Incandescence

01: Secret

Funny how dying makes you everyone's best friend. Gives us a tragedy and some heartfelt eulogies, and voila. School bitch goes down as school sweetheart, town drunk's revered an upstanding citizen and Mason Deveaux lives on, immortalised as the golden boy. Everything he wanted delivered with a punch.

I ball my hanky up in a sweaty palm and stare ahead. Mustering up authentic tears didn't work, and ever since we got off the school coach I've been clinging to the hope that no one'll think twice about me. Very likely. The staring's been incessant. Pity and sympathy and morbid curiosity, all mashed into one. Which would be fine, if my friend was sleeping in his coffin up front. But the star of the show's nowhere in sight. Been AWOL two months now. At least, that's the official story.

I glance at Lena, my older sister, out the corner of my eye. Chin up, back straight and eyes glinting with sorrow, she's a model example of a mourner. If I could act the same, it might draw less attention to me. But mimicking her is impossible. Out the question.

That's the thing with funerals: they only mean something when you think the dead guy's dead.

The organ player stops thumping the keys. A suffocating silence fills the hall. I shut the hymn book and take a seat, hands sweating, the image of eyes burning holes into my back flooding my thoughts. I take a deep breath and grip Lena's arm, my nails sinking into her flesh. She winces but smiles at me, and it's her sympathetic expression that sets me off again. She can't feel bad for me, can she? What if she's suspicious? What if–?

The sound of heels clicking off polished flooring snaps me back to reality. A red-haired teen I know too well is making her way toward the lectern, a piece of paper balled in her trembling fist. I try not to look but I can't help myself. My eyes are drawn to her, instincts getting the better of me as I identify all the little details that make up the bigger picture, like shaky footsteps and a trembling top lip and hands that are clenched to the point where her knuckles have turned white.

So this is what a real griever looks like. Where's my camera when I need it?

Once on stage she adjusts the microphone, folds out the paper and looks up, making eye contact in turn with everyone seated in the pews. When her gaze meets mine I try not to lose my nerve, but it's almost impossible when her eyes are a mirror image of his. Sweat beads my forehead. I turn away, unable to face her. Why did I let him talk me into this?

"First of all, I'd like to thank everyone for coming here today. It means a lot to my family, and I know Mason would've appreciated the turnout. I wish he could've been here to see you all crying over him. It'd have made his day, seeing the effect he has– had – on most of you." The ghost of a smile lurks on her lips. Last time I saw Olivia Deveaux smile, she was going through stage one of the mourner's phase: stubborn denial. That's what happens when you don't have a body to certify a death. False hope is such a bitch.

And yet I still haven't opened my mouth.

"My brother could be a real jerk someti – no, most of the time," she says. "I mean it. He used to always snatch fries off my plate when he thought I wasn't looking. Then he stole my iPod and managed to get it completely trashed from water damage. 'No idea how that happened' was his ridiculous excuse."

Oh Mason, such a shameless liar. Why can't I be more like you?

"My brother was irritating in the extreme. He'd try to outdo me in everything and got so jealous if I bet him – even at monopoly. I don't think I've ever met anyone so big-headed." Liv inhales sharply, the sound punctuated by a sob. But, despite everything, she pulls it together and carries on like a determined soldier.