The Tear Collector by Patrick Jones

most—they’ll be back in this same room saying the same words, not to Becca but about her. Then, there’ll be no surprise, but there’ll still be as much sorrow.
    “Cass?” Becca says, and I snap back to attention. “Are you going to answer my question?”
    “I’m not sure,” I say, as my eyes gaze out on the entire room. “Why do you think?”
    “I think people cry when they’re sad because when they’re done crying, they don’t feel as sad anymore. That’s how I feel,” she says, sounding too smart for eight. I think she asked me because she’d already thought about the answer. Like her sister, she’s a little bit of a show-off.
    “Maybe, Short Stuff. Maybe you’re right.” I’m still avoiding her wide eyes.
    “To feel good, you have to feel bad,” she says, and I finally look at her. She’s beaming as if she’s just won the spelling bee. She looks familiar; she looks like Robyn leading a cheer.
    “That’s so smart,” I tell her, then pat her on the back.
    “So why don’t you cry, Cass?” she says very softly. “Don’t you want to feel better?”
    I look out over the room, desperately trying to find someone I know, but no one comes to my rescue. Instead, I’m left with Becca looking up at me, awaiting my answer.
    “What do you mean?” I ask, stalling for time.
    “I saw that you didn’t cry for Robyn at the funeral this morning.”
    “Not everybody reacts the same way,” I tell her, then sigh. “Everybody’s different.”
    “That’s what I thought,” Becca says. She looks like she’s about to ask me something else when another of Mr. Berry’s sisters starts walking toward us and Becca yells, “Aunt Ella!”
    “See you later, Short Stuff,” I say, stealing a quick hug. “I’ll be over tomorrow if I can.”
    “Okay, I’ll miss you,” she says, and proves it by hanging on tight. I get my face up next to her and give her a tiny kiss on the cheek. “I feel better when I cry. You should try it, Cass.”
    I rise, then start to walk toward the exit. The food’s on the table in the Family Life Center, and all the tears have been shed in the church. Before Becca finds me again, I locate Maggiestanding by the front door. She looks impatient, edgy. “Are you ready to go?” I ask.
    “Yes,” Maggie says. She’s not looking at me; her eyes dart wildly around the room.
    “Me too,” I say. “I don’t think I can take much more. I’m ready to explode.”
    “What did you say?”
    “I said, Robyn was lucky,” Scott says, his eyes for the first time not looking at me. We’re at Coach’s Pizza on a busy Saturday night.
    “How could you say that?” I ask, then sip from my water bottle; Scott sips from his pop.
    “To die like she did, fast and, except for probably a few seconds, painlessly,” he says.
    “You didn’t come to her memorial,” I say, pretending to pout.
    Scott readjusts in his seat like a defendant on trial, then whispers, “I couldn’t.”
    “It was hard for everybody,” I say softly.
    “But for her friends, her real friends like you, it must—,” Scott starts, but stops when both of us hear loud laughing from a booth across the room. We look over to see Kelsey with Tyler, and Cody with Bethany. They’ve just noticed us; Cody hurls a hunk of bread across the room. It lands far short of the table; looks like Cody will be spending another baseball season on the bench.
    “Immature assholes,” I mutter.
    “Do you want to leave?” Scott asks as he picks up the bread and puts it on our table.
    “What do you think?” I ask.
    “There are people waiting for tables,” he says. “It’s polite to go and let them sit.”
    I smile, ignoring another roll hurled our way. “That’s so nice, Scott.”
    “Hey, this is what I do,” he says. Earlier in the evening, Scott had told me funny stories about his job waiting tables, but also about how hard the work is. He sets down a nice tip along with the bill. I offer to pay as well, but he turns me down. I