6. Rainy Days and Mondays

A/N: Sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry! Sorry so short, and sorry it took so long! PLEASE FORGIVE ME! (sobs)... (sniffles) enjoy! r/r please!

Funeral.

Funny how it seems so alien and sterile in our everyday vocabulary. No one really knows how to act at funerals. Everyone just walks around in a cold, sombre trance, telling you what a great woman your mother was, and how sorry they are. You have to sit through the pitying stares and the fake embraces from adults who formerly thought you were a bad egg. Then you have to sit through the mindless speeches the adults give, each repeating what the others said until you feel like standing up and screaming at them for prolonging this stupid ritual torture.

Then everyone leaves the church and drives behind the body in the hearse - the woman they all loved so much - in a morbid, accursed parade the seems to last forever as you make your way to the final resting place of that woman you swore on when she wasn't around. This woman who nagged you to pick up your clothes and eat your vegetables; who compared you constantly to your friends and siblings; who washed and ironed and cooked and scrubbed and worked a dead end job as a teller at the post office, and never asked for anything in return except that you clear your supper dishes and do your homework with the music turned down.

And I hated her.

I hated her for making dad leave, and for bringing that psychopath into our house, and for never picking up for me when he berated me. I hated her for being so omnipresent in my guilty conscience and for not letting me watch wrestling on weeknights. I hated her for finding out about bad grades, and for not remembering to pick me up after Drama rehearsals, and never coming to the performances I was in. I hated her so much I was always left with a deep, hallow feeling in my chest when I saw her cry... guilt for not feeling sorry for her.

Dad parked in the parking lot of the Riverview Cemetery. We all sat there for a minute as everyone got out of their cars around us. Vitto and Joey were the first to get out. They put on their toughest faces to fool the other mourners who had no way of knowing how hard they'd actually cried on Sunday night. Dad looked at me gently.

"Are you ready?"

"Will I ever be?" came my response. Dad just nodded understandingly and patted my hand.

"You come up when it feels right," he said softly, then climbed out of the car. I watched him walk up the gravel path with the other mourners, his black suit disappearing in the forlorn crowd.

I wanted to get out of there. I wanted to take the spare key and hit the gas, then just let the road guide me away from my life. I could move to New Orleans and open a poetry café, or a voodoo supply store. I could go to Niagra Falls and run a cheesy tourist gift shop and sell figurines that were stamped "Made in Taiwan". I could go anywhere I wanted...

But I finally opened my door and climbed out of the car. I didn't walk up right away. Instead I leaned up against the car, closed my eyes and breathed in a few deep, cleansing breaths. I could do this... I would do this...

"Ashley?"

I opened my eyes and saw a sombre looking girl standing before me. Her eyes were bloodshot and her ebony sweater was a little frumpy and wrinkled. It took me a moment to realize who it was. Auburn hair, pale green eyes, black rimmed Lisa Loeb glasses...

"Oh, god, Ashley, I'm so sorry."

Gretchen wrapped me up in a tight, firm hug. Though I was surprised, I allowed myself to accept this long overdue gesture as a sign of apology. I was truly grateful she was there, though you'd have not judged it from my actions. I remained stiff and cold. When Gretchen pulled away, there were new tears in her eyes.

"Please, say something to me!" she begged. I looked at her with narrow eyes.

"What are you doing here?" I finally asked as a few more people passed us. Gretchen looked down and fumbled with a loose string on her sweater..

"I thought I owed it to Florence to be here," she said quietly. "She was so good to me when my mother was in that accident a few years ago."

Gretchen's mother had been in a car accident three years prior and was now paralysed from the waist down. My mother had listened to Gretchen sob for endless hours about how unfair it was. She'd treated her like a daughter, and was confused when we lost contact.

"What, a simple Thank You card wouldn't have been sufficient?" I snapped. I knew it was a bitchy thing to do, but I didn't feel like listening to the adults gush about my mother, let alone my old friends.

"I understand what you must be feeling," Gretchen said softly, reaching out to pat my arm. "I did a project on grief for a psychology class I'm doing at the university..."

"Don't for one moment, Gretchen Grundler, think that you know how I feel, or what it was like to live in that house," I snapped acridly. "Just don't."

She stood there for a moment, looking down uncomfortably. "I know." She finally said. "I do. Just because we lost touch is no reason to..."

"Lost touch?" I asked, suddenly livid. "Lost touch? Who lost touch? Wasn't it you who made up excuse after excuse when I would call you? Everything from tutoring to god-knows what else! Homework was the famous one, right? Even though I know you finished all you homework up to the 11th grade a long time ago. All the 'I have to go finish my math' and the 'I'll call you back after this show,'... And you never did. Pretty soon, you were just getting your parents to screen your calls, so I stopped calling."

Tears in her eyes started spilling, and she had to take off her glasses to wipe them away. "God, Spinelli, you don't know how guilty I feel about that! I still have you on my speed-dial right under dad's work number, did you know that? I still find myself picking up the phone afterschool to call you while I watch "The Immature and the Reckless", like we used to. But you... you were just in so much pain... and I couldn't help you..."

My tears were still at bay. I watched Gretchen pull out a tissues and dab her eyes with it before taking a deep breath to regain control.

"I'm sorry, Gretch," I murmured. She nodded, trying to fake a smile. She failed. "Really I am."

"I know, Spin. I lashed out too when mom was in a coma." She wrapped her arms around me in a hug, which I returned this time.

"Gretchen?"

It was not my voice, but the voice of the blue haired boy in a ridiculously formal looking dress shirt and tie, with a black blazer taken off and hanging in his left hand. On his face was a strange look. A cross between confusion, pride, and sadness. As Gretchen released me and turned to the boy, she straightened her skirt and sweater, and nodded courteously.

"Theodore," she acknowledged.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, though much less curtly than I had.

"Paying my respects," she said softly. "And repairing old rifts."

"Good to hear," he said. Though I know he meant it, his voice was bland and tired. I would have smiled at him, but I couldn't muster the ability to smile at that moment. He seemed to understand as he slipped my small, pale hand into his. "Ready to go up?" he asked me. I sighed and nodded. I could get through this. I would get through this.

Even if it killed me.