THE QUEEN IS DEAD (LONG LIVE THE QUEEN)
Sutton’s funeral was held in a beautiful Spanish Revival church in the Catalina Foothills. Cream-colored adobe walls arched up from thick red carpets, and bunches of flowers had been arranged on every
surface. Every pew was packed—the entire school was there, along with what seemed like half of Tucson. Emma’s eyes scanned the crowd. Sutton’s teachers sat mingled with the students. Principal Ambrose
perched awkwardly at the front, a black pillbox hat on her stiff hair. A half dozen police officers were there, too, shining in their dress blues. Quinlan sat next to a pretty Asian woman Emma was shocked to
realize must be his wife. Corcoran sat behind them, his face as stoic as always.
In front of the altar was a blown-up picture of Sutton. Unlike most photos of her, where she mugged for the camera or smirked or gave a movie-star pout, this one showed a quiet, inscrutable girl. Her eyes
were wide and clear, her lips parted in an enigmatic smile. The expression wasn’t malicious or sly, but it hinted at the presence of a secret self, deeper and more beautiful than anyone could have guessed.
I followed my sister’s gaze as she looked out over the crowd. There were so many faces I barely recognized, people who’d flitted through my life without any real connection. Kids I’d passed in the hallway,
people I’d rolled my eyes at, neighbors I’d only spoken to once or twice. The sheer size of the crowd made me feel strangely sad. Who here had I missed out on knowing?
Emma sat in the front row with the rest of Sutton’s family, her hands balled up in her lap. Next to her, Laurel was sobbing into Mr. Mercer’s handkerchief, her shoulders shaking. Mr. and Mrs. Mercer clung
to each other as if to a lifeline. On the other side of them sat Grandma Mercer in a sleek black suit, her lips pressed into a savage red line of grief.
Emma stared ahead at the gleaming wooden coffin, dry-eyed, the ache in her chest too enormous to comprehend. She had been living with the loss of her sister for four long months—four months when she couldn’
t grieve, when she lived under constant terror. Now that she had the chance to say good-bye, she wasn’t sure what to feel. She’d lost someone she’d never even met. But in a way, she felt closer to Sutton
than anyone. She thought again about the shimmering form in the canyon. Translucent, blindingly beautiful. She and Sutton had been connected by something deeper and stronger than she could understand—and she
didn’t know how to let go of that.
And neither did I.
Across the aisle from the Mercers sat the Lying Game girls. Charlotte twisted a handkerchief in her fists. Madeline and Thayer sat side by side, Thayer’s arm tucked protectively around his sister as she
wept. He looked shell-shocked, his gaze glued intently to Sutton’s photo. Even the Twitter Twins, who were usually buoyant, leaned against each other for support. Gabby stared at the ground, tears plopping
straight down from her button nose. Lili turned her face away into her sister’s arms, her shoulders trembling.
The Mercers had asked the hospital chaplain to perform the funeral—they’d never been a religious family, but Father Maxwell had known Sutton since she was a little girl. He wept openly as he delivered the
eulogy, reminiscing about the rambunctious, joyful child he’d seen grow into a promising young woman. Emma barely listened. The priest’s words were compassionate and well chosen, but there was no way he
could speak to the Sutton she knew. Because even though they’d never met, by now she knew Sutton better than anyone. She knew the parts of her that had been haughty or selfish—but more than that, she knew
the parts that had been loyal, and fierce, and passionate. She knew her sister had been a fighter. Sutton had lent her some of her strength, that night in the canyon.
She almost didn’t notice when the priest gave the final benediction. Then all the guests were on their feet, a low murmur rising up in the packed church. People crowded around the Mercers to pay their
respects. Laurel was already wrapped in a hysterical hug by their pottery teacher, Mrs. Gilliam, and Mr. Mercer was deep in a low conversation with Dr. Banerjee, two men bonded in the loss of their daughters.
Suddenly Emma felt claustrophobic. She edged away from her family toward an alcove behind a column. After so long living as Sutton, and then as a wanted woman, it felt strange to slip away and become
invisible, just like the old Emma had been.
She backed up into someone and stumbled. “Oh! I’m so . . . sorry.” She trailed off as she turned to see Garrett Austin, dressed in a black suit and a pale blue tie. Her cheeks burned as their eyes met.
“Um, hey,” he said, flushing as red as she was.