Final Room

12 | donna keppel

CHAPTER TWELVE | DONNA KEPPEL

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          I'm beginning to think Xavier has lied to me.

          Clara St. Germain is the older version of Betty, just a little bit more contained than her younger sister. I don't even mean it in a bad way, but Xavier has always been a quiet, reserved person, and I understand why he and Betty clash so much—they're polar opposites of each other, an introvert crossing paths with an extrovert—and he simply doesn't have the energy to keep up. With Clara, it's different, and I'm beginning to see why.

          I do feel bad for Betty, though, with Clara being yet another person asking her to tone it down, and I can only imagine what going through life constantly hearing that you're a bit too much can do to one's psyche. She sits next to me at the dining table, a clear change from our usual nights, where it's just me sitting with Sidney in my room, yet something still feels off. I can't put my finger on what it is exactly, but the warning looks Clara shoots Betty from the corner of her eye whenever she dares to speak a bit louder leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

          We sit there, with Xavier playing the part of the perfect host, when just a few hours ago he was stressing out about the chicken casserole not looking as immaculate as he wanted. Guilt is quick to settle in, tucked neatly under my ribs, as it always does, and I know he's mentally tearing apart every piece of my involvement in preparing the meal.

          Guilt has a way of completely robbing me of an appetite, so I mostly push my food around my plate, creating swirls with the sauce left behind by the cooked chicken squares, and Xavier is too busy talking to Clara to notice. I don't dare speak up, not even in Betty's defense, mostly because I know it wouldn't really help to choose sides during a crisis, but I still find myself wishing I could be braver, have more of a backbone. It would save me from plenty of heartache, but I've never been great at standing up for myself or for other people, even my friends.

          Emma, on the other hand, did that perfectly, well enough to cover for both of us, so I never felt the need to learn how to do it . . . until the day I lost her. Until the day she was ripped away from the world, from me.

          I know someone at the table is bound to notice I don't look too good—I certainly don't feel too good, still reeling from everything that has happened today—but I don't want them to interrupt a conversation to make it all about me. Every time I'm thrust into the spotlight, my first instinct is to retract back into the shadows where I can't bother anyone and, in return, cannot be bothered, either.

          Pushing everyone away isn't the solution, I know that, and, even if it works, it's only a temporary fix. The pain is still here and I'm still alone in this, regardless of what everyone says; their support is conditional, depending on how palatable my suffering is, and I don't know how to make it look aesthetically pleasing all the time like my life is a Lifetime movie. Unlike in those movies, there's no knight in shining armor, no hero to come sweep me off my feet and save me.

          This time, I'm on my own.

          "How are you liking Juneau?" Clara asks, wiping her mouth on her napkin. It takes me a second too late to realize she's talking to me; I only realize it with Betty elbowing me in the ribs.

          "It's fine," I say, hoping it sounds sincere enough. It's not perfect and it certainly isn't home, either, but I came here because I wanted to, after all. It won't look good if I suddenly start rethinking my decision, or worse—if I start actively telling people I regret it every day of my life. "I'm still getting used to it."