Being dragged out of a funeral parlor hadn't exactly been at the top of my priority list that afternoon, but here I was.

Eugene's family had gone full eighteenth-century angry mob on me. I was carried out of the funeral and thrown into the parking lot like a sack of potatoes.

Which, ironically, I had recently purchased ten pounds of potatoes for precisely this reason.

"He's dead, you demented little fuck!" Eugene's dad screamed at me. "Do you know what that means?"

Eternal rest from this torturous mortal world?

"Carl." Eugene's mother, God bless her, held Mr. Wilder back before he could start swinging. "He's in just as much pain as we are. We have to respect that."

Mr. Wilder was livid.

"Brown, if I ever see you around my son's grave, there's going to be hell to pay. You hear that? Hell!"

I sat there for a while after they left and everyone returned to the funeral.

I thought about the fragility of life and how Eugene hadn't deserved to have his life cut short when he was in his prime.

Even if he had been an asshole to approximately ninety-eight percent of the school population.

After a while, I got up and went to my car.

It was an old Acura. My mothers had gotten it for me for my sixteenth birthday, even though I would have preferred a hearse. The trunk was nice and spacious, though, which was useful for body-shaped objects. 

I waited until I was sure nobody was looking before unlocking the trunk.

It popped open.

My shadow fell across the body of Eugene Wilder.

He looked peaceful, although the funeral home had gone a bit crazy with the makeup. His lashes were caked with enough mascara to put Dolly Parton to shame. His hair was a swoopy chocolate brown, and his jaw was still perfectly chiseled.

Death had done absolutely nothing to ruin his cheekbones.

I had dragged him out of his coffin shortly before the funeral attendees arrived and replaced him with ten pounds of potatoes from the supermarket.

It wasn't ideal.

But potatoes were roughly the same weight, and grief apparently makes people reluctant to inspect coffins.

His family wouldn't open the casket again. It was too painful for them to witness.

Which was convenient for me.

But if I could bring Eugene back to life, maybe his family could say goodbye properly.

Or maybe Eugene could have another chance to finish high school.

Go to prom.

Graduate.

Possibly stop being an asshole.

I felt like I owed him that.

I closed the trunk.

"Hey."

I froze.

A blonde-haired boy stood nearby with a can of soda clutched in one hand.

His eyes widened.

Then he slowly crushed the can.

"Dude," he said. "Was that a fucking body in your trunk?"

Oh, hell.

"No."

He stared at me.

I stared at him.

Then I decided that lying was probably no longer an option and smiled my most alluring smile. "It's a sex doll," I replied easily. "I tend to have urges."

"At a funeral?" He replied. aghast.

I shrugged a little. "Death can be a very emotional experience."

He stared at me, as if I'd begun chanting in Latin and worshipping the devil. "So you brought a sex doll to Eugene Wilder's funeral and hid it in the trunk of your car?"

Fuck.

Well, now that just sounded ten times worse than I intended. 

"I was grieving," I said, and stepped in front of my car to block his view of the trunk. 

"With a sex doll?" He replied. "That thing has a face."

"Mhm," I replied, examining my black painted nails. "They usually do. I went for the gold-tier model. He's anatomically correct." 

The boy's face turned bright red. "Why does your sex doll look exactly like Eugene Wilder?"

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. "Er --- coincidence?" 

"Dude. Is Eugene Wilder in the back of your trunk, McCreepy?" he asked. "Like, did you just kidnap his dead body from his own funeral and stuff him into your car?"

I leaned back against the trunk, as if that would somehow make the situation less obvious.

"No. Why would you think that?"

I turned and walked toward the driver's door, fumbling with my keys.

My fingers were sweaty.

My pulse was jumping.

This was it.

This was the moment where the rest of my life went down the metaphorical shithole.

The boy followed me.

"Open the trunk," He snapped at me. 

"No," I replied, and jammed my key into the lock, then dropped it completely with an obnoxious jingle. 

"Open the fucking trunk!" He was practically shouting over my shoulder now, which was extremely rude.

I thought he was going to punch the shit out of me.

Honestly, I wouldn't have blamed him.

I just hoped he'd hit me hard enough to knock me unconscious so I wouldn't have to witness the inevitable chaos that followed.

"Fine," I muttered, and reached for the latch, feeling him step closer. Then I stopped. "Promise you won't scream."

His expression went blank.

"Why would I scream?"

"Well, I don't know. I tend to keep an assortment of empty jars, a bone saw, and OH, AN EVIDENTLY DEAD CORPSE SPRAWLED IN THE BACK OF MY TRUNK!?"

"Oh, yeah," The boy replied, scratching his cheek. "Just open the truck for fuck's sake."

I finally opened the trunk.

Eugene's body lay exactly where I'd left him, perfectly still beneath a tarp I'd purchased from the hardware supply store along with zip ties, large black garbage bags, and several gallons of bleach. 

The boy stared down at him.

His face went ghost-white, and for a moment, neither of us said anything. 

Then he whispered, "Holy shit. Are you one of those sick fucks who . . ." He trailed off, looking genuinely horrified. "God, I can't even say it."

I slowly turned around.

We were face-to-face.

He was a head taller than me, with ice-blue eyes that could probably curdle milk.

"It's not like that," I said.

He narrowed his eyes.

"I just want to give Eugene the life he deserves. I want him to go to prom and graduate. It's not fair that he didn't get a chance to do any of that."

The boy blinked.

"So, I kidnapped him from his own funeral," I continued, "and I'm going to bring him back from the dead."

Somewhere in the distance, a car alarm went off.

Eugene's friend seemed to be experiencing several stages of grief simultaneously.

"So . . ." he finally said. "You're not going to bone his dead body or anything?"

I recoiled.

"Are you fucking insane?! Why would I...no! I want to bring him back to life, not get some ass! I'm not that desperate, or gross!"

The boy visibly relaxed.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Just making sure."

I squinted at him, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

"Why would that even be your first assumption?"

"Because you're standing next to a dead guy you kidnapped from his own funeral."

I opened my mouth.

Then closed it.

"Fair."

I turned toward my car again, shoulders hunched.

"Don't tell anybody about this. If it doesn't work, I'll bury him myself. Nobody has to know his corpse went missing for a few days."

The boy walked around to the other side of the car and opened the passenger door.

"I'm coming with you."

I looked at him.

"What?"

"I want Eugene back as much as you do." He climbed inside. "But if this doesn't work, he goes back in the ground. No fucking around, McCreepy. You hear me?"

I stared at him through the open door.

"We have to be respectful and shit," he said. 

I nodded, then we both got into the car like this was a perfectly normal Tuesday afternoon.

"What's your name?" I asked, starting the engine.

The boy leaned his elbow against the window and slid his fingers through his long blonde hair.

"Igor," he replied, "But everyone just calls me Iggy."