Revived (Cat Patrick)

the room and throws open the curtains. He opens the window and the fresh outside air stings my nostrils.
    “No,” I mutter.
    “You’ll feel better after a shower,” he says.
    I laugh bitterly. As if a shower could wash away the pain of losing Audrey. “Not likely.”
    “Your choice,” Mason says, moving to the door again. “We’re leaving for her funeral in an hour.”
    Of course, I get up.
    I stand on shaky legs like a newborn fawn and hobble across the room. I can feel the lack of fuel in my body, but the thought of food makes me want to hurl. I grab clean underwear from the dresser then check my phone, which is charging on the desk. There are several missed calls from Megan; there’s a text waiting from Matt:
Matt: I’m sorry.

    Just two words, and yet, they are monumental.
    They give me enough kick to move.
    I shower and dry my hair, then pin back my curls in the front. I stare at my blue eyes in the mirror for a long time, searching for recognition. My face doesn’t look the same anymore.
    I go back into my room and pull on a black skirt of Audrey’s.
    It might seem weird to wear a dead girl’s clothes to her funeral, but to me, it feels okay. She was free with her stuff, and half the clothes in my closet are probably hers. And besides that, there’s the note.
    Mr. McKean brought it over the night she died. It seemed an odd delivery at the time—why not stay with your family?—but then I realized he probably needed to keep busy so he wouldn’t be forced to sit and think about Audrey. He’s like one of those sharks that will die if they stop moving. So he brought over the note.
    I pick it up off the nightstand and run my fingers over Audrey’s straight-up-and-down cursive. It looks so much like her to me. I reread the first half of the letter.

Daisy—
Promise you’ll do two things for me.
The first is easy: Take my clothes. ALL OF THEM. Even if you throw them away, get them out of our house (but I have pretty good taste—haha!—so you should just keep them).
You’ve seen those people who can’t let go. They sob over old T-shirts that aren’t worth anything. My mom is a pack rat; she’ll obsess. My ugliest pajamas will break her heart. Take them, Daisy. Do it for me (and for your wardrobe ).

    There is a knock at the bedroom door.
    “Almost ready?” Cassie says quietly. Her tone is less robotic, more like how she acts when we’re in public.
    “Yes,” I answer. I fold the letter and put it in my pocket, slip on some flats, and open the door.
    “You look nice,” Cassie says.
    I don’t care.
    For a girl who, according to her brother, didn’t have many friends, Audrey’s funeral service is packed. I can’t help but wonder whether school let out early for attending kids. Then I imagine Audrey’s ghost reading my mind and immediately feel like crap for thinking that.
    I inhale a breath of musty old church air. It’s a good turnout , I mentally say to Audrey, as if she can hear me. Everyone loved you.
    I’ve never been to a funeral, so I have no basis for saying that this one seems typical. I don’t cry, because when dozens of Audrey’s classmates stand and talk about her, they cry enough for all of us. They sob. They weep. Dramatically, they proclaim to the sky that they will miss their best friend. Meanwhile, I think back to Audrey’s room. I think of the faces in the pictures on her desk. I recognize very few faces here.
    Again I feel awful for thinking such thoughts.
    After the service, we caravan to a nearby cemetery. The day is bright, like Audrey’s personality. The vibrant orange and red fall trees and the towering monuments look earthy and polished at the same time, just like my friend was. Everyone gathers around her grave; I try to listen and feel something without passing out from the lack of food. It’s only a warm day, not too hot, but I’m sweating just the same, wishing that Audrey were here to make a joke about me forgetting to wear deodorant.
    The crowd disperses following the burial, and very quickly the only people left are the preacher, the McKeans, and us. Matt stands apart from his parents, staring at his sister’s grave. Mason and Cassie wait for Mr. and Mrs. McKean to thank the preacher, and then they offer their condolences. I watch Mason put his hand on Cassie’s back like a loving husband and want to scream for him to stop pretending. Because this is real.
    I look at Matt and imagine that I can see a halo of pain radiating from him. Despite