Playlist for the Dead. Michelle Falkoff

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      THE MORNING OF HAYDEN’S FUNERAL I couldn’t get out of bed. I don’t mean that I didn’t want to—if anything, I wanted the day to go by as quickly as possible, and if getting up was the first step, then I was in.

      But I couldn’t do it.

      It was a weird feeling, kind of like being stuck in a block of ice. I pictured that scene from Star Wars where Han Solo gets frozen in carbonite, hands in front of him as if he could somehow protect himself, mouth half open in silent protest. It was an image Hayden had always found haunting; he said it freaked him out every time he saw it, and he’d seen The Empire Strikes Back maybe a thousand times. I’d seen it nearly as many but for some reason I thought the whole carbonite thing was hilarious, and it was even funnier how twitchy it made Hayden. For his birthday I’d bought him an iPhone cover with the frozen Han Solo image on it, and I’d slipped frozen Han Solo ice cubes into his soda.

      Remembering the look on his face made me laugh, and laughing seemed to break the spell. I could move again, though I didn’t want to anymore. Moving meant I was awake, and being awake meant Hayden was really dead, and I wasn’t quite ready to admit that yet. And laughing felt wrong, but also good, and the fact that it made me feel good also made me feel guilty, which brought me back to wrong. Really, I didn’t know how to feel. Sad? Check. Pissed off? Definitely.

      What were you thinking, Hayden?

      “What?” My mother cracked the door open and peered in at me. Her curly brown hair was twisted into a braid, and she was wearing a dress instead of scrubs. “Did you ask me something, Sam?”

      “No, just talking to myself.” I hadn’t realized I’d said it out loud.

      She opened the door wider. “Still in bed? Come on, we’ve got to get cracking here. You know I’m not going to be able to stay for the whole thing—I’m going to be late for work as it is.” She snapped her fingers a couple of times. She wasn’t exactly the warm and fuzzy type.

      “I can’t get ready if you don’t get out.” It came out sharper than I meant it to, but she must have understood because she closed the door without saying anything, but not before hanging something on the back of my door on her way out. A suit, the one I’d worn to my cousin’s wedding last summer. She must have ironed it for me. I felt like even more of a jerk than I already did.

      I got out of bed, turned on my computer, and pulled up the playlist I’d found on Hayden’s thumb drive. He’d left it for me, knowing I would find it, probably even knowing I’d find him—I was always the one to apologize first after our fights. I couldn’t stand staying mad. He must have realized I’d come over, even after how we’d left things.

      I’d been listening to it constantly over the past couple of days, trying to figure out what he meant. Listen and you’ll understand. What was I supposed to understand? He’d killed himself and left me here all alone, left me to find him. And I was pretty sure it was my fault, though that wasn’t something I was prepared to think about at the moment. But I’d listened and listened, looking for the song that would confirm it, the song that would lay all the blame on me. So far I hadn’t found it.

      Instead, I’d found a confusing collection of music from all over the spectrum—some recent stuff, some older. Some songs I knew; others I didn’t, and given that Hayden and I had developed our taste together—or so I thought—that was surprising. I’d have to keep listening to see if I could figure out what he’d been talking about, though I wasn’t sure what the point was.

      I scanned the list for something funeral-appropriate. Most of the songs were pretty depressing, so there wasn’t an obvious choice; I started with a song that reminded me of the first time I’d worn the suit I was about to put on. It was gray and a little shiny and I’d worn it with a bow tie. My cousins, preppie throwbacks, already thought I was weird, so why not give them some proof? Mom was cool about it, just said she was happy I had a sense of personal style and an opinion about my clothes. She’d been a sharp dresser herself, back when she and my dad were still together, when she used to try. Now she rarely changed out of the scrubs she wore to work. Rachel, my older sister, was less cool about the suit and called me a dork in a bunch of different ways before Mom made her go back upstairs and change out of the dress she’d wanted to wear. Which, let’s be СКАЧАТЬ