Clem had made one last plaintive plea to her mother early one morning in the week before Charlotte’s funeral after a night of fitful sleep. She’d practically begged, not for her chance to speak, but for her father not to.
Her mother had looked tired. “Clem, I can’t fight him on this, not now,” Camila said wearily, rubbing at the skin under her eyes. They were red-rimmed, as they had been since she’d gotten back. Since before, Clem had to assume.
“You won’t,” Clem argued back, though her words lacked their usual bite. She was despairing. She knew the moment she said it, though, how unfair she was being. But Clem couldn’t take it back, she bit her tongue.
Camila sighed. “Maybe,” she admitted. Clem wished she understood people more, if only so she could comprehend the sadness on her mother’s face. Instead, she left in a huff, anger on her tail (the only emotion she could reliably feel right now, other than sadness).
She couldn’t complain to Jason about it. Jason, who was far more fragile than even she was in Robert Whitefield’s presence. She thought about calling Ryan or Trey, but held back, it was almost finals, and they’d already lost enough class time to grief and fear. There was no one to rage to and so Clem held it close, let it curdle and grow into resentment. It was so easy.
Clem thought, briefly, of calling Niko. She could tell him everything, and she knew he would side with her. But the everything she was willing to tell him wasn’t everything. And she knew that it would just lead to questions she couldn’t, or at least wouldn’t, answer. So, while her thumb hovered over the call button, his number selected on her phone screen, she never pressed it. Jason asked her to, once, said he’d gone over to see Nineteen and Niko had asked about her. It was maybe the longest they’d gone without speaking since the day they’d agreed to work on solving the Go Green crimes together. It felt strange, out of body even. But she still told Jason, “Later.” They both knew why, they just didn’t say it.
The funeral loomed heavy over the Whitefield household in the ensuing week, and the sky seemed to echo the interminable gloom. Heavy clouds, scattered rain, it fit how Clem felt. She avoided her father as much as possible. And when it wasn’t, she stayed quiet. The bruises on the skin where her neck met her shoulder and her face purpled and changed with the passing days, but he didn’t add new ones. Clem was thankful. By the time the funeral came, they’d be easier to cover up, yellower than they were after that first night.
The morning of the funeral they awoke to rain. And Clem, to a black dress her mother had set on top of her dresser. She sat on her bed until fifteen minutes before they were supposed to leave, staring at the dress, at her hands, not sure what to make of it. But then her mother entered, coaxed her into it, and brushed her hair from her face like she had when she was a little girl. But unlike when Clem was a little girl, she didn’t struggle with her mother, she didn’t strain or complain, she just didn’t have the energy for it.
The drive to the church (an institution Charlotte hadn’t entered in years, insisting she and God were just fine on their own, thank you very much) was stiff and silent. A few of the boys had gone early to help set up, including their father. Camila drove Clem, Nelson, and Brian there. She probably should’ve offered to drive, as the only sound punctuating the silence in the car, other than Brian’s incessant tapping, was their mother’s sniffles from the driver’s seat. But she didn’t.
She did, however, let her mom hang on her arm as they walked inside. Clem led her to her seat, though she quickly abandoned both her parents for where her brothers had gathered in the atrium to greet people. The last thing Clem wanted to do was greet people, but she wanted to be alone even less. Clem stood in the back, hidden as best as she could behind the heads of her siblings. But she saw the way the guests’ eyes caught on her face, how they leaned and whispered once they’d turned away, and it told her everything she needed to know about what they were thinking.
Then, Clem spotted familiar colors across the room. “Niko,” she whispered aloud, unthinkingly.
His eyes caught hers then, almost like he’d heard her. He crossed the room, Nineteen in tow, though her eyes and hands reached for Jason and not Clem. Niko’s face looked sympathetic in a way that might’ve rankled Clem earlier, but felt more genuine coming from him than anyone else. “Hey Clem,” he said, his lips a ghost of a smile at the sight of her.
“Hey,” she said quietly, ducking her head slightly. For the first time, Clem felt the inane and unfamiliar urge to reach out for comfort, to grab his wrist, or his hand. It was something only rarely reserved for Jason, and it surprised her. So much so she clenched her fist and turned to Nine and Jason. “Nine,” she said, her voice quiet. But there wasn’t much sound to cut through. “Thanks for coming. Uh, both of you,” she said, glancing back at Niko and including him.
