Manhattan Flowers

“Hold my hand, Lily, I’m sinking into the mud.”
Lily suppressed the urge to role her eyes or say, “I told you so” and grabbed her sister’s hand. She should’ve gotten Vi to tell Rose not to wear the spike heels. She probably would’ve listened that way.
“This is a funeral,” Lily whispered disparagingly. “You look like a prostitute.”
Rose rolled her eyes. “I do not.”
Violet turned around. “Be quiet,” she hissed. “Rose, you’re sixteen. You should’ve known better. Lily, leave your sister alone. She doesn’t look like a prostitute.” Violet leaned in to Robert, her boyfriend of three months, who was currently dealing with the world’s most unpleasant meet-the-family gathering. “My parents’ funeral and my little sisters are at each other’s throats. And Rose looks like she should be on a street corner somewhere.”
“They’re grieving too,” Robert said gently. “Besides, they’re just still kids.”
“I know,” Violet said. “What will the society columns say? ‘Billionaire Ted Lewis and wife die in freak car crash, youngest daughter dresses like whore at the funeral?’”
“I thought you didn’t care about the gossip columns,” Robert said, raising an eyebrow.
“I don’t,” Violet said. “But the girls have to go to school Monday. And heaven only knows what they’re classmates will say.”