“I told you we shouldn’t have come,” I whispered to Mom, triumphant. She knew nothing.

Mom didn’t answer, and I looked over at her. Two pink circles had fought their way to the surface of her cheeks.

Eventually, some nice old people came by. Asked if these seats were saved. “They’re all yours,” Mom said gallantly, like she’d been holding the spots just for them.

Within minutes, attendees were forced to stand around the outside of the meetinghouse, pressing their ears against air-conditioning vents to hear. I can personally attest to the fact that half the students at the funeral had not spoken more than a few words to Liam since he started at Bradley that September. Strange, but I felt a sort of special bond with him. I knew what Liam had done was wrong. I found something like forgiveness for him my freshman year of college, at the sexual assault seminar every incoming student was required to take.

After the initial presentation by a local police officer, one girl raised her hand. “So if you’ve been drinking it’s rape no matter what?”

“If that were true I would have been raped hundreds of times in my life,” replied the pretty senior moderating the talk, so proud of herself when the room tittered. “It’s only rape if you are too drunk to consent to it.”

“But what if I say yes but I’m blacked out?” the girl pressed.

The senior looked at the police officer. This was where it always got tricky. “A good rule of thumb,” the officer said, “and we’re telling the men this too—you know what a blacked-out person looks like. You know when someone’s had too much. That should guide your partner more than a yes or no.”

I silently begged the girl to ask the next question. “But what if he’s blacked out too?”

“It’s not easy,” the police officer admitted. She gave us all an encouraging smile. “Just do your best.” Like it was mile-time day in gym class or something.

I think about that sometimes. Wonder if Liam was so bad. Maybe he just didn’t know what he was doing was wrong. There comes a point where you just can’t be mad at everyone anymore.

I had never been to a Quaker service before, and neither had Mom, so we’d looked it up on the Internet and found out that there is no formal service. Rather, people just stand and speak when they feel compelled to do so.

So many people stood to say nice things about Liam while his parents, his little brother with his same disquietingly blue eyes, clutched each other in the corner. Every now and then, Dr. Ross would start in on a low, slow howl that crescendoed, reaching either wall of the meetinghouse, exiting through the pipes and vents so that the people outside stepped away, the metal magnifying the sound like a microphone. Long before the Kardashians made it public knowledge on television, I knew what it looked like when someone who had gone overboard with the injectables cried. Turned out Dr. Ross, the wealthy, highly sought after plastic surgeon, was no different than the slithery housewives who came to see him, willing to try anything to reverse the damage they’d done when they were trying to pin down a husband in the first place.

He could barely contain himself as people stood to say how unique Liam was, how funny and good looking and bright. Bright. Now there’s a word parents always use to describe kids who don’t get good grades, either because they don’t work for them or because they aren’t, in fact, bright. In that moment I decided, no matter what happened, that I wasn’t going to futz around and wait to find out which one I was. I’d put in the work. Anything to get out of here.

After the service, we filed out of the meetinghouse, packs of crying girls three or four deep, the sun winking callously in their blond hair.

The graveyard was directly to the left of the meetinghouse, and all were invited to the burial after. Since Mom and I had sat so close to the entrance, we were in the inner loop of the circle that formed around Liam’s grave. I sensed someone at my shoulder as the rest of the crowd gathered. Then I felt the Shark’s sticky hand in mine and I squeezed gratefully.

Liam’s father was holding a silver vase, which at first I thought was going to be for flowers to mark Liam’s place, before I realized Liam was inside the vase. I hadn’t been to many funerals in my life, but the few I had attended, everyone had been buried in a casket. Three weeks ago Liam was talking about how much he hated onions on his hoagie. I couldn’t reconcile how a person could go from complaining about onions to turning in the incinerator, crumbling to ash.

I saw Mr. Larson on the other side of the circle. I sneaked a glance at Mom to make sure she wasn’t looking and gave him a half wave. He half-waved back. There was a blond woman next to him, who had always been faceless and beautiful whenever I remembered her. Now I knew her name: Whitney.

When enough black dress shoes covered the soggy grass, Dr. Ross passed the vase to Mrs. Ross. You’d think the wife of a plastic surgeon would look like one, but Mrs. Ross presented typical mom. A little chubby, and all oversize tops to conceal it. What would she have done if she knew the way Liam behaved that night at Dean’s, if she knew he’d taken me to Planned Parenthood for the morning-after pill? It wasn’t impossible to imagine her sighing and saying, “Oh, Liam.” Just as disappointed in him as Mom is in me.

In a clear voice, Mrs. Ross said, “This may be where we mark Liam’s time with us, but I don’t want you to think this is where you have to come to think about Liam.” She held the vase close to her chest. “Think about him always.” Her mouth puckered. “Anywhere.” Dr. Ross picked up his arm and smashed Liam’s blubbering brother into his chest.

Mrs. Ross stepped back and Dr. Ross wiped one elegant hand down his face and croaked, “It was an honor to be his father.” He took the vase from his wife, and his face became inhuman again as he sprinkled his oldest son in the grass.

Mom didn’t give me any shit when I turned the radio to Y100. After all that, she was grateful to have a spunky daughter to annoy her.

It took some time to get out of the parking lot. I’d overheard a few kids saying they were going to Minella’s for food, and I mourned that too. That I would never again be part of some rambunctious group taking up two booths, the owners rolling their eyes but also secretly pleased that theirs was the place high schoolers came to get their grilled cheeses.

We finally pulled onto the road, a winding single-lane carved into green horse country, the houses more subdued here. We were a little ways from the true heart of the Main Line, from the sprawling old estates with the maid’s Honda Civic parked next to the dashing Audi in the driveway. A gray mist pressed down, blurring the view from the window. Mom said, eyes in the rearview mirror, “That car is driving awfully close.”

I blinked away the long-distance strain and looked in the side-view mirror. I didn’t drive yet, so I didn’t really have a concept of what was too close and what was normal. I recognized the car, a black Jeep Cherokee. It belonged to Jaime Sheriden, a soccer player and a friend of Peyton’s.

“It’s a little close,” I agreed.

Mom bunched up her shoulders, defensively. “I’m going the speed limit.”

I pressed my cheek against the cool glass and looked beyond the side-view mirror again. “He’s just trying to drive fast to impress his friends.”

“Moron,” Mom muttered. “After everything that’s happened, the last thing this school needs is a car full of more dead teenagers.”

Mom kept on going the speed limit, her eyes slicing sideways every few seconds. “TifAni, they’re seriously too close.” She checked one more time. “Do you know them? Can you signal to them or something?”