1. Friedman can't remember ever feeling quite like this—stuck in a moment, one second in the midst of time and wishing that would never change. Surely, the paragon with Luke's sister is a vision. She couldn't possibly exist. Except she does. He knows this because she turns light, mischievous eyes on him. Time ticks on and Friedman knows that he'll do everything in his power to win her favor.
2. He knows that she doesn't mean it; he's not delusional. But no lovelorn swain ever won the maiden fair without undertaking a Herculean task. In Friedman's case, memorizing Hamlet isn't Herculean; his memory isn't close to reaching full capacity. No, it's finding time. She's far too cool for school, but Friedman's not. His brain is his best asset and he knows it even if he doesn't show it. No matter. If milady wants Hamlet, then Hamlet he shall give her.
3. This is the first time he's ever encountered a concept he couldn't grasp. It just seems so ridiculous: how does a goddess die? They're immortal. Knife wounds are inconsequential. Pedestrian. Irrelevant. Why isn't she here, rolling her eyes at them, at him, at this idiotic notion that she no longer exists? Friedman can't accept this new reality. He won't.
4. Slushy snow dots her grave and Friedman worries most irrationally that she's cold and feels the wet. He tucks his scarf securely around his neck and trails fingertips over her chiseled name. "For you, my fair Ophelia," he whispers against the uncaring marble. He then takes his starting position and begins his offering for his fallen idol.
5. It's been months and Friedman doesn't feel any better. No one knows. No one sees. He didn't expect anyone to and he's glad they haven't. There's nothing they could say or do to replace the tomorrow he still remembers. Still, he rather hates them for it.
Well, he doesn't hate Stevie. He feels almost good when he's with her. It's much easier to pretend he's okay. Sometimes, he borders on forgetting. At those times, he rather hates her, too.
6. He never thought he'd find solace in his grandmother, but dealing with her pain lets him put his own down for a while. She tells him stories of her youth and he wonders if she's left any broken disciples behind. It sounds like she was cool enough and he tells her so. She laughs softly—she does everything softly now and Friedman has the terrible thought that maybe it's a good thing Judith was spared this particular indignity—and tells him he's a sweet boy. Then she succumbs to a coughing fit and shakes with pain and he gets her the joints her doctor prescribed. He sneaks one for himself and he leaves her with his parents. He goes off, not wanting to think of losing someone else, and loses himself in the weed's artificial solace and looks forward to a time when he won't need any solace at all.