JADEN JACOBS

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We all stood around Alan's grave. His mother, wearing a long black dress, had mascara running all down her caramel skin. Spencer stood next to me, blinking through tears. At Alan's deathbed, I'd realised afterwards that he'd been holding my hand again. Despite Alan's death, I couldn't help but worry about why. Anyway, Alan's mother wept, and with her, Spencer, and me, it was probably the world's smallest funeral. The preacher man spoke in rapid Spanish, obviously for Alan's mother, but his words meant nothing to me. Spencer shot me a sideways glance, but I decided to ignore it. No one had ever treated me this way before. Didn't he know who I was? I was Jaden Jacobs, that freaky blonde maverick that everyone had tried his or her best to shun since first grade! The girl who would cause the little girls to hide their baby dolls as she passed in kindergarten! The kazoo player of Scene, a (terrible) band that lasted for about a month in the sixth grade! The artist who should obviously kiss that arts school goodbye, because she would never-

His hand clasped mine again. I jumped, which caused him to blush and whip his hand away. "Sorry," he whispered, fiddling with his fingers, specifically, turning the ring on his middle finger. I didn't respond, instead clearing my throat and looking away from him, instead focusing on the (obviously so fake) melancholy face of the preacher. He finally stopped talking, and gestured down at Alan's tombstone, then lifted his hands to the air, probably symbolizing the journey of Alan's spirit to heaven or some shit like that.

"You ok?" Spencer whispered to me later. The words broke in my throat, causing a stifled sob to escape in their place. Spencer nodded, understanding. "May I?" He asked, gesturing to my hand. I nodded, too sad and confused and who the fuck knows what else to care. He grabbed my hand and squeezed. I squeezed back.