Free Spud by Patricia Orvis Page A

I sort this out? I don’t have time, as it’s near time to get
the ceremony started, and I have a job to do…
    Last night, at the wake, I told Spud goodbye, kind of. It was so hard, like a movie,
or a book. These things are only supposed to happen in movies and books, make-believe.
How do you really tell a best friend goodbye? I’m not sure I’m handling all this
the right way. Is there a right way? I can’t get into how unreal it was to talk to
his dead, stiff, pale body, and he couldn’t even talk back. I just want all this
over with.
    Carrying a casket that holds your closest buddy is not a task I would ever wish upon
anyone. It’s all you can do not to want to drop it and run, yet you still want to
hold it with all your strength, and make sure it’s safe. Un-freaking-believable.
    The funeral ceremony is huge, tons of family and close classmates. Hot at the burial
site. I can’t even concentrate on the words the preacher guy is saying. My tie is
suffocating, too tight. This suit is too black, attracting heat. The shoes are making
my feet sweat. This whole deal sucks. It’s all too much. Let’s just get out of here,
please!
    Roasting at the reception, too, as the AC isn’t use to cooling hundreds of people
at a time. This is about all I notice, as it’s mostly a blur. Nothing but time, waiting
for this all to end.
    Now that this much is done, how the hell do we deal with what’s to come?

Chapter 9
    Still, several days later, I bet you won’t be shocked to hear, there’s been no relief
in the dumb heat, of course. You knew that. The death totals are growing by the day,
people suffering from heat stroke, fires taking houses and apartments and lives,
and more kids drowning as they try to stay cool. Of course, too, I’m still trying
to wrap my head around the idea that Spud is gone. One minute I can accept it and
deal, and the next it makes no sense, and I’m convinced it’s all a dream. I’m going
crazy, I decide. I must be.
    In my mesh track shorts and a random white tee shirt, I take the garbage can out
to the end of the walk for pickup in the morning. I figure doing some chores around
here again would help Mom out and kind of show it’s not her I’m mad at. If anyone,
really.
    Task accomplished, not without having to fight off the flies and gnats that seem
to be so attracted to any garbage in this heat, especially hot stinky garbage. I
walk back to the front door and have a seat on our porch, alone, and stare at the
dead, brown grass in our front yard. I guess it’s a step up from staring at my white
walls. Mom’s out back of the apartment, cooking dinner on the grill. More burgers,
I assume, but that’s okay. She grills them perfectly, mouthwatering. Dad’s at Uncle
Ned’s, and Zoë’s watching some dumb television crap. Some Full House episode, and
I can occasionally hear the laugh track from my spot outside the open screen door
here. She hasn’t been to her second home, the pool, at all since Spud’s death. I’m
not sure why.
    Across the street, some kids are fiddling with the fire hydrant. I should tell them
that’ll get them in some serious trouble, but I don’t.
I just watch. Two boys, about eleven-ish, in swim trunks. The fire hydrant is actually
a little off down the road, but still across. One of the boys finally gets it open,
and the water starts to spurt all over the place.
    “Freakin, eh! Sweet!” They yell and dance and splash around, just as three more boys
and two girls, nearly the same age and dressed for this, arrive on their bikes. They
are splashing, dancing, looking up at the sky in relief. Having fun. What’s that
like? But, no doubt this little adventure is killing the water pressure in the houses
here, and somebody’s gonna start yelling. Yep.
    “You kids! What are you doing?” Helen, an older lady three apartments down, starts
shouting, her head out her front door. “Stop that! That’s it!”
    They just crudely laugh at her, and one shouts, “Old lady, come