Skylar's POV
It was supposed to be a sad day. We were all supposed to be crying and hugging and all that, mourning the loss of yet another old, reclusive relative. And I suppose that that’s how the day had started out. Most of my family had gathered in the living room downstairs, putting on a show for the rest of the family while secretly planning a way to get another person’s share of the will. They all cry and reminisce about my now deceased great-uncle, whom no one ever really liked, all for the sake of keeping up appearances.
This was one of the reasons I absolutely despised funerals: no one gave a shit about the dead guy. Half of the time, they didn’t even know who the guy was. But they all hurried to come to the funeral to kiss their way to taking the most of the will. It’s disgusting.
I stood in front of my full-length mirror, trying to make myself “presentable,” as my mother had put it. “And don’t you dare come down wearing that crap you always wear, Amara-Rose,” she had ordered me. “We’re trying to impress our family, not scare them away.”
So there I was, standing in front of the mirror, fixing my blonde and black hair to hide the scar I had gotten on my forehead from my brother throwing a football at me a week earlier. I applied my makeup, lighter than usual, as to not upset my mother any more than she already was. Black eyeliner and mascara, slightly tan foundation, light pink blush, and nude lipstick. Mother had insisted on me wearing a simple, form-fitting black dress that she had purchased solely for this occasion. It didn’t even reach my knees, and it didn’t have sleeves like I was hoping it was – it was fucking cold in December.
“Amara-Rose, hurry the hell up,” my mother yelled from downstairs. “We’re going to be late!”
I sighed, and with one last look in the mirror, grabbed my phone, green skull purse, and a white long-sleeved cardigan and walked out, closing my bedroom door behind me. I walked down the stairs and prepared myself for the insults from my arch-enemy: my mother.
Mother’s nose scrunched up in disgust as she studied me. “God, Amara, you look worse than the corpse,” she sighed.
Funny, I thought bitterly, since you look old enough to be the corpse. I sighed in response to her and walked over to the kitchen to get a Vanilla Coke. I was in desperate need of caffeine. Some of the other family was in the kitchen too – mostly the ones closer to my age. I guess their parents were getting on their nerves, too. Most of the adults in my family were self-righteous and vain assholes.
This was another reasons I hated funerals: it meant I had to deal with my very judgmental family, an activity that one should receive an Olympic medal for.
“Nice dress,” one of my cousins, Monica, complimented me. I was never really close with any of my cousins – some of them were way too much like my mother for me to want to get close to them – but I was the closest to Monica. She was quiet and reserved, but loved to provide the color commentary for the various feuds that happened during our demented family get-togethers. She was like that cartoon from the 90’s, Daria, only without the big-ass glasses and monotone voice.
“Thanks,” I replied sarcastically, twirling around. “Mother picked it out.” Rolling my eyes, I opened the refrigerator and bent down to grab a Coke.
“She does know that it’s thirty-seven degrees outside and you can see your ass when you bend over, right?”
“What?” I exclaimed, standing up and bumping my head hard on the freezer door above me. “Shit,” I cursed, rubbing my head where a bump was sure to form. A few of my other cousins in the room snickered at me, to which my clever response was, “Shut up, you buttheads,” which did nothing but make them laugh harder. Pricks.
“You can see my ass?” I hissed in embarrassment. I wrapped my cardigan around my hips, hoping to fix the problem. Monica, who was trying but failing to hide her smile with her hand nodded. “Please tell me you’re kidding,” I pleaded.
“I never kid about seeing a girl’s butt,” Monica replied, taking a sip of her Hawaiian Punch, “especially when it’s as cute as yours.” She winked, causing me to giggle.
Monica and I were both lesbians – as gay as gay could be. We openly flirted with each other, even though neither of us was interested in the other. Besides, we were first cousins, almost like sisters – dating would just be gross.
We both decided to come out of Narnia in the seventh grade, which was one of the reasons my mother hated me: I ruined her fantasy of being the perfect family. Oh well.
“If you want, I have a pair of fishnets in my car you can borrow,” Monica suggested, leaning against the counter behind her.
I sighed a sigh of relief. “You, my love, are a lifesaver,” I thanked her. “Think you can give me a ride, too? Mother’s on the warpath already, I can tell.”
“No problem,” she replied. “I have the new In This Moment cd we can listen to.”
“I thought you were broke?”
“Oh, I am,” she replied, smiling, “but this was a bribery gift from my dad to even come here.” We laughed for a bit and drank our drinks, occasionally stopping to poke fun at our other cousins in the room, who either didn’t reply, made a smart-ass remark, or shot a bird at us. After fifteen minutes, people were starting to leave, saying that they’ll meet everyone at the funeral. My guess is that, like me, they could use the thirty minutes it took to get to the funeral home to get the hell away from everyone else. Hey, who could blame them?
“Amara,” my mother called as she walked into the kitchen, scrunching her nose again when she saw me laughing with Monica. She rolled her eyes before continuing. “Grab your things, dear, we’re leaving.”
“Actually, Aunt Corinne,” Monica spoke up before I could. “I’m driving Skylar there. You know, just to keep her out of your hair.” She winked at my mother, making me want to slap her right there. This girl was going to get me killed. And if she didn’t then I would definitely kill her.
Mother said nothing, but you could see exactly what she thought of us in her eyes. “Fine,” she consented. “But you girls better be there on time. Do you understand me?”
“Crystal,” Monica replied while I just stood there quietly behind her and nodded. Satisfied, my mother turned away from us and walked to the front door, my little brother Jaime and my father in tow. My father turned to me with a pleading look in his eyes.
“Please, Amara-Rose,” he begged,” for the love of God, do not be late. Your mother will most likely take it out on me if you are.”
“We’ll be on time, Dad,” I assured him. He nodded his thanks and walked away.
It was days like this where I felt bad for the guy. In two years, I could leave and never come back. But my dad was stuck here – forever to face the wrath of my mother’s perfectionism. Poor guy… But then I remember that he’s the idiot who decided to put a ring on her, and then all pity I have for him vanishes.
After all, as Mother herself always said, stupidity deserves to be punished.
Monica came out of the kitchen, carrying two cans of Vanilla Coke from the fridge and handed one to me. “Why do they keep calling you by your middle name?” she asked, heading towards the front door.
“Because she thinks that if she keeps calling me ‘Skylar’ that I’ll want a sex change,” I explained, walking out of the house, locking the door behind me. We hurried out to Monica’s Ford F-150 to get out of the cold.
“Too much of a guy’s name?”
“Ding, ding, ding,” I replied, putting my seatbelt on. Monica did the same and started the car, smiling as Sick Like Me by In This Moment came on. Looking at me, she asked, “You ready to do this?”
I smiled in return. “Let’s get this the hell over with.”