"I'm fine." He fiddles with the edge of the binder, watching me. "Really." I hold my arms out, showing him I'm fine. Too bad I have to drop my shoulder fast.

He steps closer. "Look, Matt, my dad wasn't easy to please. I get it. And I had my fair share of fights. But . . . take it from an old fighter, OK? Just play it cool for a while. Sometimes you've just got to tell people what they want to hear."

Easy for him to say.

He reaches over and pats my back. I shift away, and my backpack slides down my arm.

"And working for me this summer will be good. You'll be around some other guys who understand. Just, until then, keep your head down, and take care of yourself, OK?"

I nod, mainly because I know he means well, even if he has no idea how ridiculous it is to say the right things to Dad or to deal with the shitheads at school who don't know jack.

Mr. Anders hands me a package of blue painter's tape to take in to Jerry, who's overseeing the crew, then waves me toward the house.

"Thanks, Mr. Anders."

He holds out his hand to shake, and I shuffle the tape and my backpack, trying to get my hand free, but it gets caught in between. He just chuckles and pats me on the back again, a little harder this time.

The first time I met Mr. Anders was in a house like this one. I was eight. Dad and I stopped by to drop off T.J.'s lunch. Mr. Anders was holding a ladder while another guy measured something near the ceiling. He reached across his body to shake Dad's hand, without taking his attention or his other hand off the ladder. They pointed me down the hall to find T.J.

I followed the sound of the music, T.J.'s music, dodging materials, tools, and wet paint. Nervous to be walking through the house alone, but I could hear the music and T.J. singing along, his scratchy voice loud over the other voice in the room.

"Wait, wait!" T.J. laughed. "This is the best part."

When I made it to the doorway, T.J. was crouched over the CD player, turning up the sound.

He stood up, playing air guitar as the music squealed out. The other guy, older than T.J., grimaced and shook his head, but he also smiled at T.J.'s elaborate performance. And I watched, all the way to the end of the song, because I couldn't not watch T.J. when he was playing air guitar.

"How could you not -?" T.J. started to say to the other guy, dancing toward him, still sort of tuning his air guitar. But then the guy looked at me, and so did T.J. "Matt!" he yelled. "Finally, someone who appreciates my playing. That my lunch?"

"Yup," I said, holding the bag out in front of me with both hands.

"Great, I'm starved. Come on." He was already through the kitchen and near the back door by the time I could catch up.

Every time I step into one of these houses - guys working, music, the smells - it feels a little like I'm gonna turn a corner and find T.J., covered in sweat and paint, singing along to his air guitar.

The long hours of work help clear my head. The rhythmic sanding and scraping is nice to breathe with. And the work is good. After a while, I stop hurting so much. It helps me remember why, all those months, I ignored the crap. I've been ignoring assholes my whole life. I can do it a little longer.

"Matt, you need more stain?" Jerry asks from the doorway of the kitchen. I look down, realizing I've been working on the same cabinet door for a while. Thankfully, it doesn't look all blotchy or too dark next to the others.

"Uh, no, I've still got a couple cans after this one."

I carefully put down my brush and lift the door, moving it to the counter behind me to dry.

Jerry watches me. Not saying anything, just watching, until I've got another unstained cabinet door set up on the sawhorses. I wipe the surface down to get rid of any dust or stuff that could ruin the stain, taking extra care with the grooves. Then I wait, staring back at Jerry, because it feels weird to start staining with him watching. Like maybe he'll say I'm doing it all wrong.

"OK, well, I'm going to run to pick up the paint. If you have any problems, Carl is in the front room, working on the floor. OK?"

"Sure." I pick up the can, but I still wait. Eventually he leaves the kitchen.

Jerry used to be just another one of the guys. Now that Mr. Anders lets him supervise the crew, he's quieter, more serious, less fun.

When T.J. was working for Mr. Anders, Jerry was one of the new guys: he'd been at the university, but something happened and he dropped out.

He was OK then, but I like him better now, even with the staring.

Jerry's one of the guys who came to T.J.'s funeral. A bunch of them did, all in a group. Mr. Anders came later, on his own.

EVERYTHING ABOUT THE WEEK BEFORE THE FUNERAL WAS hell. But it was nothing compared to the funeral itself.

It was so cold. Too cold even to snow. Dad had bought me a new suit and shoes, but he didn't bother with a coat, and none of my regular coats were nice enough. I froze all day.

We got to the funeral home really early. People were already starting to set up on the sides of the road, like there was going to be a parade. Flags everywhere.

After Dad met with the escort, and they'd checked out the inside of the casket, they closed the coffin and Dad went into the office with the funeral home director. He left me with T.J.

It took me forever to make myself inch out of the family-room doorway and walk over to the casket.

The wood gleamed, reflecting all the lights around it. My hand shook where I forced it flat on top of the casket. I held it there until I stopped trembling. But it wasn't enough. I could still feel the shaky terror. I needed to know I wouldn't lose it in front of everyone. Both hands on the wood made me lean forward, and so I went with it until my face was pressed against the smooth, hard top of the casket, cold under my cheek.

No way could Dad come out and find my eyes red. But I could hang on and wait for the room to stop spinning, close my eyes and wait for it to be over.

Shuffled feet. Things moving around. A door somewhere, and some muffled conversation. A door closing. Everything more quiet.

"Son." I couldn't answer, or move. "Son," the man who wasn't Dad said again.

I turned my head, too heavy to lift.

"I'm sorry, but they'll need to open the doors soon. And your father . . ."

He didn't need to say any more.

I pulled myself off the wood, stepped back, and swayed until the man caught my arm and sat me in the nearest chair.

He leaned down, his face distorted, too close.

"Want me to get your father? Or . . ."

"No." I knew he hadn't actually heard me, because he kept looking from me to the door and back. "No," I said again. "Sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry about," he said. "Water?"

I nodded. He jogged to the room off to the side and came back with a bottle of water. My hand shook, but I managed to drink most of it without spilling it all over my suit.

"You gonna be all right?" he asked, moving an easel with pictures of T.J. closer to the casket. "You could go into the family room right there and lie down. We could close the door."

Fat chance Dad would let me hide in there. And he'd skin me alive if he knew I was being a wuss. Time to get it in gear. I chugged the rest of the water and made myself stand up, walk across the room, and throw it in the trash.

The guy continued moving things around the casket: flowers, a low table with some cards on it, a basket for donations to a VA charity.

"You sure you're gonna be OK?" he finally asked after he'd adjusted everything twice and I'd made three laps of the room.

"Yeah," I said, ready.

I walked right up to the casket and touched it, hand fine. As long as I didn't look at the easel, I'd be fine. I stepped back so he could get to the table next to it and stood watch.

"OK, well, you might want to go into the family room. I've got to do something here," he said, motioning toward the casket.

I wasn't going anywhere.

"I mean, I've got to open it for a second. Protocol." He looked ready to freak himself.

"Go ahead," I said, holding my ground.

He took a deep breath and shifted so his broad back would be between me and the casket, then he lifted it open. I moved fast next to him before he could shut it again. I knew not to look to the right, where there weren't any legs. And I was too shitless to look left and risk seeing no head. So, I kept my eyes dead ahead on the arm I could see was there. I reached out and touched the arm. Over the fabric, but hard enough to feel it was solid. I was too chickenshit to do anything else, even to feel for skin, but I touched him.

After, I bolted, so I didn't see any more or hear the guy close the lid for the last time. But I manned up enough to touch him. To say good-bye. Then I puked and dry-heaved until I popped a blood vessel in my eye.

By the time I snuck back through the side room, the casket had been draped with the flag and the main room was packed. I'd thought they'd said it was going to be a private funeral, family and close friends only. My family and close friends could fit in one car, Dad's in maybe four cars, a bus if you count work people. But there were people everywhere. A line out the door. More uniforms. I almost backed out of the room.

Shauna and her parents made their way through the crowd and stayed near me in the doorway to the family room until I could get up the courage to take my place next to Dad.

"Matt," Shauna said, her breath near my cheek, "you don't have to go up there."

"Yeah, I do," I said, steeling myself for the walk.

Her fingers caught mine, and she held me back until I shook them off and stepped out from the safety of the dim side room.

A gazillion pairs of eyes turned on me. Buzzes of sound, and tears. And none of it mattered. All that mattered was getting up there next to Dad. I took another step. Shauna touched my back.

I don't actually remember the walk. But I remember clearly the moment when I fell in line beside Dad. He didn't move a muscle. I knew he'd seen me come up and that he was pissed I hadn't been there when they opened the doors, but he didn't look my way to say so or stare it at me. I looked back at Shauna, now crying into her father's shoulder, made sure she knew that I knew she was there. Then I matched Dad's stare ahead.

We stood next to the casket forever while people filed past. Most of the time Dad looked like a statue with his hands clasped in front of him, face stone. Only some people got an acknowledgment, a handshake, mostly guys who had served with T.J. or Dad's friends and employees. Most everyone else got a stare, at best. I shook all the hands, said the thank-yous, tried not to breathe my puke breath on anyone. Sometimes Uncle Mac stood between us; sometimes he scurried around, talking to people, making sure things were where they were supposed to be. Aunt Janelle handed out tissues and smiled at people through her free-flowing tears. I didn't look at the casket again. Except when Mr. Anders came in.

A whole group of the guys had come at the beginning, weird and quiet, respectful in their funeral clothes. But Mr. Anders came later. I almost didn't recognize him, in his suit, his hair slicked back. His shoes gleamed. Regulation shine.

Dad broke his pose to shake Mr. Anders's hand and held it a beat longer than I think Mr. Anders wanted. Then Mr. Anders stepped back to shake my hand, reaching over to grab my shoulder, too. My eyes burned, and I stared at his shoes, stared at them all the way to the casket. And then I couldn't help but look as he held his hand over his heart and then laid it over the flag-draped wood. More than anyone else, Mr. Anders felt real. Like it hurt all the way through him, too.

Back at the house, I heard Uncle Mac tell someone they'd only been able to find one of T.J.'s arms. Really stupid, but I hoped it had been his right. I needed it to be his right arm. It seemed really fucked up that after all of that, I might not have touched T.J. at all.

Now I can't care. Even if it was his arm, it hadn't been him, not really, because whatever was in that casket, it wasn't T.J.

THAT NIGHT, EVEN AFTER A LONG-ASS DAY OF PAINTING and staining, I get home before Dad. Inside, the quiet presses on me, almost egging me on to take a quick look upstairs. But Dad could be home any minute. Next week. I can wait another few days not to tip him off.

I head outside with a soda and some chips.

The long hours of work helped clear my head.

Sun warmed and temporarily less hungry, I wait for Dad. As soon as he cleans up and heads out again, I'll call Shauna. I need to see her, and need to be distracted. Next week can't come soon enough.

Mrs. Russell across the street spends half her day pretending to do stuff in her yard so she can snoop on the neighborhood. Today that means she spends a long time pretending not to watch me.

Another reminder that I've been ignoring these people my whole life: Mrs. Russell in particular, since the day we moved in and Dad said to stop staring at the old lady sweeping the street.

Dad's truck pulls into the driveway.

The neighbors, the kids at school, everyone. All I have to do is breathe and coast and figure all the other shit out later. People do it all the time. Work. Live. Get by. No need to panic. Except, of course, that later is breathing down my neck.

Dad walks across the lawn. "What're you doing?" he asks, looking around like he's afraid people will see me.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?" An edge to that, but more curious than irritated.

"Sitting. Sun felt good."

"And?" Dad asks.

And what? I think, but I know better than to say it.

"Work? Are you going to get enough to pay half what you owe by the last day of classes, as promised?"

As he promised. "Mr. Anders has me on a crew next week after school, and he's looking at where he can use me after that until my summer crew starts." Between that and what I had saved up, it'll be close.

"You make sure you take on as many shifts as he can offer from now until summer. I'm not paying a penny for that display case, you hear?"

"Yes, sir."

"OK, then."

Dad looks at Mrs. Russell. "That old bat never misses anything, does she?" Almost a smile - not quite, but almost. What the hell? He run over a small child on the way home? Maybe a puppy?

"All right, well, enough of this crap."

And mood over.

"I'm heading to your uncle Mac's as soon as I've changed. Might be nice if you tackled that heaping pile of laundry sometime this weekend." It's not a suggestion. "Something's started to fester in there."

I clean up the kitchen, washing out my glass and taking out the trash. Then I head downstairs, so I can avoid any more encounters with Dad.

As soon as his truck clears the corner, I call Shauna, letting her know the coast is clear. Her mother made her promise to be home by ten, but letting her out on a school night shows just how much Mrs. G. likes me. Doubt she'd let her go see Michael on a school night.

In the shower I think about what she might bring me for dinner, hoping for something from home, instead of a pizza or takeout. I can order food with the best of them. And sure, I can live on macaroni, cereal, and microwavables. But I can't cook for shit. Not real food. For the first time since the fight, maybe earlier, I'm starving for something real.

We'll watch a movie down here. Means tomorrow my room might still smell like her. It'll make it easy to close my eyes and pretend she's really there, and we're actually doing all the things I can imagine us doing. Even after I'm trying to think about anything else, my head keeps thinking about her. I run out of hot water and have to rush under the lukewarm spray.

I have just enough time to throw on some clothes and pull up the comforter before I hear her car.

The side door bangs open. "Hello!" she bellows down the stairs.