then you need to be there. Look, I’m so sorry I did that to you. I wouldn’t have if I knew what was going on.”
    “But why would you do it to anyone?” She looked away. “I could explain. But not now. Look, you need to go to that church.”
    I felt crappy. “I’m not going. Not now.”
    “You have to go.”
    I wanted to smack this girl. I really did. It wasn’t just her. It was the whole rotten mess I was in. I must have been holding my breath, because I suddenly let out a big sigh. “Forget it,” I said. “Just forget it.” And I started to walk away. Lindsey just stood there.
    I was maybe ten feet away when she ran up from behind. “Josh,” she said. “You’re going to that funeral. And I’m going with you.”

Chapter Four
    “I’ve never been to a funeral before,” I told her as we walked.
    “Neither have I,” she said, but I wasn’t sure she was telling me the truth. “We’re like funeral virgins.”
    I scowled at her.
    “Sorry,” she said. “I’ll get serious.”
    We were late for the service. There were maybe twenty people in the church pews. I didn’t recognize anyone except for my social worker, Emma. She noticed me coming in, walked back and led us to seats near the front as people sang a slow, sad song.
    Lindsey sat down beside me on the empty wooden bench. The song ended and the minister began to read from the bible. My mom had never been religious. We’d never once gone to church, so this seemed very odd, very wrong. For a second I considered getting up and walking out of there. Or running.
    Lindsey must have noticed me getting antsy, because first she touched my leg and then she took my hand and held it. Who was this nut job of a girl anyway? But then I closed my eyes as the minister droned on, and all I could think about was the fact that I was glad I was not alone.
    I don’t remember much else about the service. There was no coffin. My mom had been cremated. The minister spoke about Jesus and about resurrection and about how my mom’s spirit was there in the church but that she had also “gone home.” If my mom had been here, really here, she would have hated it all. As the service was coming to a close, people stood up and sang another song from the hymn book. I had been fighting my emotions through the whole thing, but suddenly I found myself crying.
    We sat there, Lindsey and me, while everyone else was standing. She put her arm around me. And I cried. I hadn’t cried in a long time. Not even when I had found my mom dead in her bed. But now I let it out.
    I sobbed, and my body shook. And Lindsey held on to me and didn’t let go.
    People nodded to us as they left the church. The minister came over and said something that was supposed to be comforting, I guess, but I wasn’t really listening to the words.
    As we got up to go, the social worker came up and introduced