Mick Harte Was Here Read Online Free Page A

schedule had becomepretty predictable. She’d take a pill right about six-thirty. And she’d be out like a light by seven. I wouldn’t see her again until ten or eleven the next morning.
    She was in her pajamas all the time. She didn’t comb her hair. And her face was always puffy from a combination of sleep and crying.
    It was pretty depressing. But I couldn’t really blame her for wanting to be knocked out. I mean grieving isn’t exactly the kind of activity that makes you want to leap out of bed in the morning and get “up and at ’em.”
    I used to think that when someone dies, the family stays real busy making “arrangements.” But for us, it wasn’t that way at all.
    Since Mick had wanted to be cremated, it was going to be a few days before we’d have his ashes back for interment (another name for burial, I learned). Meanwhile, there was a memorial service to plan. But after only one meeting at the house with our minister, even that had been taken care of.
    We did get a lot of phone calls, though. Like I talked to my nana from Florida almost every day, practically. She was planning to stay with us after the memorial service and she was all worriedabout idiotic stuff like plane arrivals and how long she should stay.
    But no matter who called—or for what reason—sooner or later they almost always got around to saying something about God. And how he had a plan for Mick and all. That’s when I’d say I had to go and I’d hang up on them. I mean forgive me, okay? But even now I don’t feel like giving God a big pat on the back for his wonderful plan.
    I answered the doorbell once in a while. It was usually a neighbor with food—which really killed me, ’Cause, like I said, we had no appetites. But still, Mrs. Fischer brought potato salad, and Mr. Penski brought a ham-and-potato casserole, and Zoe’s mom dropped off potatoes au gratin, and Mrs. Davenport from Pop’s work sent over something labeled “Mashed Potato Bake.”
    Also, a woman I didn’t know showed up at the door one night with lime Jell-O in the shape of a heart.
    “Does it have potatoes in it?” I asked. She told me to get my father.
    I didn’t, though. Pop hadn’t shaved for days. And his clothes were a wrinkly mess from being slept in. Plus he had on slipper socks. And when anyone in your family is wearing slipper socks,you pretty much have an obligation to keep the outside world from seeing them, I think.
    Not that I looked too good myself. I’m not saying that. Mostly I just wore sweats. The same ones I’d been wearing at soccer practice that day, actually. Only now instead of running sprints, my main exercise was walking to the kitchen and pouring cereal I couldn’t eat into a bowl, then dumping it down the garbage disposal and walking back to my room again.
    The nights were unbelievably long. I never stayed asleep for more than an hour at a time. But I swear to God, I never knew how long the dark could last, until the third night after Mick died. That was the night I cried so hard my stomach muscles hurt when I touched them, and my sheets and pillowcase got so soggy with tears and sweat, I got out of bed and lay on the floor till morning.
    I made it through, though. And looking back, I realize I probably even lost a pound or two.
    That’s the upside of depression, in case you didn’t know it. The weight loss, I mean. Nature balances out your grief by letting you slim down. Then at the funeral, people can say you look good in your clothes and really mean it.
    Nature’s real thoughtful that way.

Treasures

    Z OE CALLED ME a lot and tried to talk, but I never had much to say. Gossip about school seemed totally stupid. And the really big stuff—about the accident and all—well, it just felt pretty private, that’s all.
    We did have one conversation, though. She called me after school on Thursday, and told me Mrs. Berryhill had brought in this psychologist to talk to Mick’s friends about the accident. He was called