“Low, just make small talk ok? Jeez everything doesn’t have to be perfect.” I stare at the clock hand and wait for the line to move. The church is littered with people waiting to get in. Who woulda thought this crazy old lady knew so many people. But more people equals less chance of being caught. The family members will be more distant, the friends probably only acquaintances.
“But if it’s not perfect how are we gonna get in? I need a story to tell or I’m not gonna be able to lie about this, Carter.” Low’s fingers dig deeper into the orange. Bright spirals fall to the ground and sticky juice trickles through the gaps in between her little fingers. She looks so much younger than her ten years, probably from lack of food. That is why we need to get in here; we have to make it believable.
“Just say you’re a distant cousin. If they ask who your parents are just say they weren’t really close to her or make up a name. It’s not hard. Once you make something up it’ll be easy to just go with the flow.” She looks at me with her blue eyes, there is make up running down her face from the show we were in two nights ago. We ran to get away from the circus at home and stumbled into a topsy-turvy mess of a place.
But at least when we were at the real circus we felt like we belonged. They gave us nicknames that Sierra has yet to be detached of even if I like calling her by her name better. Everyone called her Yellow because she was a ray of sunshine, I guess, but she would have hated to be called Sunshine. She always has to be different. Today she definitely stands out from the crowd with her neon pink umbrella dangling from a black cord around her tiny wrist. It looks like a beacon in a sea of black, mourning wear.
“Low, wipe your face off. You look like a clown, a very sad clown that would probably jump at her own shadow.” I whisper waiting for her to drop her orange. There is only a sliver left and I’m afraid her umbrella is going to push it out of her grasp. Quickly she pops in her mouth and swallows, gulping loudly. I can tell she wasn’t listening to me so I pull the sleeves of my jacket over my hand and wipe off her cheeks where the mascara has run.
“Stop it, Carter, I’m not a baby.” She swipes at my hand, the umbrella still struggling to stay on her hand. Then the line moves and we are in. I’ve never wanted to be in a church so much in my whole fifteen years on this planet. The stain glass that shimmers on the front wall blinds us as the last hints of sunshine pour through before being erased by the clouds.
We sit in the pew for an hour and eight minutes listening to Jane Debaser’s life story. I feel sorry for Sierra but it was the only way to get into the wake. It beats stealing from the living, technically since it’s a funeral we are stealing from the dead. I hope that’s enough to clear my conscious.
The little digits on my watch read 11:11 when the congregation stands to sing “Amazing Grace” and we are forced to stand with about 100 other people. Finally after an hour and fifteen minutes we are allowed to leave.
Now we wait. Slowly people begin to come back after the burial in the cemetery across the street. Food has been set out for family and friends to enjoy. We count ourselves as friends and join in. Sierra eats at least 3 plates full before she is bombarded with questions from strangers, or our family I guess since that’s our story. She spins a web about how Jane’s uncle’s cousin is our fifth cousin on our deceased mother’s side. She tells them about one summer when we met Jane at a family reunion. We weren’t very close, she says sorrowfully, but we are very sorry for the loss.
I would applaud her if we weren’t in a room of people. Slowly she untangles herself from the crowd and dumps her plate in the trash can. I wince as a half eaten piece of pie lands in the plastic confines of the trash bag. We could have kept that to eat later but I can’t talk to her about it now.
“Where did you say you were from again?” Behind me a little girl stands about Sierra’s age looking up at me. I look down at her and smile.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” I whisper hoping no one else can hear me and that she will buy into it. She doesn’t of course.
“I bet I would, my momma wanted me to know. She said she thought she recognized your sister.” I stare at her dumbfounded as she points to Sierra and then I laugh.
“We are from Wisconsin. Go tell your mother that because I don’t think she knows us.” The little girl turns away and skips to her mother. I grab Sierra’s hand and yank it hard. “Low, we have to get out of here.” She nods and looks back at the garbage can. Her umbrella hits the side of the can as she reaches in and pulls out the pie.
“For later,” she says innocently. I pull her hand and we run. People part like the Red Sea as we swim through them, elbowing people, our mutters of “excuse me” don’t cut it for them. They yell after us but we aren’t important enough to chase.
It is dark outside. We find this out quickly as we feel our way out of an alley way beside the church. There is a board covering much of the opening at the top of the walls. It looks like they are working on connecting the roofs of the church and whatever building is beside it. A ladder stands in front of us.
“Low, go around the ladder.” I whisper unsure if there is anyone there.
“Why? The kitty made it just fine going under.” She states looking at the yellow cat that eyes us from the other side of the ladder. “Black cats are the bad ones right?”
“Not bad, but just go around.” I know I am being superstitious but it’s sadder when angels get squished by ladders than when a black cat gets through unharmed.
****I need suggestions on the title. I picked Wake because they are trying to get into a funeral wake but it's sort of a common story title so...****
I'm glad you liked it.
I'm going to be critiquing some grammar as well as content, because it's really hampering your story's enjoyability. 
I didn't make the connection that Sierra = Low = Yellow = Sunshine. Too many titles with not enough to connect them back to each other, and, ultimately, the character.
