I hear they’re going to arrest her soon. That’s what my mom says, anyway. She says the cops on the case are getting all their ducks in a row, but Nicole is the lead suspect. “No one’s even thinking about you, mija,” Mom said last night, running her cool palm across my forehead.
If I did do it, no one would know. Not with Nicole as the distraction. It’s gratifying to go on TMZ and the other gossip sites and see what people really think of her. When the pictures leaked, I have to admit, my first instinct was fear. What if people saw the photos and assumed it was true love between the two of them (ew) and that I was the bad guy keeping the star-crossed lovers apart? But it’s amazing what a well-placed rumor can do. I never should have worried, not with Congresswoman Diana Rivera as my mother. She’s already whipped the votes. Everyone’s on my side. They all believe Nicole faked the pictures or blackmailed him, or something else equally twisted. They even have nicknames for her in the press: “The Girl in the Picture” and “The Phantom of the Philharmonic.” That last one’s my favorite.
I actually ran into her yesterday in the halls. She was walking with that boring orchestra friend of hers and Ryan Wyatt, of all people—I knew I never liked him—and when our eyes met, I swear I thought I might kill her. I wanted to take my manicured fingernails and claw them into that scar of hers. To think I used to consider her a friend—that I let a nerd like her into my world, into my parties and my family and my childhood home. And then she went and betrayed me.
No one ever betrayed me until those two.
The truth is, hating Nicole is just what I need right now. It keeps my mind trained on anger, instead of sadness and grief. Because if I really let myself stop and think about what happened to Chace, that he’s gone forever…well, I just might not recover from that. And a Rivera always recovers.
My alarm clock buzzes, and I slam it off with my fist. I’ve been up for hours, anyway. Today is Chace’s funeral, and I’m giving a speech. An unpleasant memory pushes forward, clamoring for my attention. The congressman called last night, telling me Nicole asked if she could play the violin at the service. She actually had the nerve.
“I wonder if we should let her,” Congressman Porter said over the phone, his voice sounding ragged. “She was quite insistent that it’s what Chace would have wanted.”
Yes, I know he was obsessed with the girl’s talent. But there was no way I was about to let Nicole take over Chace’s funeral.
“She’s just pushing in,” I told the congressman. “I think it would be wrong to include her.”
So it’ll be just five of us taking the podium today: Chace’s dad, his little brother, Teddy, me, Headmaster Higgins, and Ryan, who somehow snuck onto the program. Mrs. Porter is too distraught to speak, so the congressman will be giving the eulogy on behalf of both of them.
I hear stirring from the bed on the other side of the room. Stephanie rolls over, rubbing her eyes.
“You awake, Lan?”
“Obviously.”
She props herself up on her elbow.
“I know how hard this day is going to be. I’m so sorry.”
I nod.
“I should start getting ready.”
Mom bought me a new black dress for today, thinking Chanel might cheer me up. I wonder what Chace would think if he saw me in it.
I wonder if he still thought I was as beautiful at the end as he did in the beginning.
My dad took the train from DC to join Mom and me at the funeral, and the sight of his stalwart figure beside us, those warm brown eyes looking down on me with concern, gives me a sense of relief. Mom is the one who gets things done, who protects me like the mama bear she is, but you don’t go crying on her shoulder. My dad is the one who allows me to let my guard down. He’s the parent who sees my fractured heart and tries to put it back together. If only he could.
We get to the church early, giving us a few moments alone with the Porters before the public enters. The sight of Teddy’s tearstained cheeks and Mrs. Porter’s hollow expression is a stark reminder of everything I’ve been burying down deep. He’s gone. And there’s no going back in time to make things right.
My eyes fly to the altar, stomach clenching as I brace myself for a casket, until I remember. There’s no body anymore. Only ashes. A large canvas photo of Chace stands at the altar in place of a casket, surrounded by white carnations. I drop my gaze to the ground, blinking back the fire behind my eyes.