I felt Yusef’s hand tighten in mine, bones grinding together from the pressure.
“You got this,” I whispered. “Prime’s right there. Just breathe.”
Prime stood first, then Yusef, then me. We joined the slow procession toward the front of the church, each step feeling like a mile.
The casket got closer. Closer. I could see the white satin lining now. The edge of Nigel’s suit jacket. His hands folded across his chest.
Yusef stopped.
Just froze, mid-step, like his body had decided it wasn’t going any further.
Prime was right there. His hand came up to rest on Yusef’s shoulder—firm, grounding, steady.
“I’m right here,” Prime said, low enough that only we could hear. “Take your time. Breathe. You can do this.”
Yusef took a shaky breath. Then another. Then he started walking again.
We reached the casket.
Nigel looked… peaceful. That was the worst part. They’d done his makeup nice, covered up whatever damage the bullet had done. Put him in a sharp black suit. Folded his hands like he was sleeping. He looked like any other teenage boy taking a nap.
Not like a bully. Not like a monster. Not like someone who’d made my nephew want to kill himself.
Just a kid. A dead kid.
Yusef stared down at him, and I couldn’t read his face. Couldn’t tell if he was about to break down or throw up or confess everything right here in front of God and everybody.
His chest was rising and falling too fast. His hands were trembling at his sides.
I watched him close his eyes. Watched his lips move in something that might have been a prayer. Or an apology. Or a curse. I’d never know.
Then he opened his eyes, turned, and walked back toward our seats.
I followed, my legs feeling like they might give out at any moment.
We made it. We actually made it.
When the service finally ended, people started milling around. Hugging. Crying. Making plans to go to the repast at Brandi’s mother’s house.
I was trying to figure out how quickly we could leave without being rude when I spotted them.
Three boys. Probably fourteen, fifteen years old. Standing in a cluster near the side door, looking at their phones, barely paying attention to the grieving family around them.
I recognized them.
Tyler. Deon. Some other kid whose name I didn’t know. Nigel’s crew. The ones who’d helped him jump Yusef. The ones who’d laughed while my nephew bled on the ground.
And now here they were. At the funeral. Acting like they’d lost their best friend when really they’d just lost their ringleader.
Hypocrites. Every last one of them.
Yusef had spotted them too. I could tell by the way his body went rigid next to me.
Deon looked up from his phone. Made eye contact with Yusef. And then this little smirk crossed his face. I wanted to slap it off of him.
“Yo, Yusef,” Deon called out, loud enough for people nearby to hear. “Crazy about Nigel, right? Y’all was so close. Must be hard for you.”
The way he said “close” made my skin crawl. Like it was a joke. Like he was testing Yusef. Seeing if he’d crack.
