WHAT’S even worse than knowing my best friend died on the way to my house to celebrate my birthday is knowing that while she laid on the ground, body disformed and dismantled, shattered to pieces but still beautiful, like shards of stained glass—I was angry at her. Kept calling her phone and texting her: Where are you? Did you end up going to the skate party without me? Why are you ignoring me? I can’t believe you’re doing this on my birthday. I’ve known you my whole life, I can’t believe you’re treating me this way. Hello? Hello? Hello? You know what? Don’t even come. Wherever you are,
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