The Funeral Singer (5 page)

He checked the caller ID, and to my surprise, a wide grin spread across his face. “Well, if it isn’t the Archduke of Death himself. Had a feeling I’d get a call from him tonight.”

I gave my mom a questioning look, but she just shrugged.

Dad let the phone ring twice more before answering. “Douglas, my good man. What can I do for you this fine evening?”

Mr. O’Hara’s angry voice boomed so loudly in response, my dad had to hold the receiver a foot away from his ear. “Gerald, what kind of dirty tricks are you up to? The Grayson family canceled their service with us this weekend, and now I see them listed on your website. This afternoon I had two pre-need cases call and transfer their paperwork over to your firm. Are you soliciting my business?”

My dad chuckled. “Soliciting your business? Please, don’t flatter yourself. I’m too busy with my own cases to have time to worry about yours. I took six pre-need calls myself this afternoon.”

“Six? What are you doing over there? Have you marked down your cloisonné urns again?”

Dad shook his head and checked his watch. “Listen, Doug, much as I’d love to discuss marketing strategies with you, I’m afraid I need to cut this call short. I have the Jackson service at seven, and my family and I are just finishing up dinner. If it’ll help you out, I can send over a courier for that paperwork tomorrow.” Dad shook his head as he placed the receiver back in its cradle. “I swear, that man thinks he is God’s gift to the grieving.” He turned back toward the table, stopping short at the expression on my face. “What?”

“You’re getting business because of the YouTube videos. That’s the real reason you don’t want me to join The Grime, isn’t it?”

“No, that’s … ” He shook his head and sat down. “That has nothing to do with it.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Did the Grayson family ask for me?”

“Yes.”

“And the pre-needs?”

“Yes, but … ” Dad sighed. He sounded tired as he continued. “It’s true, the videos are bringing in some calls, but that’s not what this is about. It’s about your schoolwork, your chorus practice, your future.”

“My future or yours?”

“Melanie.” Mom’s voice was sharp.

We ate in silence for a while. I swirled my carrots, peas and rice around on my plate. Was I being unfair? On the one hand, Dad was always so worried about building his business. He’d worked for O’Hara & Sons years ago, until Mr. O’Hara started giving him a hard time for helping families plan a few too many “untraditional” services. Dad went into a lot of debt to open Martin’s, and he was determined to prove Mr. O’Hara wrong.

On the other hand, even though he called my singing his “secret weapon”—it was the little extra thing that made our services stand out, the Godiva chocolate on the pillow of funeral service—Dad always insisted that school and chorus come first. As much as he hated to use my substitute, Glenda, he never hesitated to bring her in if I had a concert or a big test to study for.

“Dad—”

“Honey—”

We both spoke up at the same time.

“You go first,” I said.

Dad set his knife and fork down, wiped his mouth with his napkin and settled back into his chair. He spoke slowly and softly. “You have a gift, an incredible gift, but you are going to meet all kinds of people in this world, and some of them are going to want to exploit that gift for their own purposes. Those boys from The Grime seem like nice enough kids, but their priority is always going to be themselves—not you, not your future. Your mother and I love you very much, and we want to do what’s best for you.”

My throat tightened. “I get what you’re saying, and I appreciate it. I do. But I
am
thinking of my future. This is a real opportunity for me. Please let me try.”

Dad shook his head. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, but—”

The phone rang again, interrupting him.

I stood and reached for the receiver. GP Productions? Probably a sales call.

I took a deep breath and steadied my voice. “Hello, Martin residence. This is Melanie.”

“Melanie! Just who I needed to speak to. Greg Phillips of GP Productions. Did your father mention I’d be calling?”

I looked at my dad and shook my head. “No.”

“Oh, well, that’s okay. He asked me to call and set up a time when we can do some filming. He wants to put together a video of you for his website.”

“A video of me?” My eyes narrowed, and Dad nearly choked on his mouthful of rice. He face grew pale and he reached for the phone, but I pulled away.

“Yes, a montage of you singing some of your most popular songs. He suggested maybe we could film it right there at the funeral—”

Dad grabbed the phone out of my hand. He turned away, his voice low. “Greg, this is Jerry. Let us give you a call back tomorrow. I haven’t had a chance to explain this to Melanie yet, and … yes, yes, we’ll talk tomorrow. Thanks.”

I folded my arms across my chest. “What was that you were saying about people exploiting my gift for their own purposes?”

Mom spoke up, her voice soft. “This isn’t like that, Mel. It’s not the same. You know your father—”

“How is it not the same?” I turned to leave but then swiveled back around. “I’m joining The Grime. And I’m not asking you, I’m telling you.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

I slipped down the aisle and into my regular bus seat, third from the back on the left side. As usual, I texted Lana the entire time. I figured texting made me look like less of a loser, like I had better things to do than talk to these kids. None of them ever sat with me or said a word to me.

Our texts this morning were a continuation of our conversation last night—Lana and I had IM’d until almost midnight. She felt I was being unfair to my dad. She thought my parents were the most wonderful people in the world. No matter what they did, she’d defend them to the grave, but that’s only because her own stepfather was such an idiot. We went back and forth for about twenty minutes until I finally made the point that it didn’t matter whether my dad was being a jerk because in the final analysis, I WAS JOINING THE GRIME. That led to a marathon IM session regarding Bruno and what she should wear the first time she met him. Which was exactly what she was texting me about this morning:

“Finally decided. Blue tank dress w/flip flops. Casual but still sexy.”

I replied, “Excellent choice.”

“Oof.”

I looked up, startled. John Borden had plopped himself down next to me just as I hit “send.” John was a huge guy with a shaved head and exceptionally hairy arms. Rumor had it Virginia Tech was recruiting him to play linebacker. “Hey, Mel.” He leaned over so we were cheek-to-cheek, stuck his phone out at arm’s length and snapped a photo. “Thanks.” Just as quickly as he’d sat down, John was gone, showing off the shot to his friends a few rows up.

My face grew warm as I looked around. All eyes—and a bunch of phones and cameras—were trained on me. Holy crap. By tonight, I’d be on the Facebook page of every kid on the bus.

***

“That’ll be two hours of detention.” Ms. White slipped Trey Jackson’s cell phone into her desk drawer, making him my fifth and final casualty of the day.

She continued our pre-calc lesson as if nothing had happened, but I could feel everyone’s eyes on me, and I could hear them whispering. It had been the same way in Spanish III, and AP World, and English Lit, and PE and AP Chem. Not to mention the lunchroom and hallways. Turned out the primary difference between being the Freaky Funeral Girl and the Funeral Singer was that I now had zero privacy. This afternoon a freshman had even stuck a camera over the bathroom stall. She became casualty number four, the only one I’d snitched on myself.

I tried to concentrate on the quadratic equation on the board, but it was no use. It was more than the stares. I was nervous about this afternoon. As soon as chorus was over, I was supposed to go to Ty’s for my first rehearsal with The Grime. I still hadn’t told anyone other than Lana about it, mainly because I couldn’t believe it was happening. What if they changed their minds?

When the last bell finally rang, I stuffed my notebook into my backpack, shot out the classroom door and made a beeline to my locker.

I arrived to find a crowd of kids waiting for me.

“Hey, Mel.” Ryan Dent stepped forward. He was a hard-body soccer jock, totally not my type, but I had to admit he was hot. And he knew my name. He probably thought it stood for “Melody,” but still.

“What’s up?” I tried to sound casual.

He held up his cell phone. “How about a shot?”

“Right. Sure.” Did all these kids want photos? Cell phones were legal after the last bell, so this could get crazy.

Ryan put his arm around my waist and pulled me close. The palm of his hand felt strong and warm against my side. I leaned into him and smiled for the shot.

Ryan showed me his screen. We looked kind of cute together.

“Is this going up on Facebook?”

“Right now,” he said as he scrolled through his phone.

“Well, then, you’d better friend me so you can tag me.”

Ryan gave me a slow smile. “I sent you a request this morning. Ball’s in your court.”

“You got it.” I giggled. Oh, jeez. Was I actually flirting? With Soccer Boy?

Ryan snapped his phone shut and walked away as the other kids surrounded me. I posed for a few more shots and then apologized to the next kid in line. “I need to run or I’ll be late for chorus. I’m really sorry.”

I took out my cell phone and sent a quick text to Lana to meet me in 105.

Room 105 was a bio lab halfway between my locker and Lana’s. I ducked in to find her already in the back of the room at the aquarium, tapping the glass at one of the angelfish.

“What’s up?” she asked. “Nervous about this afternoon? Because if you’ve decided you want me to come to the rehearsal with you for moral support, I can still—”

“Ryan Dent just sent a photo of me—of him and me—to Facebook.”

Lana looked confused. “Okay. That’s cool, right? I mean, he’s cute.”

“Yes, he is. Very.” A tingling feeling rushed through me as I recalled the pressure of his hand against my side.

Lana’s eyes grew wide. “No way. You’re crushing on Ryan Dent.”

“No, no.” I shook my head. “That’s not it. It’s … all of a sudden everyone’s friending me. They’re taking photos of me. They’re staring at me and talking about me and lining up at my freaking locker to pose with me.” I walked around to the side of the aquarium and crouched down. A little brown snail was sliming its way up the side of a plastic ship. “It’s kind of freaking me out.”

Lana’s eyes narrowed and her jaw hardened. “Melanie, would you chill? Accept that this is a good thing. Enjoy it.”

“But—”

“No ‘but’!” Lana gave an exasperated sigh. “What is your
deal
? Every time I turned around today, kids were talking about you—what a great voice you have, how awesome your hair is, how cool it is that you’ve become such a phenom. You’re hot right now. Enjoy it. En. Joy. It.”

I glimpsed my reflection in the aquarium glass. Me, a hot phenom. I gave a small snort. “Melanie Martin” and “hot” were not words I’d have expected to co-exist in the same sentence.

“Okay, so I’m a phenom. Everybody wants a photo with me and they all want to be my friend on Facebook. That’s great, but why don’t they … I don’t know … talk to me? I feel like I’m still a freak, but a famous one.”

“That’s because you make them nervous. And it’s not,” Lana held up her hand as if she knew what I was thinking, “because of the stupid funeral thing. It’s because you have this way about you. You’re the opposite of ‘come hither.’ More like, ‘go thether.’”

“Thether? Is that a word?”

Lana shrugged. “I don’t know. It should be. Anyway, your problem isn’t that no one ever talks to you, it’s that you shut them out when they do.”

The snail had reached the top rim of the boat. It idled there, its fat head swiveling from side to side. I peered into its eyes. Did it want to jump, or did it want to spread its antennae and shout, “I’m the king of the world”?

I focused on my reflection in the glass again and wrapped a strand of hair around my finger. “Someone really said they liked my hair?”

Lana laughed. “Yes, someone really said that. A few people, in fact. And why wouldn’t they? It’s gorgeous!”

I stood up and gave her a hug. “Thank you. I promise to enjoy this. Or at least try.” I checked the time on my phone. “Gotta run. Chorus, and then—”

“The Grime!” Lana grabbed both my arms. “You have to remember every word Bruno says so you can relive it with me. Do you think there’s some way you could videotape him?”

I laughed. This was exactly why I wouldn’t let Lana come to rehearsal with me. I wanted to play this cool. “Gosh, that’s a great idea. Why don’t I ask for his autograph while I’m at it? And then maybe I’ll swoon and faint at his feet.”

Lana stuck out her tongue. “Are you sure I can’t come? Please?”

I shook my head and hugged her again. She sounded so forlorn, and I could imagine if the situation were reversed how envious I’d be. But there was no way.

“Maybe next time. I’ll call you with a full report as soon as I get home. Promise.”

CHAPTER NINE

I walked into chorus to see my face as big as life up on the screen at the front of the room.

Oh, no. Not here. Chorus was my safe haven at school, the one place I felt comfortable, the one place I’d always fit in … well, except for the occasional snide remark from Maria Lopez, but I was used to that. I didn’t want to be the famous Funeral Singer here. I just wanted to be Melanie Martin, alto.

Turned out I didn’t have to worry. Someone had brought up the YouTube video from a chorus concert last year and paused it, but the class wasn’t paying attention to me. They were looking at themselves in the background.

“We all looked so young.” Sadie Landon appeared beside me.

“Nice hair,” I said. Her short green spikes stood out from the back row.

“I know, right? Had I known a million people would one day see me, I might have gone with purple that day. Much better for my skin tone.”

Ms. J. walked in, snapped off the video and pointed us to our seats. Today we were going to work on “The New Moon.” We’d take it apart and go over each vocal role and then we’d put it all together. I was psyched because this was one of the few arrangements we’d performed in chorus that highlighted the altos. Usually the sopranos and tenors hogged all the good parts. Even the basses might have some fun sections, but we altos tended to get stuck with the underlying harmonies and boring background tones. Our parts were generally the hardest to learn, and any song would sound empty without them, but they were rarely glamorous.