Fiction.

My parents and I got to Richmond to make Courtney’s 1:00 service at St. Paul’s. Needless to say, it was weird. Courtney was just 7 months older than me and we buried her yesterday. Her mom, my Aunt Carol, is a complete wreck. They still haven’t officially released the autopsy report so my parents haven’t gotten into specifics with me about how she died. Honestly, I don’t want to know. The only details I got were that she was found sprawled out in front of one of the mausoleums at Hollywood Cemetery.

After we got back to Aunt Carol’s house, I went up to the guest room to change. I heard a burbling sound coming from the floor. I managed to dig my cell phone out of my jeans pockets before it switched over to voice mail. It was exactly who I needed: Lily my best friend from elementary school. She is exactly the opposite of me: she’s loud and obnoxious and wonderful. Her parents are big wigs who own a mansion on Monument Avenue and rue the day that Lily entered puberty. Since then she has been involved with every guy that has looked at her (and they all do) - not necessarily physically but always dramatically.

“Lily!”

“HOLA, BITCHEZZZZ!” she screamed into the phone. “Sucks about Courtney, huh?” Lily always had an overwhelming sense of appropriateness.

“Yeah, well,” I answered, realizing for the first time that I was actually pretty freaked out about the whole thing.

“Anyway,” said Lily. “Come hang out with me and Tom tonight.”

“Who?”

“Tom. That guy I told you about. The one who’s a senior at VCU.”

“What is he doing hanging out with you? You’re only 17,” I reminded her, sensing the late night phone calls to me and threats to run away to her parents that were guaranteed to come out in the following weeks.

“Hey, I’m hot. What can I say? But seriously, come hang out. You don’t want to spend the whole night cooped up in your aunt’s living room watching everyone cry, do you?”

That was an easy one to answer. We planned to meet up at 10:30 at Grandma’s, the most hipster place in the entire world - apparently Tom fit into that category and I was sure Lily would show up looking the part. But they have really good zucchini fritters, so it’s easy to look passed the gross haircuts that they all seem to think are really cool.

My mom was unusually reasonable about letting me go out. She was too tired from the funeral to argue, and the fact that I told her I was going to Lily’s house and not a bar (which Grandma’s technically is) probably helped things. Let me say something here: I don’t usually lie, particularly to my mother because she can pick it out pretty easily. But, I can sense an opportunity as well as the next girl. So, lie I did.

Anyway, I got to Grandma’s about 10 minutes late, but still before Lily and Tom. Just as I sat down on the sidewalk near the entrance, I got a text from her: omg so late be there soon. Typical.

I waited for about 15 minutes and still no Lily or Tom, but lots of tight denim. I decided to go and stand around *inside* because it seemed less lame that standing around *outside.*

Now, entering a bar can prove to be difficult when you are 18. Despite my clean track record, I have been in many bars, usually with Lily. I have never gotten caught and I have never tried to get any alcohol, just so you know. Anyway, if you do it enough, you start to learn how to go about it. The best thing to do is have your ID in your hand, ready to show whoever is in charge of the door. I don’t have a fake ID, I just use my real driver’s license. If you look like you’re not scared of someone seeing it, they typically don’t ask for it. When you walk by the door, make enough eye contact to warrant a quick smile, but don’t stare. Being really tall helps, too. For some reason, people don’t typically think 178years olds can be 5′11″ which I am.

I saw a swarm of people heading towards the door, so I thought I’d just mingle in with them to get inside. Things were going great and was just about to slip my ID back into my pocket when I felt someone’s hand wrap around my wrist.

“Hold on. I need to see that.”

I looked up and was face-to-face with a blond girl who I recognized as one of the bartenders (which is weird because I hadn’t been there for a year and usually people cycle through Grandma’s pretty quickly). I remembered her as being really nice, but she sure looked pissed off right then.

“Please don’t make this harder than it has to be. Just let me see it,” she said. I sighed and held up my very underage ID, a bit nauseous from the unknown of what was going to happen next.

“Do you know how much trouble we could get in if people found out you were in here? I’m sorry, but I’m not going to lose my shitty job because some teenager thinks she can do whatever she wants. Come with me.” She was still holding onto my wrist and started to pull me out the door.

That’s when everything hit me: Courtney’s death, how much trouble I could potentially be in if I got caught for this. My chin started quivering uncontrollably. I actually started crying, but for real this time.

Just as we made it out the door and the bartender turned around to officially kick me out, I felt it. What started as the normal tickle in my nose and lump in my throat turned into a dull ache moving up my cheeks and into the corner of my eye. The bartender stared at me. I was sure she was about to lose it on me, the annoying teenager whose mere presence could not only get her fired, but who now was crying like a tool in front of the city of Richmond. Seriously, I wanted to sidewalk to open up and swallow me.

But suddenly, she lifted her hand up to my face and plucked something out of my eye. It was a penny. She looked up at me and smiled.