With another heavy sigh, Austin told me what had happened to Elle: her liver cancer got worse when she begins to age. Her doctors tried to eradicate the tumor, but it was already too late as the blood flooded her opened stomach.

"Oh my gosh," I said to myself, pacing around my bedroom like a deranged animal. It's been a minute since I heard the news, and I couldn't stop panicking.

My hair looks like a bird's nest, my eyes widened, and my feet are already getting blisters from walking. Never in a million years could I believe that Elle Jones is dead.

She was like the Mother Teresa of Australia; kind, intelligent, and full of hope, Elle focuses on what the problems we face as a whole, and puts it on film for everyone to see.

For instance, she directed a 1986 movie called Tormented Flowers. It told the true story of an Elle's best friend, Marie Lincoln whose sexual assault at work became a driving force for women.

Although the movie was in black and white, everyone enjoyed it, especially the Oscars, Golden Globes, and surprisingly the Grammys. They called Elle one of the most successful directors who gave them the insight of what obstacles a woman faced.

"We need to do something," I say quietly.

"I know," said Austin. "That's why you and I are going to the funeral today."

I raised my eyebrow, hoping that it wasn't a trick.

"Really?" I ask. "Isn't the funeral reserved for her relatives and friends?"

"Yeah, but Elle and Kristy go way back in high school," says Austin. "Kristy says that she'll take us to the funeral, but you need to wear an evening attire."

I sighed, "A dress?"

"Yeah."

"Do I have to?"

"Yes," Austin scolded.

"You sound like Joseph." I snorted.

"It's a funeral, Jack." he reminded. "Not a public school."

"Shut up," I said, grumbling, "fine, I'll think about it."

"Okay," Austin said back. "Oh, and Kristy says to make sure you tell your dad."

My eyes stared at the phone in horror.

"My dad?" I repeated with a moan. "Are you fucking serious? He never lets me go on my own!"

Grunting he said, "Sorry, Kristy's orders."

Just when you think it can't get any worse. I thought.

" I will talk to Joseph. What time do you want me to come outside?"

"5:30."

"Okay," I slid off my bed and walk out of my bedroom.

The wooden floors led me to the living room, where the walls are boring white, the gray carpet is covered in food stains, two, worn copper couches, and since we're broke, we have a shitty television.

Behind the living room is a small kitchen, which looks more disgusting than the living room; it has ugly yellow painted walls, a beat up fridge, and plus, the brown tiled floors looked as if a cat scratched it.

Besides the fridge, there is a closet filled with everything you need to survive a zombie apocalypse: cookies, chips, first-aid supplies, brownies, two sacks of rice, and rarely used paper towels.

Above the working stove are three, dark brown cupboards—which lined across the broken microwave horizontally, like ice cubes-but underneath, is an oily black countertop, covered in breadcrumbs, a thin layer of peanut butter, and sticky strawberry jam.

Immediately, I guessed it was Joseph, making another bad attempt at cooking.

Speaking of Joseph, I found him watching CNN on television while munching his poorly made sandwich; the jelly and peanut is seeping out of the bread, the bread looks like it's been in the closet for three decades, and here's what's worse: he's getting crumbs and gooey peanut butter all over the carpet.

"Dad," I said softly. "Can I go to Elle's funeral?"

Chewing like a llama, Joseph slowly turns his head to me and grimaced, "What did you say?"

Once again, I repeated the question.

"No," he replied, putting his sandwich down. "I am not letting you go to some random funeral."

"It's not some random funeral, Joseph," I said bitterly. "It's Elle Jones."

Joseph raises his eyebrow at me. "Who?"

"Elle Jones?" I say repeatedly. "The woman I have looked up to since I was six?"

Joseph swallowed his sandwich, then shrugged his shoulders at me.

"I never heard of her."

"For crying out loud!" I groaned. "She was on the fucking news!"

"Oh," Joseph takes a bite of his sandwich and wiped the corners of his mouth with the back of his fingers.

He takes his time chewing it slowly before swallowing it with a single gulp.

"Joseph," I say, trying not to lose my anger.

"Yes?"

"May I please go to Elle Jones' funeral? Austin's mom is taking us, but-"

"You are not going."

"Why not?" I cried.

Joseph didn't respond, swallowed another portion of his sandwich.

"Joseph?"

"Does Elle even know you?"

I looked at him strangely. "What?"

Consuming his sandwich, Joseph licks his fingers and asks, "Does Elle even know you?"

I thought about it for a minute.

"I think so," I answered. "I wrote her letters when I was younger."

"Did she respond?"

"I don't know-"

"So, she doesn't know you." Joseph interrupts. "Am I right?"

I tried to explain. "Well, I-"

"Am I right?" Joseph interrupts again.

"Yes," I sighed eventually, " but Joseph, what if it was Isadora?"

"I wouldn't let you go to the funeral anyway," he responds indifferently, switching the channels. "your mother abandoned us for drugs."

"I know that," I snapped. "but what if you did go to her funeral? What would you do?"

Joseph said, "I would regret the moment I married her."

I bit my bottom lip and scowled. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Annoyed, Dad rose from his couch to look at me.

"Your mother is a crack addict, Jacquline." he snarled. "I tried to give her help, but she wouldn't take it."

"Because you threatened to have her arrested," I say snarkily.

Dad threw up his hands in exhaustion. "She had illegal marijuana in her bedroom, what was I supposed to do?"

"Talk to her!" I hissed. "Maybe get her a counselor that gives a shit about his job!"

Exhausted, Joseph massages his forehead and says, "You're not going to the funeral, Jacquline."

"Why?"

"Because I don't want you to get all teary-eyed for some famous celebrity."

"Jacob and I loved Elle since we were kids," I explain angrily. "It's not fair!"

"Life isn't fair, Jack," Joseph growled.

After that, he shuts off the television, gives me a careful pat on the shoulder, and marches himself into his bedroom.

His loud footsteps sound like heavy rain penetrating through a fragile roof. They pounded on the wooden stairs when the sound of the door creaked open and slammed so hard that I almost jumped.

Damn it, I think, glaring at the mess Joseph made.

Asking him for permission was the worst idea I have ever had. Other than hating my existence, I had no theories as to why Joseph is behaving like this.

I wondered if it was because of Isadora, my junkie asshat of a mother;  although I inherited her smoking habits, harsh language, and carefree personality, I would never leave Joseph behind-no matter how much of a dick he is.

Heading back to my room, I open my closet doors and searched for something fancy I could wear. Folded clothes rested on the white rungs as shoes and sweaty socks cast against the wall like trash.

Hanging in front of me, are my jackets, sweaters, and a summer black dress Isadora wore when she was around my age; it had dark laced sleeves, satin fabric, and it goes down half of my legs.

Before she became a junkie, Isadora would take me out for dress shopping. Store after store, she would buy me expensive dresses with her credit card.

I would try them on, make these stupid faces in the mirror, and asked Isadora if I looked pretty, to which she'd say yes to every one of them.

But after she left us, Joseph had given away my dresses to charity—except the summer black one I liked. It has Isadora's vanilla perfume, a black, elastic fabric, and ironically, it still fits my size.

Removing my clothes, I plucked the dress from the clothes hanger, unzipped its back, and put it on.

My bare legs slide through the gown, as they touched the floor with a silent creak. After hoisting the black straps over my bare shoulders, pull the back zipper all the way to the back my neck, and found some comfortable black sneakers standing in front of me.

I collected my black purse—which was underneath my bed—then rummaged to find unused strawberry chapstick and put it on.

Shoving it back in my purse, I decided to do my hair, when someone knocked on the door.

"Coming!" I cried, lifting the strap of my purse over my shoulder.

I dashed out of my bedroom with a hurried smile on my face; my heart raced as my feet rushed downstairs and onto the banging door.

Spreading my dress down, I open the door and greet him with a casual smile.

"Hey Austin," I say.

"Hey Jack, " he greeted. "you look nice."

I blushed a little. "Thanks."

"Did you talk to your dad?"

"Yeah, he says he's okay with it."

He gave me a puzzled look. "Really?"

I hated to tell Austin the truth, but I didn't want him to be disappointed.

"Yeah," I repeated. "Joseph's cool with it."

"Okay," he says slowly. "Kristy's waiting for us in the car."

"Cool," I say, tugging my purse. "Let's go."