Page 29 of Miserable Marionette

I smooth out my dress again as I sit, my heart hammering away, my eyes never leaving Gideon nor his mine. I’d been so caught up in him, worried about him, that I’d entirely blocked out the fact that mere inches from my best friend, the face of his mother rested, looking peaceful in her casket. Her long black hair falling in ringlets around her shoulders. She’s never looked more like my Krissy doll than she does right now. It’s my first time seeing Gideon's work.

She’s beautiful, in a haunting, scary kind of way. Prettier and happier than she was in life. Something about that doesn’t feel right.

My eyes flick away from his mother to find him scrutinizing me so feverishly that he doesn’t register the Johnsons as they try to give their condolences. Utterly ignoring the older couple whose tailoring shop has become something of our second headquarters when the grove is too wet and our homes are unwelcoming. Mrs. Johnson always brings baked goods from home, and her chocolate chip cookies are Gideon’s favorite. Mine too. The Johnsons are nice, nice to him. They don’t seem to rush him out the door like other people in town do.

His father’s face leans in close to his, whispering something in his ear that seems to shake Gideon’s attention to the older couple at last. I can’t help but let out a relieved breath as the awkward encounter ends with Gideon being pulled into a stiff hug. My lips part as my best friend’s eyes screw shut, his brows furrowing like he does when he’s focusing really hard on something. When they start to pull away, those ocean eyes pop open, and they’re… wet.

Gideon is crying?

As if summoned by the worry in my own eyes, his flash toward me again. Cold.

Unfeeling.

Angry.

But the water remains.

Goosebumps dot my flesh as I watch him turn into someone I don’t recognize, sad, stoic, even a little weepy but holding it together. It’s like watching a play, but this isn’t a play.

It’s a funeral.

And his mother is dead.

Mrs. Johnson sees his watery eyes too, cooing something softly to him before patting his cheek.

Gideon hates it when people touch his face.

He nods his thanks, his eyes back on me the second they walk away. Cold and intense, the water coming and going. It all looks so… real. Suddenly, the water gulped down on the way out of the door feels like cement in my empty stomach. I don’t lift my eyes from my own palms again until the pastor starts the sermon, and I spend it staring at the back of his head.

Gideon, Eighteen Years Old, 1984

Cheyenne Dean, a girl I graduated early with, wraps her arms tightly around me, sniffling into the coat of my suit. She smells like marshmallows, and for the life of me, I can’t feel anything but annoyed by her tears. Those buzzing hornets are back, making my thoughts muddy as her fluffy brown hair blocks out my view of Audrey. I debate for a moment how much everyone would freak out if I shoved her right now, Cheyenne’s head smacking into the nearest gravestone. If I followed her down, straddling her frame and kept on fucking bashing it until her brain went goopy inside her skull.

Would that make Audrey cry?

Probably.

She’d be fine, though.

When Cheyenne realizes I’m not going to respond to any of her condolences she huffs, sniffling before stalking back to her mother. Her grandpa was one of the last people my mom helped direct a funeral for. I suppose they felt obligated to come. My eyes are already on my girl again. She looks fucking beautiful in her long-sleeved black dress, those opaque tights hugging pale thighs that’ll be tan again by summer. The sun is beating down on her blonde curls, ones I modeled Mom’s hair after, making them shine like a halo around her head. I modeled all of Mom's postmortem makeup from hers, really. It’s not how it's supposed to be done. I think it upset Dad, but I couldn’t stop thinking about my best friend. Audrey’s eyes are puffier than usual, the green standing out even more thanks to how red they are. Big and sad.

But right now, there’s something else too.

Apprehension?

Anger?

Her eyes cut to Cheyenne glaring at her back like she wants to hurt her just as badly as I do.

Jealous.

My girl is jealous.

Fucking goofball.

She finally returns her attention to me, where it belongs. Something terrible lances at my chest as she takes a step forward, her dad stopping her again.

My vision goes a little fuzzy and before I decide to, I’m fucking this up again. Fucking up my chance to show Dad we don’t have to leave. That he can stop this all now before it’s too late. Before the next blink, I’m in front of her, jerking her arm from her father’s grasp. Her little gasp is barely audible as he starts talking.