A/N: Tentatively posting the first chapter of my newest work. This one is not coming as quickly as my other starts have been but I would really appreciate any feedback… did the chapter hook you at all? Thanks, friends!

Also the title is definitely a working title, so don't be surprised if it changes!

################

Setting: Northern California (Silicon Valley suburbs), around 1994

Chapter One

Dawn didn't have any black to wear to the funeral. Her parents didn't think children should attend funerals and, at 14, Dawn was just barely old enough for her parents to concede child was not her proper category. Plus there hadn't been many opportunities to attend funerals even if her parents would let her go. All her grandparents were still alive, except for her dad's dad but he had died before she was even born. Who else dies besides grandparents?

Best friends, evidently.

Was Ben her best friend when he died? She wasn't sure. If he had died just a day earlier, there would be no question but they had fought—and badly—the last time she saw Ben so it wasn't so clear. Even if he wasn't when he died, he at least had been her best friend, ever since she and her family had moved to their subdivision in third grade. Ben lived across the street and he liked climbing trees, toy cars, and baking as much as she did.

Dawn's mother took her shopping before the funeral, an awful chore. Dawn always hated clothes shopping. She didn't care about fashion and clothes never fit her the way she wanted. It wasn't that she was overweight or anything like that, but when puberty hit, the clothing had changed. It was always too revealing or too tight. She preferred jeans and t-shirts, was comfy in sweaters and sneakers. Even though those options were still available, the jeans hugged her hips too tightly, the sweaters ended exactly at her waist, exposing her midriff when she stretched. There was nothing in the part of the store reserved for young women that appealed to her. Once, Aunt Joyce had taken her shopping and let her buy her some of her clothes from the men's section. Dawn liked those clothes better but her mother insisted on selecting garments from the women's section and formal clothes, the kind she would have to wear to a funeral, were going to be even worse.

Not that it mattered. Whatever she bought, she wouldn't wear again. Perhaps that was the reason she didn't even argue with her mother when she appeared with an armful of dresses.

The funeral was weird. That's the only way she could describe it. It was at Ben's church, a modern building with big, colored windows and slants everywhere, angles which served no purpose other than to decorate the building and clearly mark it as a place of worship. Churches always seemed to have peaks and slopes, it was like a rule.

The ceremony was very religious and that's what made Dawn feel weird. Dawn's parents weren't religious and they didn't go to church or synagogue. Ben's parents were religious. Dawn's few experiences with church came from staying with Ben's family when her own parents were traveling. Other than that, her grandmother had taken her to a synagogue once. That was it. From those few services, she had concluded religion was boring and unnecessary.

Ben hadn't really enjoyed church either but he did like the Christian summer camp where his parents sent him for three weeks every summer. Dawn hated it when Ben went to camp; it meant giving up precious vacation time, solid weeks of school-free bliss during which they were supposed to have adventures together. Ben would never go to camp again but neither would he have any more adventures with Dawn. He was dead.

During the service, Dawn sat with her parents, folded between them. It was a good feeling, being sandwiched that way; she felt protected. Her father was wearing a suit, something he seldom did. He was a software designer for a small company and didn't dress up for work. He wore suits for important things, like weddings or fancy dates with her mother. Her father's long arm wrapped around her and she crushed her face into his suit. Her mother's hand held hers.

Her mother was wearing nice clothing too but it wasn't her date clothing. Her mother didn't like wearing black; she said it clashed with her pale skin. Her mother thought bright colors better matched the blond hair and blue eyes her Swedish heritage had given her. When she went out for special occasions, her dresses were bold shades of red, blue, or green. Black looked better on her father, Dawn decided, it matched his black hair and dark features. She was a combination of them both, with her father's black hair and her mother's blue eyes. She could probably wear any color she liked, she supposed.

The rest of the funeral was a blur. She felt guilty for how often her thoughts had strayed to clothing or other topics. She couldn't remember much. She knew she sat close to the front and that she and her father did not sing with the rest of the congregation because the words were unfamiliar. Sometimes her mother sang along but her mother had grown up Lutheran and so whatever brand of Christianity Ben's family practiced was not as foreign as it was to Dawn and her Jewish father. She remembered people spoke but not what they said. She remembered a lot of crying, not only other people doing so, but her own tears which seemed to be infinite. Even if she couldn't focus on the funeral itself, her sadness remained overwhelming.

She also remembered Ben's body. Corpse? Is that what a body became when it died? His corpse was there, lying inside a casket made of polished, dark wood. The casket was the same color as the box her grandfather kept cigars in. The coffin was split in the middle and only the top portion was open, revealing most of his torso and his face. Ben looked peaceful. His eyes were shut and his short, brown hair had been brushed in to the same, windswept style it always had. One arm folded across his chest and the other lay by his side.

She wished his eyes were open. Ben's eyes were blue with flecks of gray and sometimes it seemed like the two of them could communicate better with glances than with words. She wanted to see those eyes one more time and besides, if his eyes were open, there was a chance he might still be alive. But they weren't and he wasn't. He looked like he might just be asleep, the way he looked when they use to have sleepovers, until two years ago, when their parents decided they were too old for that to be appropriate. Well, he almost looked like he was sleeping. His skin was pale and waxen, making it seem like he was very sick.

"He looks handsome, doesn't he?" Mrs. Kent, Ben's mother, was beside her all of sudden as she stood at the casket. Mrs. Kent affectionately ran her fingers through Dawn's short black hair.

Dawn didn't think he looked handsome, dead people weren't handsome.

"I guess," she mumbled, not wanting to disagree. "Who dressed him up?"

"Mr. Belkin. He owns the funeral home." That made sense.

"Did he pick out the clothes?" Ben was wearing a suit but the shirt and tie were both blue. That was his favorite color.

Mrs. Kent shook her head. "Douglas and I did."

Douglas was Mr. Kent and Dawn knew Mrs. Kent must be upset because she never referred to her husband by his first name, not to children anyway. While Dawn's parents had always been Alice and Arthur to her friends, Ben's parents were Mr. and Mrs. Kent.

"I like the shirt," Dawn said in the same muffled tone. "Blue's his favorite color."

"I know." Mrs. Kent sounded like she was going to cry. Her voice was catching on words. Dawn could recognize that. She'd been doing it too.

Dawn resisted the urge to reach out and touch Ben's shirt. She wanted to feel the fabric, feel closer to him through the garment which represented some touch of his individuality. She didn't though. Touching a corpse was creepy, even if it belonged to her best friend. She wondered again if Ben was still her best friend, this time not because of the fight they had had, but because he was dead.

She took Mrs. Kent's hand instead of touching Ben and the pair walked away from the casket.

"I like your dress," Mrs. Kent complimented her. Mrs. Kent always made sure to praise Dawn when she was being feminine.

"Mom and I got it yesterday."

Mrs. Kent looked at her, eyes which were the same color as Ben's but infinitely less familiar, brimming full of tears. "You're becoming such a beautiful young lady."

Dawn didn't reply but she smiled as much as she could and accepted not only Mrs. Kent's comment but the squeeze of her hand and the affectionate way Mrs. Kent brushed her bangs back from her eyes.

Mrs. Kent continued in her choking voice, "You have your whole life ahead of you, darling. Don't waste it."

Ben did not have a whole life in front of him any longer. His life was entirely whole. It had a beginning and an end. That's what happens, Dawn realized, when you die.

Dawn's family was quiet in the car as they returned home from the funeral. Dawn curled in the back seat, leaning against the window, picking at stray hairs which were so obvious on her dress. She pulled off a long blond strand she supposed belonged to her mother and sighed. She probably got it from a hug and she needed another hug all of a sudden. Unable to receive one from her parents in the front seat she wrapped her own arms around herself.

Her parents were just as solemn, the car speeding silently down the freeway, twisting up towards the hills that contained their suburb. It was sunny out. Wasn't it supposed to be gross and gray and rainy on funerals? It always was in the movies. But it was August in California and that meant it was sunny, even in Northern California where they made their home. Driving quietly, her parents seemed deflated, even in their fancy, special occasion clothing. Dawn's parents were both very tall, her father was well over and her mother just under six feet. They seemed hunched all of sudden, diminished in their stature. Dawn didn't like it.

"You couldn't tell Ben got hit by a car," Dawn said suddenly, for no other reason than to break that awful, oppressive silence.

"He looked very peaceful," her father agreed, glancing at Dawn in the rear-view mirror. "The mortician did a nice job."

"Mr. Belkin, that's the mortician's name," Dawn told him, sharing what Mrs. Kent had said. "But Mr. and Mrs. Kent picked out his clothing."

"That's usually how it happens," Dawn's mother, Alice, confirmed.

"Did you pick out the clothing when Grandpa Gertner died?" Dawn asked her father.

Arthur shook his head. "No, Aunt Joyce did." Aunt Joyce was her father's older sister. "Dad had this olive-colored suit he always wore, it was his favorite, and Aunt Joyce said that's what he was always wearing in her memories."

If Dawn had to pick out the outfit Ben wore in her memories, it wouldn't be a suit. She would have put him in jeans and a sweater he always wore, one which was the color of the ocean on its best days, but perhaps it wasn't acceptable to wear normal clothing when you were dead.

"Why didn't he have any bruises or cuts if he was hit by a car?" Dawn wondered aloud.

"The mortician put make-up on him," Dawn's mother, Alice, explained.

"What kind of make-up? Like costume stuff?"

"Maybe," Alice replied, "But probably just regular make-up, like foundation and blush, the same kind I wear."

"They used ladies make-up on him?"

"I don't know," Alice answered truthfully. "I've never thought about it before, sweetie."

Ben would not have liked it if they put ladies make-up on him, Dawn thought to herself. He would have said that kind of thing was for faggots.