Funeral gaMes CAITLIN CAMPBELL
My mom made me wash my face twice before we left for the funeral, which was crazy because I was only wearing eyeliner, if a lot of it. I didn’t argue. I don’t have a sister, but if I did and she died, I’d break the teeth of anyone who looked at me wrong. And if my mom wanted to be a perfectionist rather than a tooth-breaker, that was fine, too. “Remember, Colleen,” Mom said as I swung into the backseat of the rental, “it was a car crash. Ok?” I sighed loudly. Dad shot me a glare in the rearview mirror. “Grandma and Mark’s mom and I talked,” Mom went on, “and we decided.” “You mean Grands decided, right?” Mom acted like she hadn’t heard me. “It isn’t time to tell the boys.” “When will it be time?” “Maybe never, pumpkin. But if the right time comes, Grandma will know, and she’ll tell them.” “Mom, they need to know what happened.” “Colleen, Marie was my sister and Grandma’s baby. You’re only fifteen. Just this once, you have to trust that we know what’s best.” I didn’t say anything. “Colleen, promise me you won’t tell.” Caitlin Campbell
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