The Funeral Singer (8 page)

After third period, I arrived at my locker to find none other than Homecoming Princess Hannah Massey waiting for me.

“Hey, Mel,” she said. “You’re quite the hot ticket these days.”

Hot ticket? Who talked like that? I nodded. “Sure. I guess.”

“It’s all so exciting—the videos, The Grime. Whoever would have thought, our very own Melody Martin?”

“Melanie.”

“What? Oh, sure, Melanie.” She said this as if it made no difference. Which I guess to her it didn’t. “Anyway, I’m glad I caught you. I wanted to ask, who are you going to prom with?”

Prom? Where did this come from? I twisted the dial on my locker. Maybe Hannah saw me taking the picture with Soccer Boy Ryan the other day and was jealous. They’d dated off and on for most of the last two years. Fact was, I had no plans at all for prom and hadn’t thought much about it until this moment. “That’s kind of up in the air,” I said finally. “What about you?”

Hannah looked at me like I was an idiot. “Brad Moore? As in, Virginia Tech Back-up Quarterback Brad Moore? We’ve been dating for, like, two months.”

“Oh. That’s nice.” Silly me for not keeping up with the social lives of the Hip, Hot and Happenin’. I grabbed my AP World book out of my locker and shut it. As I straightened, two sophomore guys asked if they could get pictures with me. I smiled and posed while Hannah stepped back and watched us, her eyes two narrow slits. What was her problem?

“Thanks, dude.” One of the boys held up his fist and we bumped.

“Sure.” I waved as they took off down the hall.

“A real celebrity, aren’t you?” Hannah asked. “If it weren’t for your make-up and your clothes … ” She looked me up and down. “Guess we’ll find out soon enough whether you’re the flavor of the month or whether you actually have a shot at beating me.” She gave me a stony smile, turned and walked away.

I stared after her. Beating her at what?

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The greasy KenTacoHut manager handed his camera to Pete, came around to our side of the counter, and stood next to me. His hand, a thick paw, grabbed at my waist. He gave a squeeze I knew I’d feel for the rest of the day—and not in a good way, like the other day with Ryan.

Pete, Lana and I had snuck out of school for lunch so I could take a breather from all the attention, but apparently there was no escaping it. Half the customers in line were snapping photos of me and sending them to their wives, kids, co-workers. As we waited at the end of the counter for our food to come up, an older guy in a faded Redskins jersey walked up, shoved a Sharpie at me and asked me to sign his napkin. His used napkin. Nice. I flipped it over and, carefully, without letting my hand touch it, scribbled “Melanie Martin.”

“That was gross,” I said as the three of us slid into our booth. I stayed at the edge of my bench so Lana and Pete would be forced to sit next to each other. They both gave me a look. I pretended not to notice. “Guess I have to get used to dealing with my public.”

Pete laughed as he squeezed a packet of hot sauce onto his burrito. “The price of celebrity.”

“Lots of people would kill to be in your shoes, you know,” Lana said.

“I know. It’s just that it makes me nervous to know someone could be taking my photo anytime, anywhere. What if I’m in the middle of blowing my nose or something?” I took a small bite of my pepperoni pizza, careful not to get any sauce on my chin. “Speaking of things that make me nervous, Pete, I have something to ask you and I don’t want you to get mad at me.”

Pete set down his burrito. “Okay.”

“Do you think Ms. Jensen will be upset if I miss all three rehearsals next week? I’m going to be doing some studio work with The Grime and I need to get to Ty’s house early.”

“Oooh, studio work,” Lana said. “Exciting.”

Pete looked considerably less impressed. “All three rehearsals? What happened to ‘I can do both’?”

I knew he’d react like this. It was one of the reasons I brought it up in front of Lana. So he wouldn’t go completely nuts. “Come on. It’s only for one week. After next week, I can definitely do both.”

Pete took a gulp of his Mountain Dew. “Sure you can. And yes, Jensen’s definitely going to be pissed, and so will everyone else. We need you to carry us through ‘New Moon,’ you know. And I don’t mean just your solo.”

“I promise, by the time we go to All State, ‘New Moon’ will sound perfect. And anyway, I’m pretty sure no one will care. They’ll all still be in a daze after listening to you sing ‘Awake.’” I turned to Lana. “You should hear him. He’s amazing.
But I can have you next to me toooo-daaay.
” I did my worst imitation of Pete’s croon, holding onto the last note until he wadded up his straw wrapper and threw it into my mouth.

“Ack!” I spit the wrapper out onto the table.

“Nice shot,” Lana said. She held up her hand and gave Pete a fist bump.

“Thanks.” Pete pointed to the spit wad. “Best part is, with The Funeral Singer’s spit on it, I could probably sell that baby on e-Bay tonight for twenty bucks.”

I gave him a stare. “But you won’t. Because that would be exploiting our friendship.”

Pete juggled his hands in the air as if he were weighing the options. “Hmm. Let’s see. Last time I checked, I couldn’t buy that recording app I want with our friendship.”

I picked up the spit wad and threw it back at him. “You suck.”

Pete dodged it, laughing, but then he became serious. “What are you going to tell Jensen? Are you going to tell her the truth or make up an excuse?”

Good question. What possible reason could I have for missing an entire week? An emergency funeral job would work once, maybe even twice, but not all three times. Same with feeling sick or having a dentist appointment or just about any other excuse I could dream up. I sighed. “Guess I’m going to tell her the truth and hope she understands. Anyway, it’s not like I’m cutting to go partying or shopping. I’ll be singing. That counts for something, right?”

Pete looked doubtful, and even I didn’t quite buy it.

“Whatever. The worst she can do is kick me out of chorus. And I sincerely doubt she’d do that.”

Pete shrugged. “As they say, it’s your funeral.”

“Hah. You’re a real comedian.”

“You made your casket, now you have to lie in it,” Lana chimed in. Another fist bump.

“Glad you two are having so much fun with this.”

“Hey, we know how to put the ‘fun’ in funeral,” Pete said.

“Okay, that’s enough.” I picked up a piece of pepperoni and aimed it at them.

Pete reached over and gently lowered my hand. “We’re done. Now, here’s a question for you. Who are you going to prom with?”

I choked on my Diet Coke. Had Pete actually brought up prom with Lana sitting right next to him? Had he forgotten the Moment That Would Never Be Discussed? No, not a chance he’d forgotten. Last year, Pete had asked Lana to Homecoming. She’d laughed. Not because she wanted to be mean, but because she genuinely thought he was joking. When I explained to her later that he’d been serious, she felt horrible, and things had been awkward between them ever since.

When my choking fit subsided, I recovered enough to ask, “What is this sudden fascination with my prom plans? Hannah Massey asked me the same thing this morning. Prom is, like, a month away.”

Pete’s eyes widened. “You haven’t heard, have you?”

“Heard what?” Lana and I asked simultaneously.

“Oh, man. Neither of you have heard.” Pete was practically bouncing in his seat. “This is classic. I’m so glad I get to see your faces when you find out.”

“Find out what?” Lana asked. “Less mystery, more info, please.”

“We need a drum roll for this.” Pete beat his fists against the table and spoke in his best announcer’s voice: “You, Melanie Martin, have been nominated for the title of Edison High School Junior Prom Queen. Your opponents are the Lovely Yet Dim-Witted Hannah Massey and the Reputedly Very, Very Easy Molly Gibbons.”

Lana squealed. “No way. For real?”

“It was on the school website this morning,” Pete said. “Doesn’t anyone else ever read the announcements?”

I took another bite of my pizza and chewed slowly. Prom queen? Me? “I don’t even know what to do with this information,” I said. “What happens when you’re nominated for prom queen? Do you campaign? Do you print up posters and buttons?”

“Don’t worry, you’ve got this,” Lana said. “Hannah Massey and Molly Gibbons? Please. Total lightweights. All we need to do is get you a date. And a dress.”

The dress would be easy. Anything but black. The date? Not so much.

Lana read my mind. “Don’t even. You have guys lining up to take their picture with you. One of them will eventually ask you. Better yet, you should ask one of them. What about Ryan Dent? Or … ” her eyes grew wide. “What about Zed Logan?”

I grinned. “Maybe.”

I popped the last bite of pizza into my mouth and thought about Zed almost holding my hand the other night. Did I dare dream of asking him? It was such a long shot, but who knew? A week ago, the chances of me being nominated prom queen were a million to one. Stranger things had been known to happen.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Elliott Grayson was laid out in an Orthodox Jewish casket, though he was neither. He’d wanted to minimize his carbon footprint, even in death, so he picked a natural, all-wood box. Had he come to Martin’s in the first place, my father could have shown him several eco-friendly options, but he made his original arrangements with O’Hara’s. Apparently Orthodox Jewish was as exotic as you could get over there.

To the delight of Delilah Grayson, Elliott’s widow, Dad had come up with a bunch of other ways she could make his funeral green, too. A sugar maple seedling planted in his memory over at Whitney State Forest, programs printed on ninety-eight percent recycled paper, locally grown organic flowers in the funeral sprays and even formaldehyde-free embalming.

To me, green funerals made sense—the cycle of nature, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, and all that. Still, while I appreciated Mrs. Grayson’s desire to save the earth, I dreaded seeing her song list. Most of Dad’s eco-clients picked ’60s folksongs. Not my forte.

“I have an odd request, Mel,” Dad said as he printed out the list. We hadn’t spoken much at home since our fight the other night, but this was work. Here he was my boss and I was staff, no different from his driver or his receptionist. “Mrs. Grayson would like you to sing from the front for tomorrow’s service.”

“From the front?” My breathing grew shallow. “Are you serious? With the family, like, ten feet away from me?”

Dad grimaced. He knew I’d hate doing this, and he no doubt disliked the idea himself, but he rarely said no to a client. In fact, most of the time he loved special requests. He always said that as long as something could be done without anyone getting hurt or arrested, he’d make it happen.

I grabbed the song list off the printer and breathed a small sigh of relief. No sign of Peter, Paul, or Mary. They wanted James Taylor’s “Fire and Rain,” John Lennon’s “Imagine,” and—woohoo—“Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” Just a little crack of the voice at the end of that one—on “Why, oh why, can’t I?”—got them every time. Only problem was, this time I’d be there to witness the tears up close and personal.

***

“A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to reap; a time to kill, and a time to heal … ”

Mr. Grayson’s son, Ed, was reading Ecclesiastes 3, a favorite funeral verse, especially among the environmental crowd, as I got my first look at a funeral from the front of the room. It was not the typical scene, even for a hippie funeral.

For one thing, at least a dozen of the hundred or so people in the room had videotaped my first song. Of course, my YouTube videos were the reason the Graysons had switched the service here from O’Hara’s in the first place, so I shouldn’t have been surprised. For another thing, Mrs. Grayson, wearing a breezy floral-print sundress and floppy white hat wreathed with fresh petunias, was acting more like a party hostess than a grieving widow. All smiles and hugs and
thank-you-for-coming-don’t-you-look-darling-in-that-dress
.

Not that I was complaining. If I had to sit up front, this was the perfect service for it. The less actual mourning, the better. I figured the chances of Mrs. Grayson fainting on top of me or anyone puking all over me were next to none.

As Ed finished reading and took his seat, a small rumble started among the crowd, and some of the “mourners” began taking out their video cameras and cell phones. Time for “Imagine.”

I sang the Liel Kolet version, not because it was an improvement on Lennon’s—that would be impossible, I supposed—but because it felt right for this service. More joyful than wistful. It always seemed to me as though Lennon believed deep down that peace was a fantasy, something people only
could
imagine. But the way Liel sang the song, it was like she believed it was real. Like it could happen any time. Like it might even be happening now.

I finished to an awkward round of applause. What the heck was I supposed to do, bow? Instead, I gave a quick nod and slipped back into my seat. Wait until these people heard “Rainbow.”

Rather than a single eulogy, a bunch of family and friends got up and talked about Mr. Grayson and what they remembered about him. Some of the stories were hilarious. It sounded as though the old guy had done his share of partying back in the day. Even though Ed was probably about the same age as my dad, he seemed embarrassed by some of the comments. Guess your parents can mortify you at any stage of life. Or death.

Finally, Mrs. Grayson took the podium. I saw my dad’s body go tense as she walked up. The widow almost never spoke.

“Thank you all for coming,” she said, beaming. “Elliott would have loved this. He always insisted he wanted his funeral service to be more of a party than a sob-fest. I’m sure he’s watching us from somewhere out there in The Great Beyond and smiling that big, crooked smile of his.” Her voice wavered, and she paused. She turned and motioned to me to come forward. “Our final song this morning is the one we danced to at our wedding.”

Wow. Talk about pressure. I took a while adjusting the mic to give Mrs. Grayson time to return to her seat and everyone else time to settle down with their cameras. As I sang, I imagined a young Elliott and Delilah Grayson twirling around a dance floor to “Rainbow,” and by the time I reached the last line, the crack in my voice was real.