"Keith Adler
March 22, 1957 - November 6, 1991"
Even after eight and a half years, the black engraving looked sharp and fresh against the light granite slab. Irene stood with her hands in her jacket pockets, just staring. By careful practice, she had learned how to keep from crying when she came here; from experience, she knew that one technique was to keep from saying anything right away.
She focused on a weathered and ugly wreath two plots down, concentrated on its physical existence; the olive-colored leaves were plastic and fraying, the rosettes a garish magenta hue. Most had fallen off, leaving it lopsided in design and weight. It hung crooked, a bent mess of wires, plastic, and glue. It didn't symbolize anything - it was just a collection of atoms. "Good," she thought, and turned back to the stone in front of her.
"The stupid thing is, I like it here. I've had it to my forehead with the whole ofTrenton. Sick to death of every corner, except my dad's grave." She paused as if giving the tombstone time to answer - it made it feel like a conversation. "I hope you wouldn't think that your daughter is terribly morbid, if I had gotten the chance to say that to you."
Another pause to let the stone respond.
"I know I don't normally visit on school days, but this is going to be my last chance for… a while." She pulled a bulky Polaroid out of her bag and aimed it at the headstone. "If I'm lucky enough, it might be the last chance I get until I'm ready to stay here.
With a click and a whirr, the camera ejected a still-gray photograph of the tombstone. Irene turned the camera on herself and clicked again.
"I have one more day of school as a minor," she said, "then tomorrow I'm 18." She paused thoughtfully and lowered her voice. "You always said I was too smart for my own good. I think I can finally prove you right."
The second photograph had finished printing. She looked at it - her hair was unbrushed, her face bare and splotchy, her bearing generally awkward. "Just how you would have remembered me," she laughed. Then gathering her things, she set the newly developed picture on top of the grave. A glance at her leather watch pressured her to finish quickly, and the pressure evoked that long-forgotten feeling of fighting against tears.
"I'll see you someday."
And she marched back toward the cemetery entrance, where she had left her bike. She had ten minutes to make it to the high school a mile away; then her eight-hour countdown would begin.
