“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.
I wasn’t the only one feeling it. Most of the women had broken out their tissues, and the men were doing that thing where they kept clearing their throats and rolling their eyes up toward the ceiling to keep in the tears. Mrs. Grayson clutched a lace-fringed handkerchief the exact same shade of pink as her petunias and smiled at me through a stream of tears. I forced a smile before heading back to my seat.
This was going to be fine. I could handle a few tears. Tears were good—healthy. It wasn’t like people were wailing or throwing themselves on top of the casket. I’d witnessed that before from up in the balcony, and it was not a pretty sight.
The pallbearers came forward, and my dad took the podium to give instructions on the procession over to the cemetery. Fortunately, they weren’t having music at the graveside, so I didn’t need to go.
As Dad stepped down, he gave me a subtle thumbs-up, his eyes shining with pride. We both knew my singing had struck the perfect balance for Mrs. Grayson—sincere and sentimental without being depressing.
After the pallbearers proceeded down the aisle and through the chapel door, I stood to leave through a side exit. Only just as I opened it, a young couple rushed up to me. “Melanie?” The woman waved her program at me. “Would you mind autographing this for us?”
The man fished inside his jacket and produced a pen. “Anywhere on the front would be good,” he said, “or maybe inside next to your name.”
They seemed jittery. Which maybe was because they were asking someone to AUTOGRAPH A FREAKING FUNERAL PROGRAM. It felt so wrong in so many ways. I looked around for my dad, but he was busy talking with Mrs. Grayson on the other side of the room.
I forced a smile and took the pen. “Sure, happy to.” I walked over to a lectern stand set against the back wall. For a split second, I thought about asking their names so I could personalize it. Bob and Susan, Mourn on, dudes!
When I turned back around, a small crowd ha
d gathered. Actually, they hadn’t gathered, they’d formed a line. Seriously?
I stood for fifteen minutes posing for photos and signing autographs, the line continually replenishing itself. Everyone wanted to meet the Funeral Singer. Finally, my father came over.
“Folks, I’m sorry to interrupt, but we need to get a move on to the cemetery. The burial ceremony is scheduled for noon.”
A handful of people stepped out of line, but the rest waved Dad off.
“Go ahead and start the procession. We can drive over ourselves.”
“We may have to miss that.”
“We’ll just be a few more minutes here, thanks.”
Dad backed up toward the door, worry etched across his face.
I shrugged and mouthed sorry. What was I supposed to do?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
As I got ready to leave for school Monday morning, Dad called me into his office. This couldn’t be good. The last time he’d done that was when I’d forgotten to turn my cell phone off during a service and it had blasted Lana’s ring, “Born to Be Wild.” Awkward.
I headed downstairs and took a shortcut through the darkened chapel. No doubt this was about The Grime. The funeral home line had rung constantly this week. Business was booming, and now he wanted to guilt me into quitting the band: I need you here, Mel. Our clients want something special for their loved one’s services. How can we accommodate them if you have other commitments?
Too bad. For once I was going to pay more attention to my own needs than his and everyone else’s.
Dad looked up from his day planner as I opened his office door. He stood and pointed to a chair. “Coffee?”
I nodded and perched at the edge of the seat.
He took his time pouring. He did know I had to catch the bus in a few minutes, right? “Beautiful job Saturday,” he said finally, as he placed the blue-and-white Martin’s Family Mortuary mug along with the cream and sugar in front of me. “Love that version of ‘Imagine.’”
Small talk and flattery? I steeled myself and took a sip of the coffee. Too strong. I added more cream.
Dad sat back down, leaned forward and placed his elbows on his desk, forming a tent with his fingers. “We have a problem, Mel. I should have foreseen this, but I guess I didn’t want to.”
Right. A huge problem. Too many people calling him for funerals. I had to hand it to him, he was good. Even his expression seemed pained, as though asking me to quit The Grime was the last thing in the world he wanted to have to do.
Dad’s eyes wandered over to the funeral director’s license hanging on his office wall. “I hope you’ll understand that I’m doing what I think is best. I have a responsibility to my calling.”
Oh, please. I’d heard it many times before: Caring for the dead was his calling, his life’s purpose, his sacred mission. The fact that he now had a steady stream of dead to care for must be making him very happy.
He cleared his throat and looked me in the eyes. “I need you to step down as vocalist.”
“Dad, I—What?”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m sure this will be temporary, but—”
“You’re firing me?”
“No, not firing. Just asking you to take a break.”
A break? I set my mug down. All morning I’d been rehearsing my argument about why I should be allowed to stay with The Grime. Why I needed to—deserved to—do more than sing at funerals. But that didn’t mean I didn’t want to continue singing here. I was The Funeral Singer. For the first time, it occurred to me that, even though I hadn’t been crazy about the label, it was probably the entire reason I’d gone viral. It was a little weird, and people noticed weird. “I don’t understand. What about all the business I’m bringing in?”
Dad sighed. “Business is good, but only when it’s good business.”
I shook my head and blinked. “I can’t believe this.”
“Please, sweetheart. It’s just for a little while. We’ll put you back on the schedule after this whole thing blows over.”
Blows over? Is that what he thought? I remembered Hannah’s words: “flavor of the month.” I stood and backed slowly toward the door.
“We’ll fulfill any contracts that specifically name you as vocalist,” he continued, “though I’m going to insist that you sing from the balcony. And no videotaping.” His voice was all business now, as if everything were fine, as if this were just another task in his day planner: 8 a.m. Fire your own flesh and blood.
I opened the door. I had to get out of there. I had to think. My feet felt heavy as I walked through the funeral home and onto the front porch. The bus was rounding the corner. If I ran, I could make it.
Screw that. I took out my phone and dialed Zed. I probably wouldn’t have had the guts to call him any other day, but right now, more than anything, I wanted to do something that would make my father angry.
“Hello?” Zed sounded out of it. Shoot. I’d woken him up. I imagined him in bed, tangled in sheets, nothing on but a pair of boxers. Or maybe those boxer-briefs. What if he wasn’t alone? I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
“Hello? Who’s this?”
“Zed, I—” From nowhere, a weird hiccup-y sob escaped me. I didn’t know if it was because I suddenly felt like an idiot, because I wanted Zed’s sympathy, or because I was so mad at my dad. Probably a combination of all three.
“Mel? Is that you?” Zed’s voice was clear now. He sounded worried. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. It’s stupid.”
“Where are you? Do you want me to come get you?”
I asked him to pick me up at a Starbuck’s down the street and started walking.
This was all so stupid. A week ago, Dad wanted to post a promo video of me on his website, and now he was firing me? Sure, he was upset about that impromptu autograph session yesterday, but that was not my fault. And Dad always said he loved a full chapel. If it weren’t for me, half those people might not even have come to the funeral. In fact, if it weren’t for me, Martin’s wouldn’t have had the Grayson funeral in the first place.
By the time I reached the coffee shop, I was more ticked off at my dad than ever. I waited at an outside table until Zed pulled up in a silver Mazda, very sporty and shiny and sexy. My stomach did a little flip as he hopped out of his car. He had two faint pillow marks across his face, and his hair was even messier than usual.
“Thanks for coming.”
“No problem.” He pointed to the entrance. “Coffee?”
I nodded and followed him in. Maybe a venti hazelnut latte would get rid of the bitter taste my dad’s coffee had left in my mouth.
As Zed went to the counter and ordered for us, I checked my phone. A text from Lana: where r u?
I texted back: w Zed!
nice. but what do i tell people?
tell them to mind their own bznss.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry to interrupt, but you’re the lady from the videos, right?”
I looked up, and my pulse quickened. A huge Fairfax County cop stood in front of me. He was young, with close-cropped hair and a deep dimple in his chin. He held a very frou frou cup of coffee involving masses of whipped cream and the distinct scent of cinnamon.
“Yes, sir … officer.” I was suddenly very conscious of the fact that I should be in school—that technically I was a truant. Did cops arrest people for that?
He set down his drink, pulled a very official-looking pad of paper out of his front shirt pocket and flipped through it. “What’s your name?” He laid the pad on the table next to his drink and placed his left hand on his holster.
“Melanie.” My voice came out as a squeak that would have given Ms. Jensen chills. I took a breath and tried to project. “Melanie Martin.”
“Martin. That’s it.” He tapped his pad. “Ms. Martin, would you mind autographing my docket?”
I blinked, confused. For a second I wondered if “autograph my docket” might be a euphemism for “sign this ticket,” but then I noticed h
e was smiling.
I smiled back. Cool. I glanced at his badge and wrote: To Officer Bradley, one of Fairfax’s finest. Melanie Martin.
He picked up the pad and gave me a big grin. “Thanks. The guys at the station will get a kick out of this.”
My sense of relief quickly dissolved. Half the “guys at the station” no doubt knew me, or at least my dad. He called on them a few times a month to help with processions. And even though I had wanted to do something Dad would disapprove of, that didn’t necessarily mean I wanted him to find out about it. From the cops.
“Officer.” Zed appeared behind me with our coffees. He handed me mine and stuck out his hand. “Zed Logan. Of The Grime.”
It was obvious from the expression on Officer Bradley’s face that he had no idea who The Grime was, but he gave Zed a sincere cop-like nod and shook his hand.
“Well, it was nice meeting you.” I sidled toward the exit and gave Zed a let’s-get-out-of-here look. “Good luck today with all your criminal-catching stuff. Gotta keep those streets safe.”
I turned to flee but found my path blocked by a small group that had gathered near the exit.
“I told you it was her.”
“She looks so different with her hair down like that.”
“My favorite is ‘Danny Boy.’ So romantic.”
Several cell phone cameras flashed, and two of the women started rummaging through their purses.
I glanced nervously back at Zed and Officer Bradley.
“Could I have your autograph?” One of the women handed me a pen and a very crumpled receipt.
I scribbled my name and smiled at the others. “Sorry, we really have to run. Take care.”
As Zed pulled out of the parking lot, I breathed a sigh of relief. “That sucked.”
“Are you kidding me? That rocked. They love you. Everyone loves you.” He slapped the heel of his palm on the steering wheel. “That’s what I’m talking about.”
The Funeral Singer Page 7