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They walked slowly across the field and down the hill to the old Perkins place. There were four or five cars parked outside. His father raised the knocker. Jess could hear P. T. barking from the back of the house and rushing to the door.

"Hush, P. T.," a voice which Jess did not know said. "Down." The door was opened by a man who was half leaning over to hold the dog back. At the sight of Jess, P. T. snatched himself loose and leapt joyfully upon the boy. Jess picked him up and rubbed the back of the dog's neck as he used to when P. T. was a tiny puppy.

They went into the golden room, and it was just the same, except more beautiful because the sun was pouring through the south windows. Four or five people Jess had never seen before were sitting about, whispering some, but mostly not talking at all. There was no place to sit down, but the strange man was bringing chairs from the dining room. The three of them sat down stiffly and waited, not knowing what to wait for.

"I see he knows you," the strange man said with a funny half smile on his face. "Come in, won't you." He stood back for the three of them to enter.

His mother took it awkwardly. "Miz Aarons," she said in a low voice. "From up the hill."

Leslie's grandmother shook his mother's and then his father's hands. "Thank you for coming," she said. Then she turned to Jess. "You must be Jess," she said. Jess nodded. "Leslie --" Her eyes filled up with tears. "Leslie told me about you."

An older woman got up slowly from the couch and came over to Jess's mother. Her eyes were red under her perfectly white hair. "I'm Leslie's grandmother," she said, putting out her hand.

For a minute Jess thought she was going to say something else. He didn't want to look at her, so he gave himself over to rubbing P. T., who was hanging across his lap. "I'm sorry --" Her voice broke. "I can't bear it." The man who had opened the door came up and put his arm around her. As he was leading her out of the room, Jess could hear her crying.

He was glad she was gone. There was something weird about a woman like that crying. It was as if the lady who talked about Polident on TV had suddenly burst into tears. It didn't fit. He looked around at the room full of red-eyed adults. Look at me, he wanted to say to them. I'm not crying. A part of him stepped back and examined this thought. He was the only person his age he knew whose best friend had died. It made him important. The kids at school Monday would probably whisper around him and treat him with respect -- the way they'd all treated Billy Joe Weems last year after his father had been killed in a car crash. He wouldn't have to talk to anybody if he didn't want to, and all the teachers would be especially nice to him. Momma would even make the girls be nice to him.

Bill came into the room. P. T. slid off Jess's lap and went to him. The man leaned down and rubbed the dog's back. Jess stood up.

"Jess." Bill came over to him and put his arms around him as though he had been Leslie instead of himself. Bill held him close, so that a button on his sweater was pressing painfully into Jess's forehead, but as uncomfortable as he was, Jess didn't move. He could feel Bill's body shaking, and he was afraid that if he looked up he would see Bill crying, too. He didn't want to see Bill crying. He wanted to get out of this house. It was smothering him. Why wasn't Leslie here to help him out of this? Why didn't she come running in and make everyone laugh again? You think it's so great to die and make everyone cry and carry on. Well, it ain't.

He had a sudden desire to see Leslie laid out. He wondered if she were back in the library or in Millsburg at one of the funeral parlors. Would they bury her in blue jeans? Or maybe that blue jumper and the flowery blouse she'd worn Easter. That would be nice. People might snicker at the blue jeans, and he didn't want anyone to snicker at Leslie when she was dead.

Bill didn't sound like himself. He sounded like someone in an old mushy movie. The kind of person Leslie and Jess would laugh at and imitate later. Boo-hooooooo, you were such a wonderful friend to her. He couldn't help moving back, just enough to get his forehead off the stupid button. To his relief, Bill let go. He heard his father ask Bill quietly over his head about "the service."

And Bill answering quietly almost in his regular voice that they had decided to have the body cremated and were going to take the ashes to his family home in Pennsylvania tomorrow.

"She loved you, you know." He could tell from Bill's voice that he was crying. "She told me once that if it weren't for you…" His voice broke completely. "Thank you," he said a moment later. "Thank you for being such a wonderful friend to her."

Cremated. Something clicked inside Jess's head. That meant Leslie was gone. Turned to ashes. He would never see her again. Not even dead. Never. How could they dare? Leslie belonged to him. More to him than anyone in the world. No one had even asked him. No one had even told him. And now he was never going to see her again, and all they could do was cry. Not for Leslie. They weren't crying for Leslie. They were crying for themselves. Just themselves. If they'd cared at all for Leslie, they would have never brought her to this rotten place. He had to hold tightly to his hands for fear he might sock Bill in the face.

He, Jess, was the only one who really cared for Leslie. But Leslie had failed him. She went and died just when he needed her the most. She went and left him. She went swinging on that rope just to show him that she was no coward. So there, Jess Aarons. She was probably somewhere right now laughing at him. Making fun of him like he was Mrs. Myers. She had tricked him. She had made him leave his old self behind and come into her world, and then before he was really at home in it but too late to go back, she had left him stranded there -- like an astronaut wandering about on the moon. Alone.

He was never sure later just when he left the old Perkins place, but he remembered running up the hill toward his own house with angry tears streaming down his face. He banged through the door. May Belle was standing there, her brown eyes wide. "Did you see her?" she asked excitedly. "Did you see her laid out?"

He hit her. In the face. As hard as he had ever hit anything in his life. She stumbled backward from him with a little yelp. He went into the bedroom and felt under the mattress until he retrieved all his paper and the paints that Leslie had given him at Christmastime.

"That was a damn fool thing to do." His father sat down on the dirt beside him.

He ran out the kitchen door and down the field all the way to the stream without looking back. The stream was a little lower than it had been when he had seen it last. Above from the crab apple tree the frayed end of the rope swung gently. I am now the fastest runner in the fifth grade.

Ellie was standing in the bedroom door fussing at him. He pushed past her. From the couch Brenda, too, was complaining, but the only sound that really entered his head was that of May Belle whimpering.

He screamed something without words and flung the papers and paints into the dirty brown water. The paints floated on top, riding the current like a boat, but the papers swirled about, soaking in the muddy water, being sucked down, around, and down. He watched them all disappear. Gradually his breath quieted, and his heart slowed from its wild pace. The ground was still muddy from the rains, but he sat down anyway. There was nowhere to go. Nowhere. Ever again. He put his head down on his knee.

"May Belle? May Belle ain't God."

It did seem peculiar, but still --"Well, May Belle said…"

"I hate her," Jess said through his sobs. "I hate her. I wish I'd never seen her in my whole life."

"I don't care. I don't care." He was crying now, crying so hard he could barely breathe.

"Do you believe people go to hell, really go to hell, I mean?"

"You ain't worrying about Leslie Burke?"

Finally his father said, "Hell, ain't it?" It was the kind of thing Jess could hear his father saying to another man. He found it strangely comforting, and it made him bold.

His father stroked his hair without speaking. Jess grew quiet. They both watched the water.

His father pulled Jess over on his lap as though he were Joyce Ann. "There. There," he said, patting his head. "Shhh. Shhh."

"Lord, boy, don't be a fool. God ain't gonna send any little girls to hell."

"Yeah, but how do you know what God does?"

He had never in his life thought of Leslie Burke as a little girl, but still God was sure to. She wouldn't have been eleven until November. They got up and began to walk up the hill. "I didn't mean that about hating her," he said. "I don't know what made me say that." His father nodded to show he understood.

Everyone, even Brenda, was gentle to him. Everyone except May Belle, who hung back as though afraid to have anything to do with him. He wanted to tell her he was sorry, but he couldn't. He was too tired. He couldn't just say the words. He had to make it up to her, and he was too tired to figure out how.

That afternoon Bill came up to the house. They were about to leave for Pennsylvania, and he wondered if Jess would take care of the dog until they got back.

He held P. T. and waved as the dusty little Italian car turned into the main road. He thought he saw them wave back, but it was too far away to be sure.

"Sure." He was glad Bill wanted him to help. He was afraid he had hurt Bill by running away this morning. He wanted, too, to know that Bill didn't blame him for anything. But it was not the kind of question he could put into words.

His mother had never allowed him to have a dog, but she made no objection to P. T. being in the house. P. T. jumped up on his bed, and he slept all night with P. T.'s body curled against his chest.