The last of her nail polish dried. Black, as the dress code mandated. But ironically, after 2 years of following adults, this was something she didn't want to do.

Upstairs, she could hear Abigail arguing with Mom. A little bit of it was French, some of it English, and she could understand everything. Her little sister wanted to take their signature red cap to the funeral, and Mom wasn't having it. But it wasn't an argument, like Cree herself was often used to with the parents. It was just a lot of pleading and begging from each side. She always considered how, ever since she left the KND, that her sisterhood with Abby wasn't the only thing that got damaged in her stride toward adulthood. But if it meant taking some action and responsibility, that was fine by her. There weren't casualties in wanting to be prepared.

That's the opposite of what happened. She didn't get all the details; her doctor of a dad kept a bit of patient confidentiality with situations like these…but gossip traveled fast from McClintock to Gallagher.

An accident in the city buses claimed the life of a close family friend.

Well…'family' was stretching it. Her dad worked with Gale Spacebyte at the hospital, and the families met a couple times at Christmastime. All Cree could remember of those nights was either feeling stressed over midterms or relaxing by talking to friends. She never properly met Dr. Spacebyte, or her daughter (though she had to ask her at some point where she got her hair-dye), and given what had happened, this would be the first time she would ever speak to Alice.

It terrified her, butterflies in her stomach and everything.

She tried getting out of it. She did not want to go. She tried everything from lying–saying that an important test was coming up, or that there were cheerleader tryouts, but Crabigail spoiled both of those excuses for her–to even telling the truth.

She didn't want to go because she wasn't prepared. This was something her newfound maturity was completely unprepared to handle. And it was showing rather ostensibly. Cree looked down at her legs. One was bouncing at an increasing discomfort. Her nerves felt like on high alert, as if she was fighting an elite KND unit…or even her little sister.

Why did she feel this way? She knew enough about Alice Spacebyte to know that she had nothing to do with the KND. Nothing that those delightful dorks down the lane could pin on her anyway. She did. Not. Know her. All she did was…

…lose her mom.

Was this empathy? Over a brat? She told herself so many inflammatory lies in order to fan the flames of that burning hatred for kids 12-and-under. It couldn't be empathy because she did not know her well enough.

She rested her head against the wall again, and this time she looked up, and saw the horde of family photos, memories from the times she would rather forget and leave behind. There was one of her enjoying a Parisian playground, back when the family was still living in France and before Abby was born.

There was one of her, this time in the states, carrying Abby hours after her birth. Her dad was in a hospital gown, grinning like an idiot behind the both of them.

Another where they were at a restaurant, and both kids were in tears. Cree cringed at that one. Why did Dad even take a picture of that?

And lastly…a picture of both sisters smiling toothless in a treehouse, as the younger sister graduated into a full-on Kids Next Door operative.

The two sisters who would one day become sworn enemies, instigated by none other than Cree herself, and here Cree was, getting sentimental over the butterflies in her stomach.

She knew at that moment what this was. Her anxieties in attending a funeral led to one answer.

This was fear.

Fear that the last time her sister, or others from Sector V would look at her, they would look at someone who betrayed friends and family.

…Jeez, lighten up, she thought to herself, stuffing those thoughts down with the adulthood-centric dogma. She quickly pulled out her phone from her purse next to her, and took out earphones from the pocket of her black leather jacket. She was distracting herself as her family continued to shout in chaos preparing for the funeral.

That didn't last long.

"Cree?"

A male voice called out almost as soon as she began listening to music. The teen didn't respond. She couldn't even look him in the eye. But one glance from the good doctor through the mirror told all about what his daughter was thinking. He could tell from the faint hum of the blasting music in her ears.

Dr. Lincoln knew how sensitive Cree used to be, before what she said involved "treehouse training" with her secret club. He remembered when they first told her the family was moving back to America, and it was so last minute. The toddler was in a fit of rage, even bellowing a couple French slurs that her classmates taught her. Cree hated being out of the loop until the last minute, but she did this to herself. Lincoln knew that she was only in these dilemmas because she kept herself distant from the family.

He approached her again, this time more carefully. "Cree, you can't be making that face when we're there." With the face she was making, it was like crossing a minefield. Anything he said could trigger an explosion of arguing. It could make things so much worse, and he did not want Cree feeling worse.

She disagreed. "I'm not making any face, I'm just…being serious…and mature."

"Then your serious face looks like a scowl." He sighed and turned around. "Her aunt and uncle will be there, y'know? That family need your condolences, not your death wishes."

"Dad," she began, "I don't even know this family." She wished she had more to say, and she knew her honest answer would earn her no less, or even more, shame. She didn't know this family—

"Because you never got to know them. And it's not about knowing them, Cree. It's a sign of respect." Lincoln explained. "But you would know them if you weren't always playing with your phone. You would know what's going on. And you wouldn't be having this crisis right now."

The teenager rested her head against the wall in a huff. Here's another one of Dad's lectures, she thought. She just admitted her fault and still she was trapped into going. Her anger built up. "I know, Dad."

That tone. Dr. Lincoln hated it when she took that tone with him. She didn't know, otherwise they wouldn't be having this conversation. He was about to raise his voice, looking up the stairs to see if Abby was still arguing with her mother. But Cree stopped him and had more to say.

"I know I screwed up all those other times we met the Spacebytes, or Maurice's family, or the Gilligans, or the Maheswarans. I was too pouty, or too depressing. But I was trying to be professional!"

"Those were our family friends, Cree! They've known you since you were 6 years old! And because of how you act, they probably think you're still 6!" Lincoln argued back. "You're just making yourself look like a child!"

"But I'm TRYING to be an ADULT! More than Abigail is whenever she-I dunno, gets one of the guests to trip on ketchup or something! Or when she's goofing off with her friends! I'M trying to be the MATURE ONE!" Cree explained. "I know I'm not an adult yet, and I'm trying to be one every time! I had a project at the first Christmas Party, then my friends were dealing with these kids on the last Christmas Party. I've been busy!"

"You don't think I'm busy when I get to goof off? Or your mother, or your honor-student sister-"

"THIS TIME, IT AIN'T A PARTY!" Cree exclaimed. "How do you want me to act this time, HUH?!"

The Doctor was left stunned. And from there, the reverb of Cree's scream in the walls shook them both. The distance was as uncomfortable between them now as it was quiet.

He saw Cree recoil from her own roar, and she retreated back into her phone…but she just toyed with the home screen. She couldn't move past it. He saw how much she was struggling with this.

"I'm just trying to be mature." Cree admitted in hushed breath. "Because if I'm not…"

"No one will take you seriously."

Dr. Lincoln expected Cree to take his word to heart, to open herself up to him and look at him. Instead, she shrunk inwards, taking her high-heels off and holding her knees together. Tears didn't form, they weren't threatening to form either, but Cree was clearly stressed. She couldn't put her anxieties about the situation to words and she needed someone to help calm her down. He sat down with her, and put his arm around her, bringing it in.

"Every time before we do an operation, Cree, there's something I do with my patients. I have them lay down in the OR, and I tell them the risks of this operation…and that they are most likely going to die on that table." Dr. Lincoln explained. It was that which finally got Cree's attention. She looked up. This was the part of the job her father never told her about. He saw her looking on with disbelief. "It's true…statistically speaking, they could most likely die in that room, by my hand. My job is to make sure that doesn't happen, and if worse comes worst, I have to be the one who tells the family."

"It would be an accident, though."

"It would." Lincoln agreed, moving his arm away. "Just like with Dr. Spacebyte…as much as we'd like to believe it…we're not invincible."

That word. It made her think back to her Battle-Ready-Armor. Her gift from the Father from another family. It made her feel like she could rule the world, that she was invincible! And here her father was telling her it wasn't true. She couldn't get her head around it. How to balance those two sides.

She had more than enough schooling from that Father down the lane. She looked to her real father and saw someone as scared as he was. Shaken to his core by the death of his colleague, no more able to bottle up that rage and insecurity than she was. And yet he was serene.

"How do you keep it together?" Cree asked. "I-If that's happened, you'd feel terrible! Y-You'd want to just let all that rage and sadness out like a kid! How…"

She took a deep breath when she began. She was dancing around the truth so much it was practically a movement on its own. She couldn't let her dad know of what she had come to believe as a Teen Ninja, or how she really terrorized her sister. Because that would change everything. But at that moment, she truly wondered if she could spill everything right then and there. There weren't any of Father's spies lurking about, and neither were there any other Teen Ninjas. She kept it in, with that same fear, only able to form one general question.

"How do you stay an adult all the way through?"

Dr. Lincoln looked back at her with concern. A reassuring shake of his head calmed her once more. "It's not about being an adult, not even remotely." Lincoln explained. He took a deep pause to plan his response. It would be no more complex. It would just be friendly.

"It's about being a friend. Giving the people hurt the most a shoulder to lean on. To let them know in all the devastating hullabaloo…that they won't be alone after that." Dr. Lincoln explained. "You can imagine Alice as Abigail. You wouldn't want to see her hurt, right?"

Cree bit her tongue. She…couldn't say. She couldn't even think. Her silence spoke a thousand words to her father.

And they moved into a hug.

"I know that you care more about your sister than you let on. I see you argue all the time, hiding middle fingers, or even…knives? I've seen those mustard guns you guys play with too…" Lincoln offhandedly mentioned. "Where do you get those things…" Cree let a momentary chuckle escape her as tears finally started threatening to roll down her cheek. She wiped her eyes while in the hug.

"Cree."

"Yeah?"

Lincoln moved himself away from Cree to make his point heard now. "If it makes you feel more comfortable, then all you have to do is talk to them for a little bit. After that, you can wait back in the car."

Cree nodded, and then continued looking down. "I can't…promise being nice, Dad." She admitted. Her mind was moving a thousand miles a minute to prevent that. She knew what this would mean to Alice. "I can't even promise having anything to say to her…other than-"

"What's important," Lincoln interrupted, "is that you're there. What you say to her will mean the world to her. No pressure, but everything we've talked about is why this kind of thing is…well…important."

Cree admittedly felt a glimmer of hope throughout this conversation. That her dad was finally talking to her and helping ease her out of this fear of the event. That she wouldn't have to be mature by being pouty. But here…she realized that he didn't have all the answers, and he didn't stick the landing.

"Allons-y," he told her, "let's check on your mother and sister, 'kay? We're beginning to run a little late."

"You go ahead." Cree wished. "I'll still wait here."

As her father walked up the stairs, Cree sunk on the bench. The dread of that funeral hadn't left her. Not even her phone could take her attention away. Not even the banter upstairs could distract her enough from it, and from the sound of it, Mom tried spray-painting the red hat pitch black.

She couldn't stop thinking about it. What would she say to make this kid feel better? To give them that comfort at a time when they feel the most alone.

Would a simple 'sorry' suffice?

How would she say it?

How would she still be mature?