It’s funny how when somebody dies, it’s like everything else that was a part of that person’s life dies with him or her. The more I think about it, the more I realize that people are sort of like bridges; they connect other people and other places together, and once that bridge is burned, there really is nothing left to hold everything together but a skeleton. And eventually, even that breaks down.

My parents worry about me – I can see it in their faces, the way they start whispering when I leave the room or when they think I can’t hear them. They worry that I am depressed, that I might never grow out of this ‘phase.’ They should really be worrying about their own.

They are afraid of phases. Everybody said that Jonas was “just going through a phase.” But it wasn’t, and now they are afraid.

They think I don’t see and hear things but I do. I notice that my mom locks herself in her bedroom and that we have a surplus of wine in the house. I also notice that she sleeps during the day and cries at night.

My dad isn’t any better. He puts on a brave face, the one I used to like when I was five and afraid of our neighbour’s pit-bull, but really he just hides away behind his desk. I hardly see him anymore because he is always away at work.

But I would be a hypocrite if I said anything about anything because I do the exact same thing. And that’s why they are so scared.

On Friday, I have dinner with my mom, just the two of us. Truthfully, I don’t think either of us would have noticed if the other wasn’t there. My mom’s eyes are glazed over and bloodshot, and she stares at the eight-by-eleven framed photograph of Jonas’ head mounted on the wall behind me. It’s our little shrine to him, that wall. It’s plastered in photographs of him, awards, ribbons, newspaper articles – anything and everything. It’s actually pretty morbid. The only things that aren’t up there are his skateboard and Pink Floyd’s The Wall.

If my parents knew I had them, they would skin me alive. As far as they know, his trusty old Zero is somewhere at the bottom of Lake Ontario, and The Wall is floating around a Miscellaneous bin at Goodwill. What they don’t know is that I listen to the Wall – everyday – and where I go at night is skateboarding downtown.

They probably think I am at some park somewhere, shooting drugs and chugging beer. I am Jonas’ scapegoat. I find it ironic that despite their overwhelming concern for me, they have yet to try and bar my escapes into the night.

Maybe it’s because that’s what they tried with Jonas, and it didn’t work. Maybe they think they’re pulling this reverse-psychology thing on me. You know, make it look like they don’t care so that I’ll try and be a good little girl to get their attention.

I don’t want their attention. I don’t need attention.

I remember when I was a little kid, Sundays used to be ‘family days.’ We used to go to the beach if it was nice out, or to the Lakeshore to skate if it was cold. Sometimes we saw movies or went to carnivals, and sometimes we just stayed at home and baked. My mom used to love baking – cookies, cakes, whatever. My dad used to love distracting her while Jonas and I nicked some off the cooling rack for us.

It’s weird thinking about them as my mom and my dad.

Sometimes I think that I hate Jonas for being so selfish. Didn’t he know that other people loved him too? But then other times I can understand him. I remember the fights he used to get into with our parents about staying out late and stuff. He only wanted a little bit of freedom. Skateboarding gave him that – I can understand that. But then they took it away from him and what else was he supposed to do? It’s suburbia. There’s nothing here. It’s a desolate, soul-sucking limbo and there is nothing to turn to but fake happiness.

People say that its peer pressure that causes the majority of kids to do the stupid things they do. Partying, drugs, booze – but that’s only a small part of it, I think. The real reason is desperation. Suburbia is like a prison – you can’t get anywhere without a car, there are no libraries, stores, theatres in walking distance. Only little kids can have fun in the suburbs, and even they probably get bored of the same three playgrounds day in and day out. Its desperation and boredom – the need for freedom.

But they say that too much of a good thing can be a bad thing, which is what it is with drugs. You start with a couple of cigarettes, progress to a few hits from a joint, maybe a beer here and there and suddenly you can’t get enough of it. The rest of the world seems like nothing compared to the happiness you get out of chemicals, no matter how temporary the moment of euphoria is.

That’s why I can’t understand what people have against skateboarding. They don’t understand – its pure freedom, feeling the wind whipping against your face and universe melting away under your feet. I’m not that good at it yet, but just cruising around the deserted city streets makes me feel happier than I have ever felt in my life.

And to take that away from somebody – somebody like Jonas, who wasn’t all that strong to begin with – it’s disgusting.

I skateboard on Sundays. It is my own tribute to Jonas. He wouldn’t have wanted his Zero to rot underneath his bed, I don’t think. He loved that thing more than he loved his family.

On the last Sunday before the summer holidays are over, we eat dinner as a family for the first time since April. My mom is sober for once, and my dad isn’t typing away at his Blackberry or chatting into his phone. Dinner is steak and mashed potatoes with a salad. If somebody were to look at us through the window, we probably look like a perfect family from a stupid TV show.

Of course, it isn’t that hard to tell that my parents are sitting here with me for a reason. They’ve been planning this chat for months, but they just had to put their own problems on hold for a moment first.

My dad starts off the conversation.

It goes something like this.

Dad: Baby, pass me the potatoes?

Mom: Alice, pass your daddy the potatoes.

Me: Here.

Dad: (freezes) what’s that you got there?

Me: What’s what I got where?

Dad: There – on your arm. Are those cuts?

Mom: (panicking) Oh my god! Alice, are those cuts? Are you cutting yourself?

Me: (panicking) what? What cuts? Shit, am I bleeding?

Dad: Watch your language!

Me: What was that for? God, I thought I was dripping blood or something.

Mom: (to herself) Oh my god, oh my god.

Me: I don’t cut myself. Jeez, way to scare everybody, Dad.

Dad: If those aren’t cuts, then what the hell are they?

Me: I thought you said no swearing the house.

Dad: Don’t give me that attitude! Answer my question!

Me: (looking at my arm) Jeez, I can’t believe you actually think I cut myself. They’re from the cat, Dad. Honestly –

Mom: Don’t talk to your father like that! He’s only concerned for your well-being.

Me: Oh, of course. And by that you mean accusing me of being emo and being absent sixteen hours a day. May I be excused?

Dad: Sit down and eat your dinner. Your mother worked very hard to prepare this meal and now you’ve gone and ruined it.

Me: If this isn’t the most clichéd argument I’ve ever been in, somebody shoot me.

Silence.

And now they think I want to be shot.