Read Fragile Beasts for Free Online Page B

taller and thinner, and her hair is lighter. It used to be really long and she always wore it in a braid down her back; now it’s cut to her shoulders and she has feathery bangs.
    She’s wearing a dark blue dress and I want to call out and make fun of her because she always hated dresses, but the way she’s walking so straight-backed with a sort of snooty expression on her face makes me think she doesn’t hate this one. She’s clutching a matching purse in the hand that isn’t holding on to Aunt Jen.
    I smile and wave at her.
    She gives me a startled look, then squints at me like she’s trying to figure out who I am. Finally, she surrenders a little smile; it’s not the kind of smile I expected, but it is a funeral after all. I wonder how Krystal is taking Dad’s death. We used to talk on the phone. She used to talk to Dad, too, but about a year ago she stopped being available. That’s the way Mom always put it: Krystal isn’t available, like she was some kind of hotshot bank executive instead of a nine-year-old little girl with freckles.
    They find Mom and just as they’re all sitting down together, Klint and Tyler come walking in.
    Tyler takes a seat with the rest of the team and Klint strides up the aisle, not looking at anybody, especially not Mom, and sits down next to me.
    I try to zone out during the speeches. They’re either too heartfelt and painful or too phony and disgusting for me to listen to. Dad would’ve liked some of them and would’ve laughed at others, especially the one from theminister who hadn’t seen Dad inside his church for over ten years and probably wouldn’t have recognized him even before his face went through a windshield. He called Dad an “occasional Christian,” which I think was a nice way of saying he needed to tend to his hangover every Sunday morning instead of going to church.
    I try to put my mind somewhere else, but all I come up with is thinking about the dead chipmunk Mr. B left for me this morning. I found it on the porch when the first lady from the casserole brigade arrived at the front door. She was standing as far away from it as she could get, and Mr. B was staring at her with his completely bored yet wholly alert cat gaze from his perch on his favorite tree branch. If she had gone anywhere near the chipmunk, he would have sprung to the ground and scooped it up in his mouth and trotted off with it, but there wasn’t any chance of that happening.
    I let her in and as soon as she was gone, Mr. B joined me, purring ferociously and rubbing against my leg. I reached down and scratched him behind his ears to let him know I appreciated his thoughtfulness, then waited to see if he wanted the chipmunk for himself. He gave his paw a lick and walked off with a flick of his orange tail, which meant it was all mine.
    I went and got a shovel and slid it under the limp little body and dumped it into the trash can. I used to bury everything he killed, but he would always dig it up and bring it back to me. Eventually I realized he expected me to eat it. The bodies were gifts. I could tell because he never purred so loudly as when he watched me encounter the latest clump of bloody fur or feathers he had left for me to find.
    Even though my heart wasn’t in it, I always tried to look happy and make my voice sound pleased as I thanked him, just like Mom used to do whenever I’d give her one of my construction paper Valentines.
    Klint tries not to pay attention to the speeches, either. At one point I think he’s fallen asleep, but he’s only staring intently at a blue bead sitting near his foot on top of the funeral home’s stiff mustard-colored carpet. I wonder if it came off a lady’s dress and if she was alive or dead at the time.
    Finally the talking is over and everyone starts to get up. Klint and Bill and I are riding together to the cemetery.
    I tell Bill I’ll meet him at the car. I want to say hi to Krystal.
    I manage to catch up with her outside on the sidewalk