Disclaimer: Bah, not mine. Minus some LCV Productions-specific details.
Note: This is the first half of what used to be chapter 18. When chapter 20 got to be 10,000 words or so, I decided to split it. Of course, since I'd had similar issues with chapter 17 and 18, I figured I might as well split those up, too, to make it easier on everybody's eyes. -_- So, if you read those two chapters before 3.05.11, feel free to proceed to chapter 21!
—viennacantabile
fell the angels
nineteen : willow and columbine
.
When it was Ophelia's time to sing,
and so little life was left to her,
the dryness of her soul was swept away
like straws from haystacks in a storm.
When it was Ophelia's time to sing,
and the bitterness of tears was more
than she could bear, what trophies
did she hold? Willow, and columbine.
—Boris Pasternak, "English Lessons"
.
On risque de pleurer un peu si l'on s'est laissé apprivoiser...
You risk tears if you let yourself be tamed.
—Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, Le Petit Prince
.
By the time school is in its second week, Velma still hasn't been able to stop the reflexive glance around in the morning. It's just different, that's all, without Riff and Tony lounging against the fence, cracking jokes and plotting pranks. Without Graziella, trying her hardest to make Riff jealous with Tiger looking on. Without Bernice—and even Pauline—flirting with all the Jets, taken or not. And without Ice, giving her that slow easy smile that says everything is all right. Everything. How is she supposed to know that now, with all these faces gone? Action rounds up the Boyer twins and the younger Jets and sits in Riff and Tony's old spot, and Velma, Clarice, and Minnie take their familiar places, too, but it's not the same and everyone knows it. People still talk about the Jets, sure, but nowadays there are question marks and doubts that never existed before. Rumors. Whispers that maybe the Jets weren't as tough, as untouchable as everyone thought. After all, if their leaders went down to some skinny Spic who popped them with a zip gun….
They don't know everything that happened this summer, Velma thinks as she avoids her classmates' sidelong glances with her head held high, and their guesses aren't much better, but what they can see is enough. And it strikes her, sometimes, that Graziella made the right decision, not coming back. This—high school, and everything that comes along with it—is not what her best friend needs right now. Whispers, stares, gossip. Bad enough to be the girl whose boyfriend died. Even worse to be the one knocked up three months later. And she isn't sure Graziella would be able to face the naked curiosity. Velma knows she herself couldn't. It's hard enough as it is.
It's just that it doesn't feel real, she thinks, her gaze sweeping around one last time, this return to everyday normal routine, and she can't help looking for those absent friends she knows are never coming back here. She can't help hoping that just once something will be different. That something will change.
Velma knows, though, that it's foolish. Even if she wishes as hard as she can, she won't get a miracle, least of all one that pushes the clocks back to this time last year when life was still bright and wonderful. When three boys who loved and were loved were still alive and the girls who mourn them now were still whole. When none of them could ever dream of what fear and death were.
It's strange, Velma thinks, how very different life looks on this side of the summer.
At lunch on that second Monday, she meets Clarice at their usual table and gives her as sincere a smile as she can manage.
"How's Bernice?"
Clarice shrugs, setting her food down. "Same. Says the food is to die for an' the boys are divine but it's impossible gettin' more'n a look what with all the family around."
Velma has to smile—this, at least, is normal. "Sounds like she's havin' a good time in Sicily, though."
"Yeah, I guess," says Clarice, pushing her spaghetti around her tray and giving it a skeptical look. "Anyway—it's funny, ain't it?" she asks, taking a bite.
Velma glances up from her salad as a faintly nauseated expression appears on the brunette's face. "What, the spaghetti?"
"That, too," says Clarice with a grimace after a sip of water. "But I meant them not bein' here. Graz an' Bernice. An'—everyone else."
Velma stares down at her fork. "Yeah," she sighs. They've gone through this over and over again but somehow the conversation keeps coming back to this topic. "I know what ya mean."
Clarice looks around, then leans in. "How's Graz doin'?"
Velma, too, glances to the left and right before answering. "Well as she can be, I guess. Tiger proposed again, y'know."
Clarice's eyes widen. "He did?"
Velma nods. "Graz said no, a-course. Said since he left school an' all to help out, she'd let him, but she didn't wanna marry him, same as the last time he asked." She hesitates. As far as she knows, Graziella has only told herself and Clarice about the baby, and only Velma knows who the real father is. "D'ya think she did the right thing?"
Clarice, poking at her food, doesn't answer for awhile. When she does, her response is measured.
"It'd be easier, lettin' him take care-a her."
Velma watches her keenly, conscious of what the brunette isn't saying. "It ain't the same thing, though."
Clarice meets her gaze, and Velma can see her own troubled thoughts reflected in her friend's brown eyes. "No. It ain't."
Velma looks down at her sandwich. "Nothin's ever easy anymore, is it."
Clarice sighs, and Velma is startled to hear how distant her voice sounds. "No. I don't think it will be, either. At least not for awhile."
Velma picks at her napkin. "I never know what to say to Graz anymore," she confesses in a low voice. She's ashamed of it—Graz is her best friend, after all—but there it is. "Or what to do, to make her feel better. I ought to, but I don't."
Clarice gives her a sharp glance. "Vel—ya just gotta remember there ain't nothin' you can do."
She bites her lip. Everything is slipping from her grasp. "That's the hard part."
"Just keep doin' what you're doin'," the brunette says, propping her chin on her hand. "Let her talk, if she wants to. Be there." Again her voice sounds far away. "It ain't much, maybe, but I know it means a lot."
Velma stares at her food. Maybe Clarice is right, she thinks. There isn't much she can control anymore, but there is still Graziella, and being her friend. It isn't fixing things—it never will be—but maybe it's enough, for now. She glances at her friend. "It must be nice," she says, "havin' a sister who's so close to ya."
Clarice's fork slips from her hand and sticks upright in her abandoned spaghetti. "What makes ya say that?"
Velma shrugs. "My sisters wouldn't know what to tell me about Graz," she says, "even if I asked. It ain't that we don't love each other," Velma goes on, "but they're older, an' they never lived here—it must be nice," she says again. "Havin' someone like that. Even if she is all the way across the world."
Clarice gives her a small smile. "Yeah, I guess."
Velma smiles back. "Anyway, thanks." She hesitates. "There ain't a lotta people who'd understand."
"Don't mention it," says her friend, eyes on her spaghetti as she gingerly pushes her tray away. "What're Jet girls for, anyway?"
"That for me?" comes a cheerful voice as Big Deal tosses his sack lunch onto the table and slings his arm around the brunette.
Clarice, turning to him, beams. "Frankie!"
Velma, watching the couple settle in, feels a strange sense of loneliness. Last year, she thinks, she and Ice would have been right there with them, talking and laughing and living up to their reputation as one of the few rock-solid couples in the Jets.
But that was last year, she thinks, taking a swig of her milk, and like it or not, the world is turning and she has to keep moving forward right along with it, and do everything in her power to be there for the people who need her. No matter what happens.
.
In the days that follow, Velma takes Clarice's advice and tries to be there for her best friend. She is with her, in the afternoons and evenings when Graziella complains or cries or simply sits there, silent, unable to say a word. Velma can't blame her, she thinks on one of these occasions when Graziella sits huddled in the corner where her bed meets the wall. She wouldn't know what to say, either, if it were her boyfriend, and her baby.
Graziella hasn't told her parents yet. "They don't need to know," she keeps saying, and Velma wonders what she will do when she really begins to show. Right now she is just the slightest bit heavier, a step closer to the edge of plump, and anyway no one would blame Graziella for gaining a little weight, what with everything she's going through. It's what lies ahead, though, that worries Velma. And again there is only one certainty: things can't go on like this. With Graziella. And with Ice.
Nothing is the same. Ice is distracted, tense, preoccupied, in a way he never has been before. He is always with the Jets, and even when he is with her, he's not. Not really. Not like how it used to be. And sometimes she waits and waits until dawn, sleepless and silent in the darkness, before she will admit that he isn't coming. In the mornings she is heavy-eyed and quiet, but none of that would matter if she could just believe that any of it makes a difference. To either of the people she loves.
But there are never any answers, nothing she can say when her own parents look at her with questioning eyes. There is nothing she can do but make her excuses and retreat to her room. Velma knows what they must think, and she can't blame them. One night she hears them before she's even turned on the light:
"It's the Jets," says her father in Swedish. "And that boy."
"And Graziella," says her mother, her voice gentle. "The poor girl."
Dr. Andersen sighs. "I should never have brought us here. Sometimes I think—we should go back."
Velma bites her lip to keep from crying out in the darkness. No, she thinks, the answer automatic, no. And then she wonders.
Back to the Upper East Side. Back to well-kept streets and orderly schools, untroubled friendships and intact families. Back to an endless stream of perfect, gentlemanly, well-mannered dates whose faces she can't remember. Back to her old life.
It would be simpler, she thinks, a little wistful, away from all of this.
And then she remembers everything that has happened in the past fifteen months. Summer dusk spent on fire escapes counting stars. Whispers and secrets with a best friend who showed her another world she'd never even dreamt of. And a name, given to her in the middle of the night. Vee.
What's easiest isn't the same as what's right, and it's too late anyway, she realizes. Too late to go back and pretend she can forget all of this. No matter what, now—they have to keep going.
Velma reaches forward, turns on a lamp, watches it fill the room with a soft glow. It isn't all that much light, but it's enough to keep the dark at bay.
Maybe she can't help. Maybe she can't do everything. Maybe she can't hold back the night, she thinks, crossing the room to open the window. But at least she can try.
.
It's just after school a week or two later and Velma is just reaching the chain-link fences of the playground when she hears two low voices.
"—so I an' A-Rab, we been raidin' their headquarters behind the barbershop. Sneakin' in an' out after dark when they're gone an' nabbin' their weapons. We got lots of them, an' what we left so's not to make 'em wise to it, we sabotaged," says the first, a sharp, darting voice that Velma is sure she knows but can't quite place. The next, though, is much more familiar.
"Right. Okay, what about the Vipers?"
It's Ice, she realizes with a start. Ice, who's been at the school gates to meet her less and less after school these days, always with a message to let her know, of course, and today's was no different: Jet business. Which appears, she thinks now as the voices continue, to involve just Ice and Anybodys.
And it is Anybodys, Velma is sure of that, because even Baby John, sweet as he is, doesn't exactly sound like a girl, and for all that she tries to prove otherwise, that is still what the tomboy is.
She could walk up to them, Velma knows, say hello and continue on to where the other Jets are surely waiting in Doc's. But something holds her back to listen.
"Still just messin' around. They got nothin' on us," says Anybodys, her voice scornful "Just a crowd-a little Sicilians."
"Good," says Ice, and Velma can just imagine the taut satisfaction on his face. "Now, look—I got a special assignment for you, okay?"
"Dig, Daddy-O," says Anybodys, and Velma blinks at the eagerness in her voice and remembers, for a moment, the last smile she'd seen from the girl a week ago, shining up at the Jet captain. Could she—
"There's this guy that's been hangin' around, see," says Ice, and his voice is different now. Focused. "I don't know what he's up to, but I don't like the looks of him. He's tall. Blond. Doesn't say much, but he looks dangerous. Tail him, okay? Find out what he wants over here."
"Right!" says Anybodys. "D'ya got a name? Which gang's he in?"
There is a short pause. "That's what I want ya to find out," Ice finally replies. "Just stick to him like Joyboy does his lollipops. An' be careful. Don't tell no one else about this, neither."
"Anythin' ya say, boss!" says the girl, and Velma's eyes widen as the redhead comes dashing out of the playground and disappears down the next street without a glance at her. Ice follows a moment later, and Velma, having readied herself, smiles at him like she's heard nothing.
"Hi, honey."
"Hey," he says, clearly still distracted, and loops his arm around her shoulder as they walk the short distance to the candy store. Velma decides she might as well ask, after all.
"Anybodys sure lit outta there in a hurry," she says, keeping her voice light. "What'd ya do, tell her she had to wear a dress?"
Ice doesn't even blink. "Nah. She—forgot her homework."
Ice hasn't gotten any better at lying in the nearly four months since he became captain and this attempt is so bad that Velma feels justified in going further. "She wasn't doin' somethin' for ya, was she?"
Ice shrugs, his gaze skittering away from her. "Dunno."
Velma keeps her eyes on him and the distant look in his eyes. After a moment, she bites her lip. She supposes it doesn't matter that he isn't telling her the truth. Not really. As long as everything's all right, which it sounds like it is.
But even so, she doesn't like this feeling at all.
.
Two days later on the first of October, Velma and Clarice are in Bloomingdale's, inspecting the maternity section. Graziella still hasn't said anything to anyone but Velma and Clarice, but Tiger despite his promises of silence, has never been good at keeping secrets and at this point they figure they might as well get a head start on the baby shower. There is so much to see, though, that Velma thinks they could look for a month and still not have gone through half of it.
"Look at this," giggles Clarice, holding up a frilly christening gown overflowing with lace. "Think you could find a baby in alla this?"
Velma laughs. "Good luck. Oh, look at this!" she says, attention diverted by a stuffed yellow lion. "It's too cute!"
Clarice grabs a pink pig and bats at the lion. "Oink!"
"We shoulda brought Minnie," Velma says with a smile, before she remembers. No one's told Minnie about the real reason Graziella's dropped out of school, and she doesn't think anyone's going to when there's really no reason to worry her. She'll eventually figure it out—even Minnie isn't that naïve—but by then it won't really matter anymore. Even so, Velma glances at Minnie's best friend, feeling a little guilty.
Clarice, though, for once doesn't seem to notice the mistake. "Minnie'd love these," she agrees, pouncing on a green bird and then almost immediately dropping it again with a gasp. "But oh, look at the weeny little clothes!"
Velma follows Clarice's gaze with a smile. Most girls, she knows, get excited at the very mention of babies and Clarice, judging from her high-pitched squeals, is one of them. Velma can't quite blame her—there's just something sweet and innocent in the idea of it. At least, Velma thinks wistfully, when all goes according to plan.
"Graz wants a boy," she says, watching Clarice finger a pair of pink socks. "She ain't said, but I can tell."
The brunette sighs. "I know," she says, but she doesn't put them down. "Wouldn't it be cute, though? A little girl, just like a doll to play with. "
Velma smiles, picking up the stuffed lion again. "Yeah, it would." She studies it for a moment, and then puts it back down in favor of a plastic mobile with ducks swinging around the sides. "I wonder what it'll be like, havin' a baby around," she says. "I was little when Mamma had Chris, so I don't really remember." She glances at Clarice, whose back is toward her. "You don't have any younger brothers or sisters, but you have baby cousins, right? What's it like?"
Clarice, still clutching the socks, turns to Velma, her face flushed. "Look, Vel—speakin'-a that—there's somethin' I gotta say," she blurts, taking a step closer. "I ain't really supposed to tell people, but I know you won't blab it around."
"No, a-course not," Velma says, puzzled. "What is it?"
Clarice hesitates. "Well—I know it's funny," she says, a strange expression on her pretty face, "but—Mama's havin' another baby."
Velma blinks. Whatever she'd expected, it certainly hadn't been that. "Really?"
"Well, a-course really!" Clarice laughs with a wide smile. "She's due in January."
"Wow," says Velma, amazed. "That's—that's great, Clarice. Everyone must be real excited. Is Bernice goin' to come back when she has the baby?"
The brunette's expression flickers for a moment, but comes back even brighter than before. "I think so. Maybe. Mama's real excited," she adds. "She thought she was done!"
"Wow," Velma says again, trying to imagine the twins with a little brother or sister. "Tell her I said congratulations, all right?"
"I will," says Clarice, glancing sideways at her. "Anyway, how's Ice?" She purses her lips. "Frankie's been kinda worried about him, y'know."
Velma's eyes widen, all thoughts of Mrs. Gambini's baby fading. "What'd he say?"
Clarice shrugs. "Just that he looked tired all the time. He said anythin' to you?"
Velma bites her lip. "Well—no," she says in a small voice. "I wish he would. He used to, a little. But nowadays he just says everythin's okay but then he gets up an' leaves before I wake up an'—" She hesitates.
"What?" asks Clarice, her dark eyes sympathetic. "You can tell me, Vel."
Velma glances at her. If not for Graziella, Clarice might have been her best friend. It's a thought that's reoccurred to her several times over the last month or so, as Graziella has withdrawn deeper into herself. But what's important, Velma knows, is that she can trust Clarice not to laugh at her, can know that she, too, worries about the same thing. "He won't let me in," she murmurs with a sigh, thinking again of that overheard meeting in the playground. "No matter how hard I try."
"Maybe he's trying to protect ya," Clarice suggests, her voice soft.
Velma shakes her head, unconvinced. "If he is, that's silly. I was there that night, too."
Clarice shrugs. "It don't have to make sense for him to feel that way."
"Does Big Deal do that to you?" Velma asks, curious. The two boys aren't all that much alike, but even so, they're both Jets and she figures Clarice has to be dealing with some of the same problems.
Clarice's mouth twists in an unexpected laugh. "Dio mio, Vel, sometimes I can't get him to stop talkin' when I want him to!" She smirks. "So I just shut him up. You know how."
Velma giggles. "Do I ever!"
"Speakin'-a shuttin' boys up," says Clarice, a little glint in her eye, "I've got my eye on a little dress one floor down. Purple, with beading all over it. Mind takin' a look with me?"
"Sure," Velma agrees, trying to put Ice out of her mind and figuring that this will do the trick as well as anything. "Mind if we stop by the makeup section, though? Astrid told me about some new lipstick that came in, an' I wanna try it."
Clarice grins. "Sure. An' hey," she adds, catching Velma by the wrist as she turns to go, "don't worry about Ice, okay? He'll be fine."
Velma smiles, but doesn't answer. It's what she's been telling him all along, but only now does she realize that hearing it doesn't seem to make it any more easy to believe.
.
When she says it, Velma almost doesn't believe it.
"I'm marryin' Tiger."
"What?" Velma asks, feeling cold. Graziella's voice is flat, matter-of-fact. Not the way she ever expected her best friend to announce her engagement. But then, Velma thinks, biting her lip, there are a lot of things she never expected to happen and there isn't much that is the way it used to be. She doesn't have to look far—just to the gentle curve of Graziella's belly, and now the ring on her finger—to know that.
"Yeah," the redhead says, offering up her left hand for inspection. Velma's seen the ring, of course; she saw it when Tiger first proposed not even two months ago. It's pretty, yes, but for Graziella—
Velma tries to find her best friend's gaze. "I thought ya turned him down, Graz."
Graziella shrugs, running her hand through her vivid hair. "Changed my mind."
"But after sayin' no so many times?" Velma asks, uncomprehending. "You said you wouldn't, not ever, even if the baby was Ti—"
"Things change, Vel," says Graziella, an edge to her voice. "I thought you'd be happy for me."
Velma takes a deep breath, and releases it. "I am," she says slowly, feeling strange. "No, I am, Graz, I just—"
"Be my maid of honor?" Graziella asks, and if she were the kind to enjoy black humor, Velma would almost laugh because it turns out Graziella was right all those months ago, after all. She is getting married, and Velma will be there with her. She doesn't doubt Graziella has the dress, the church, and the flowers all picked out, too. The only thing the redhead didn't predict was the groom.
"Sure," she says, her voice soft. "A-course, Graz. Don't forget," she goes on, trying to bring back a lighter mood, "you're gonna be mine, too, whenever that happens."
Graziella stares at her. "A-course," she echoes after a moment, and her laugh is short, clipped. "A-course I will. You an' your fairy tale wedding."
Velma gazes back at her. "What?" she asks, confused. "I mean, nothin's happened, I just—"
"But it will," says Graziella, her voice bitter. "'Cause it always does for you, don't it."
Velma stares at her, but Graziella doesn't meet her eyes. "Graz, I—"
"Sure. Yeah," she says, waving a hand. The ring on her finger catches the light and sends it fragmented in all directions. "Your day, my day. We'll both be there."
Velma bites her lip. She thinks of those shadowy nights and how Ice never really seems to see her anymore. She remembers Graziella lying on her bed, bent in half and breaking from sorrow while Velma just sits there, helpless to do anything. And she sighs. If only.
"I'm happy for ya, Graz," she says, her voice soft. "Really. If you're happy, I'm happy."
Graziella's smile doesn't quite reach her eyes. "I am."
Twenty minutes later, Velma opens the door to Doc's, thoughts whirling. Graz—and Tiger. It's too much to absorb, and if ever she needed to talk to Ice, it's now.
But the only Jet inside the candy store is sitting at the counter, swinging his long legs and humming blissfully.
Velma stares at him. "Oh. Mouthpiece. It's you."
"That's me," returns the tall Jet, grinning affably at her. "Hiya, Velma."
Velma sighs. "Ice around?"
Mouthpiece spins around in his seat and appears to think about this. "Don't think so, no."
Velma sighs. Reaching for another stool, she slumps down on top of it, feeling exhausted.
"You all right, Velma?"
Velma bites her lip, wondering if Mouthpiece knows, and if so, what he thinks about it. After all, Tiger is his best friend. "Graz an' Tiger're gettin' married."
"Well, that's nice," says Mouthpiece happily. Even if he didn't know, Velma observes wryly, nothing ever seems to surprise him, anyway. "They oughta be real happy together. Tiger's just crazy about Graziella. I know."
Velma sighs. She isn't exactly encouraged. "Yeah. Me, too."
"I knew she'd fall for him one day," Mouthpiece says, his wide face cheerful. "He couldn't love her so much for nothin', y'know?"
Velma glances at him. "I guess." But it doesn't work like that, she wants to say. At least, it's not supposed to. Not like this. Even if Tiger's loved Graziella all his life, that shouldn't mean that Graziella—who's never felt the same way—should love him back. An error on the side of fairness, yes, but a mistake all the same.
"Don't worry," Mouthpiece says easily. His hand clutches something invisible as he moves it along the counter and whistles. Trains, Velma realizes, stifling the urge to giggle at the incongruity of it all. Trains. The Jet is playing with imaginary trains. "Long's they love each other, they'll be happy."
That's just it, though, thinks Velma with a sigh. Even Graziella doesn't pretend that she loves Tiger, who is the only one who will ever believe she does anyway.
"I don't know," she says, watching Mouthpiece run his trains over the counter. "It's just—hard, watchin' everything change so fast. Even people I thought I knew."
Mouthpiece shrugs, and looks down at her.
"They stay the same on what's important," he says. "I guess that's all that counts."
Velma stares at him, wonders how he stays so—innocent, she thinks, for lack of a better word. How he doesn't seem to ever worry, or lose hope, when all he has is himself and his mother and the Jets. "I guess so, yeah."
At that moment, Doc shuffles through the back door and stops as he takes in the sight of Ice's girl sitting next to an oblivious Mouthpiece, whose trains seem to have just reached the depot, judging by the energetic movements of the Jet's arms.
"You all right, Velma?" Doc asks, his faded eyes sharp.
Velma half-smiles. These days, there's really nothing else she can say.
"'Course, Doc."
.
That night, Ice is stiff and shocked.
"Tiger an' Graz?" he asks, staring up at the ceiling. "I know he always had a thing for her, but I thought she wouldn't give him the time-a day!"
Velma shrugs her shoulders, feeling uneasy. "They ran into each other, a couple weeks after Riff," she says, her voice even. "Things got—complicated."
"Complicated enough to get married in a hurry?"
His voice is low and though he doesn't sound like he's judging Graziella, Velma stiffens anyway. "What's it matter? They're together, an' he really loves her, an'—" She stumbles and falls silent. Try as she might, she still can't say she thinks they'll be happy.
"It don't," he says, still on his back. "Why didn't ya tell me?" he asks her, and Velma swallows hard.
"It wasn't mine to tell," she answers. "An'—I know you've been real busy, with the Musclers, an' all. I didn't wanna worry ya."
"Oh," he says, and the silence is long and deep.
Velma reaches over, rests a hand on his shoulder. "Don't be mad at me."
"I ain't," he says. She believes his voice but not the tension in his body. "Look," he goes on, "that kid…"
Velma doesn't, can't say anything. She hasn't told him about Graziella's pregnancy, but Ice isn't an idiot and in a couple months, everyone will know anyway. So she stays mute. She lets him fill in the blanks. Even without all the pieces, this puzzle's not hard to solve.
Ice doesn't say anything to fill the silence, and after a long moment, he nods.
"Congrats, Tiger."
"Yeah," Velma whispers, more to convince herself than anything else. "Congrats to 'em both."
.
The stage is set, the players are all here, and there is just one last thing to do before Velma walks through that door.
"Are you sure?" she asks, searching Graziella's brown eyes for any hint of indecision. Velma would do anything—anything at all—to help. "Because if you're not—it ain't too late."
Graziella shrugs. "No," she says, releasing a sigh, and Velma hopes for a moment before the redhead smoothes her dress over her stomach and picks up the bouquet. Her friend is still slender but there is the suggestion of a slight swell there, a roundness that makes her look softer. Vulnerable. "No, it's too late."
Velma watches her for a moment, then nods. "Okay," she says, her voice soft. "See you up there."
And as she turns her back on her friend and begins to walk down the aisle of the church, Velma focuses on what she sees ahead of her. Friends. Family. Ice, and the unknowable future that awaits them all.