Here, standing at the front pew, with the A/C broken and what's left of my family in too-close proximity, my knees begging for me to sit back down, I'm reminded of why I hate church.
Mom ushered us out of the house at 7 this morning, and we didn't have any time to get anything to fan ourselves with. My plain black dress sticks to uncomfortable places on my body, like my stomach and breasts. I can't wait to rip this crappy fabric off of my body and take a nice, cold shower.
"Please sit." Pastor Holly says.
"Fucking finally."
Mom pinches my arm, and I smack her hand away.
Luna is dozing off, her head on my shoulder. She's only ten, and she's near as tall as I am. We come from a family where women are midgets, so Luna better hope she gets Dad's genes.
"Before the service is over, a good friend of our dearly departed Julia would like to say a few words."
A girl with a shaved head and a skin-tight cheap glittery dress steps up to the altar, and pretends not to hear or see the judgement from the righteous stick-up-their asses Catholic white women (our congregation is full of them, unfortunately). "Hey." Her speech is slurred; she's intoxicated. "My.. my name is Amelia Lewis, and.. I was.. friends with Julia."
The congregation erupts in a series of gasps and scoffs, as if to express their disbelief. A prostitute even associating with a good, God-fearing teenage girl? Impossible.
Amelia Lewis, undeterred, continues to talk. "She was... the best person. She was a sunshine, a light in a super dark world. I miss her."
The service ends shortly after, and I go off to a corner of the church courtyard, just for some peace and quiet.
"You're Jules's sister, aren't you." Amelia says.
I jump, fists raised.
"Sorry if I scared you."
"You knew her? My sister?"
"I did. We... hung out a lot."
"She never mentioned you."
"Not surprising. She... uh.. told me to give you this." She holds out a torn, damp envelope.
Furrowing my brows, I carefully open the envelope. Inside is a letter. The ink is smudged, and the handwriting is nearly illegible. But it's her handwriting. Instead of doting her "i"'s, she hearts them. She only prints when she's in a rush.
Dear Jo-
If you are reading this letter, it means I am dead. My death will not be an accident. It will be murder. I'm not sure how They'll kill me, or when, but I know it will be soon. There is so much I want to say. So much I need to say. But time is running out for me. Remember how we used to play Holmes & Watson? Well, now it's your turn to be a real detective. Find my killers. Avenge my death. Be my voice. And be careful- They have Eyes Everywhere.
-Julia
I look up from her letter, wiping my eyes. "Thank you-"
Amelia's gone.
"Who're you talking to?" Rowen asks.
"Nobody." I say quickly, the letter tucked in my underwear.
"Wanna smoke?"
I don't speak, afraid that if I do, I'll start crying- wailing, even.
He hands me a cigarette, and lights the tip of it for me. He bends down, and kisses my forehead. He doesn't need to say anything. That little, sweet notion was enough. But not enough to put out the fire that's igniting in me. Whomever killed my sister? Didn't know they made one big-ass mistake- they started a game with the wrong fucking person. And they will pay. Oh, they all will pay.
ns 15.158.61.6da2
