The writer wrings her hands as she studies her blog comments. One by one, they trickle in. She sighs. She took a risk, posting a short story she wasn't sure of - was it brilliant? Or copycattish? All the bloggers, to her surprise, loved it. Now they all encourage her to post more. She glares at the monitor. It's all Q's fault, she rants. If she hadn't read Q's shorts, if Q hadn't posted them, this never would have happen. She blames Q!

She sits back, blushing prettily as she recalls the comments. And then she knows: the mission falls. She most post more. They have asked, and she cannot deprive them. For what would happen if - unlikely - but if she died from lack of internet exposure during the next week, spent entirely at camp? No, she must.

And so she does, and will return later to ponder the beautiful, dark poetry of The Dark Knight, in which Heath Ledger is a freaking psychopathic yet entrancing genius, and Bruce Wayne has a very sweet polished-like-a-black-gemstone Lamborghini.

Ahem. The story:

Steadfast

The rainclouds threaten to drench us. I watch Katy, stationed to the left of the casket. Her spike heels sink into the grass, the only evidence she’s distracted. The normal Katy hates stilettos. To anyone else she is aloof, an observer, a marble pillar.

A breeze catches the ends of the minister’s robe, tugging them as he finishes a traditional liturgy. Still Katy’s face reveals nothing. She studies the edge of the casket lid. I didn’t know her grandfather well, but I remember him. He carved for a living, something I personally like as a career option. In my memory, I see him sliding his hands over the velvet body of a cherry-wood dolphin, smile creasing his skin.

The procession moves inside. Even though I’m not the biggest fan of tradition, I bow to its mandates and stand in the consolation line. I watch a graying couple step toward Katy’s parents.

Tears glimmer in the woman’s eyes. The man looks stiff as he extends a hand toward Mr. Donovan. Then he drops his shoulders as if to say forget this, and hugs him. The women sob together.

That eases the knot in my chest. I hate false mourners. It’s a harsh word, but people who do nothing but bring casseroles and a few form phrases bother me. I’m not what you call the introspective type, or the go-to person for comfort, but when things are bad, and I mean scraping-the-ocean-floor look-up-to-see-bottom bad, I feel it. It’s like I internalize grief. Don’t ask why. I don’t have an explanation.

I shake Mr. Donovan’s hand, because I don’t know him well enough to hug him. The muscles around Mrs. Donovan’s eyes are pulled tight as if she can squint back the tears. I know her a little better, and decide she could use the embrace.

She sniffs into my shoulder. “Thank you, Garrett.”

I feel my tie tightening in a hangman’s noose. I have no idea what to say but “You’re welcome”. As I step away, I rail myself up one side and down the other. You’re welcome. Pitiful, pitiful response. At least I didn’t say I’m sorry. Remember my take on tradition? I’m sorry is the most worn-out funeral line.

Then I spot Katy. She stands off to the side, weight shifted on one hip. As I meet her gaze, the mask resembles rice paper, and is peeling one agonizing strip at a time.

The smile forces itself across her lips as to resemble a grimace. “Hi, Garrett.”

“Hey.” I’m feeling brilliant and talkative.

Three minute creases form between her eyebrows. “I thought you had an interview today.”

I must have told her about it last week a couple days before her grandfather died. I shrug. “Rescheduled.” After a piece of delicate diplomacy over the phone. I left out the reason of a funeral until necessary. “Trevor around?” I figure if anyone he’ll be here. He’s known Katy since third grade.

She shakes her head once. Another piece of mask tears and flutters to the ground. “He had a scholarship interview too.”

We stand in silence for a minute until a woman in a black (duh) suit bustles up.

She takes Katy’s limp hand in hers. “Oh, dear, I’m so sorry. I know how close you and Dad were.”

The grimace-smile thing inches onto Katy’s face. “Thank you.”

The woman shakes her head mournfully and walks away.

Katie bares her teeth. “She couldn’t care less. She’s been badgering Grandad about his will for years in the hopes he’d drop dead and leave her a big chunk.”

This is harsh for Katy the encourager. “You holding up alright?”

Her eyes fill. Her breath shudders, and she blows it out. “I’ll be fine.” A single tear spills onto her cheek, and like some kind of enzyme, it dissolves the mask.

There’s some chivalric code regarding weeping women. I’m pretty sure I remember it, but the contents suggest I should try not to.

Ah, what the heck. I pull her into a hug, touching her like she’s a tissue paper butterfly. Weird analogy, but you get the point.

She lets her head hit my chest. Soon enough I feel dampness seeping through the suit jacket. This is really weird, and kind of freaking me out, and all I can do is hope she isn’t getting a concussion from my heartbeat. I pin my gaze on some silver clip-thing in her hair. I think I’ll die if I look anyone in the eye right now.

Later Katy steps back, running a finger under her bottom eyelashes. It’s a mystery to the male mind how girls can bawl their eyes out and emerge with makeup intact. My guess is an unhealthy amount of waterproof chemicals and years of practice. As she glances down, I check my jacket without moving my head. Spotless. Incredible.

She swallows and breathes once. “Wow. Sorry.”

No, I’m supposed to say that to her, except if I say it now it’ll sound wrong. I search for inspiration, but wind up staring at a jet-black curl falling from her ponytail. “Uh, no problem.” Gratefully, my speech teacher is not present. She would make me give my own eulogy before killing me. Given the location, she could make a clean getaway.

“You know something? You’re a good friend.”

“Really? I mean, I know we were acquaintances and all, but I thought since I’d only known you for a year and all-”

She cocks her head, looking amused.

I close my eyes for an instant. “I think I’m going to shut up now.” To the flood of words arriving in my head just now, I growl we’ll talk later.

Katy manages a smile. “I meant it like you’re a good friend. I mean, like you said, we haven’t known each other very long, but you still showed up here and kept me from totally melting down-” she stops herself. “I’m rambling. You get my point.”

My chest warms at this revelation. “I guess I didn’t think about it that way.”

“I really appreciate it.”

To me, that phrase usually has the credibility of I’m sorry. But I can tell she means it. “You’re welcome.” And this time it feels like the right response.