Turned out Bruno was right. Having my voice as a backup on “Goodbye, Grace” made no sense, but for some reason Zed wouldn’t give up. We’d spent the past two days trying to make it work, but I’d begun to hope he’d leave the song the way it was.
I paused and pointed out a red Dodge Viper across the street. “There it is. Bruno’s car.”
Lana squealed and handed me her cell phone. “Here. Take my picture next to it.”
As I framed the shot, she leaned against the driver-side door. Hands on her hips, she pursed her lips and gave a silly gaze off into the distance. This was the Lana I knew and loved. Would Bruno be able to see how awesome she was? Part of me hoped not. She deserved better.
When we reached Ty’s gate, I pushed the button, and it swung open as the camera above whirred.
“Impressive,” Lana said.
“I told you, this place rocks.”
As we walked toward the front door, I linked my arm through Lana’s. Moral support—whether for her or me I wasn’t sure. Maybe things would be different tonight with Zed. Maybe it was true that the only reason he hadn’t kissed me again was because he wanted to keep things professional at work. And this wasn’t work. This was a party.
The house reeked of cigarette smoke and beer. As we walked through the front door, I had a flashback to the funeral home lobby on the morning of Mick’s funeral. The skimpy clothes, the dramatic make up, the ubiquitous tattoos.
I didn’t see anyone from the band in the front room, so I led Lana into the kitchen and we grabbed two beers out of the cooler. I knew I’d nurse mine all night. Not really my thing. Lana, on the other hand, might down a few. I held out my hand, and she smiled and opened her purse to get her keys. Just as she handed them to me, Bruno walked in.
Lana dropped her beer. Somehow the bottle managed to say intact, but a stream of foam spewed out onto my jeans.
“Oh, crap,” Lana said. “I am so sorry.”
Three girls—none of whom were anywhere near the line of fire—squealed and ran from the room as if their lives were in jeopardy, and a couple of guys in the corner snickered at us.
To my surprise, Bruno came over to help. He grabbed the bottle, clamped his hand over the top and took it to the sink. He opened a cabinet and pulled out a roll of paper towels.
“You okay?” He handed me the towels.
“Fine. With all that foam, it looked worse than it was.” I dabbed at my jeans. “Bruno, this is my friend, Lana.”
Bruno smiled and shook her hand.
“I feel so bad,” Lana said. “It slipped. I’m so—”
“Don’t worry about it. It happens,” Bruno said. Did he know he was the one making her so nervous? Probably he was used to making girls nervous. Probably he enjoyed it.
“I’m going to find a bathroom and clean up,” I said, giving Lana a here-is-your-chance-to-be-alone-with-him look.
I wasn’t too familiar with the upstairs parts of Ty’s house, so I headed toward the bathroom in the basement. As I reached the bottom of the steps, I heard Zed calling my name. He stood in a corner talking to an older guy with a shaved head, a long goatee and a neck about the size of the old maple outside my bedroom window. The dude would have been super intimidating if it weren’t for the bright yellow daisy tattooed above his right ear.
Zed waved me over. “Mel, I’d like you to meet someone.”
I tucked the paper towels under my arm and shook his hand.
“Ah, yes. The Funeral Singer.” His accent surprised me. British, or maybe Australian. “Tex Andrews. Pleasure meeting you.”
“Tex?” The guy was full of surprises.
He smiled. “Born in Austin, raised in Adelaide. Now I live in New York.”
“Tex is a band manager, and he’s thinking of signing us. Wants to drop by our studio session tomorrow.”
I widened my eyes at Zed. Did he forget I needed to skip tomorrow? No way could I miss chorus. “Um. That sounds great. But I don’t think I—”
Zed flashed a stiff smile. “Come on, Mel. No need to be nervous. You’ll do fine.” He reached up and placed his arm around Tex’s massive shoulders. “This guy’s one of the best in the business. It’s a great opportunity for us.”
“I’m sure it is. It’s just … can I talk to you for a minute?”
“Sure.” Zed shook Tex’s hand. “Thanks for coming all the way down here, man. Go grab some food and I’ll catch up with you in a few.”
I flashed Tex a weak smile as Zed grabbed my arm and led me away. He pointed to my jeans. “What happened to you?”
“Oh, sorry.” My face grew warm. I was a mess, and I smelled like beer. “A slight accident. I was on my way to clean up.”
Zed led me into the bathroom and shut the door.
I leaned against the sink. “You know I can’t be here tomorrow, right?”
“You have to figure out a way to make it. This is important.”
“Don’t you think I would if I could? But I told you, I have chorus. I have to be there.”
“Mel, this guy has repped Daughtry, Jay-Z, Plain White Tees—half the bands out there. And you want me to tell him you need to miss an audition because of your high school chorus practice?” Zed shook his head and took a swig of his beer. “Amateur hour. That’s what that is—amateur hour.”
Tears stung my eyes. Dammit. Zed already thought I was a silly teen-ager. Now I was going to cry?
Zed took the roll of paper towels from me and set them down behind me on the sink. He grabbed both my hands. “Come on. It’s one rehearsal. Who cares if you miss it? I’ll bet you’re already better than all the rest of them combined anyway.”
I sighed. I hadn’t told him about my conversation with Ms. Jensen. All I’d said was I needed Thursday off. Zed didn’t know I’d already missed two rehearsals. He didn’t know I’d be kicked out of All State. Heck, he didn’t even know I was supposed to go to All State. “You’re right. It’s no big thing. I’ll get out of it.”
Zed smiled. “It’ll be worth it. Tex is the real thing.” Inching closer, he slipped his hand under my cami and around my waist. “This is the real thing.” He pulled me toward him, and starting at my earlobe, he kissed me all the way down one side of my neck and back up the other. By the time his lips touched mine, my whole body felt as though it might melt. Part of me wanted to float into the hazy delirium of the moment, but another part of me—a truly annoying part—pulled back.
“When you say, ‘the real thing,’ are you talking about this? Meaning, us?”
“Yes, us. Who else would I be talking about?” Zed leaned in to kiss me again.
I slipped out of his grasp. “No, I mean, like, us, The Grime, or us, you and me?”
Zed groaned and pulled himself up to sit on the sink, shaking his head as if to clear it. “Are we really going to have this talk right now?”
I looked down at the floor, my cheeks burning. Why did I have to be such a weirdo? Somehow, I couldn’t imagine Lana interrupting an amazing kiss with a guy she’d crushed on forever to ask his intentions. “It’s just … you didn’t seem that into me this week.” Jeez, I was lame.
Zed sighed. “Right. So here’s the thing: We need to plan this. If we’re going to be a couple, we need to time it.”
A couple? My head snapped up and I met his eyes. He was being serious. “What do you mean?”
“I mean it can’t be too soon.” He waved toward the door. “Half those girls out there don’t give a damn about the music. It’s about us, or about who they think we are. That’s why none of us has ever had a girlfriend—at least, none who made it into the press. It might work for you and me, but not yet.”
“I don’t get it.”
“I know you don’t. And that’s exactly what I’m talking about. It’s those videos. You look so innocent in them. Wholesome. Angelic, even. But hot. The fans might dig it if we hooked up, but not yet.”
I crossed my arms. “So is this about the fans, or is it about us? Are we for real or aren’t we?”
>
Zed covered his face with his hands.
Oh, God. Why did I have to go and say that? Was I some clingy, needy, simpering idiot who’d turn one little kiss—okay, two colossal kisses—into a great big fat commitment issue?
Someone rapped on the bathroom door.
“You know what? Never mind. I’m being—”
“No,” Zed said. “Don’t apologize. We are for real. In fact, I felt it the first time I met you. It’s just—”
Someone knocked again, this time louder.
“It’s just what?”
The knob jiggled. “Come on,” a girl’s voice yelled. “There’s a line out here.”
“I gotta pee,” yelled another. “What’s going on in there?”
Zed stared at the door, his face growing worried. Of course. All those people were going to see us come out of the bathroom together. What would they think?
I rolled my eyes. “Follow my lead.”
Clutching my stomach with one arm and placing the other around his neck, I let out a loud groan.
Zed gave me a quick smile and opened the door. “Sorry,” he called out. “She’s not feeling well.”
The crowd gave us a generous escape route, and Zed practically ran as he dragged me through the basement and up the steps. When we reached the top, I straightened up. “See? Your secret is safe.”
Zed smiled and leaned over to whisper in my ear. “Our secret.” He gave my arm a quick squeeze and left to find Tex.
Every girl in the room watched as he walked away. They all wanted him. I grinned.
We are for real. In fact, I felt it the first time I met you.
Fine. If Zed wanted to keep things on the down low for now, I could deal with that.
CHAPTER TWENTY
It took me forever to find Lana when I went back upstairs. Word had gotten out that the Funeral Singer was at the party, so people kept stopping me for photos and autographs. One dude even talked me into singing a duet of “Summer Nights” with him while his friend taped us. Super cheesy.
When I finally tracked her down, Lana was sitting on a couch next to Bruno in one of the house’s turrets. The small round loft was lit only by the half moon shining through the windows, and Seal was singing “You Get Me” on the stereo. Ugh. Bruno was smooth, I had to give him that.
“Ever hear of checking your phone?” I asked. “I was supposed to be home twenty minutes ago.”
“Oh, man.” Lana pulled her phone out of her purse. “Three missed calls from Randy, too. I’m dead.”
Bruno raised his eyebrow and gave me a slow smile. Lana hooked up with all kinds of jerks—the kind that cheated on her, the kind that treated her like a doormat and the kind that tried to control her every move. I was willing to bet Bruno was that last kind. Maybe even to the point that he’d turn off an unsuspecting girl’s phone.
On the way home, Lana ran more yellow lights than the last car in a funeral procession. It was totally unnecessary, since I’d already texted my dad that we’d be late and she’d already convinced Randy that she missed his calls because we were in a movie that ran later than expected. Still, she was all jacked up, blathering about how romantic it was up in the turret, how she never knew you could see so many stars in Fairfax, how Bruno had been so sweet to her, and funny and smart and cool and blah blah blah. Whatever. I’d been through this with her before. I gave it two weeks, three at the most. No way could Bruno keep up his Nice Guy act for long.
Finally Lana took a deep breath. “Enough about me. How was your night? What happened with Zed?”
I smiled. “He kissed me again.”
“What? Whoa! And?”
“And … I don’t know. I mean, I think he’s into me, but he says he doesn’t want to date until … ”
“Until what?”
I bit my lip. I should have kept my mouth shut. Lana was going to hate this. “Until the fans are ready for it,” I mumbled.
“Get out. So it’s still about ‘image management’ with him? What is his problem?”
“Whatever.” What could I say? I wasn’t thrilled with the situation, but it was a business decision, and it was probably a smart one. Lana wouldn’t get that.
When I walked through the front door of the apartment, Dad was waiting up for me. He turned off the television, glanced at his watch and motioned for me to sit on the couch across from him. Shoot. I wanted to fall into bed and relive my kiss with Zed, minus the part where I’d stopped him. I was not in the mood for a lecture.
Usually when my father went casual—without his suit and what Mom called his “I’m here to guide you through a difficult time” expression—he looked just like the dads in the Saturday morning cereal commercials. Handsome, relaxed, smiling. Tonight, though, his face seemed drawn, and he had dark circles around his eyes.
A whiskey bottle and a half-empty glass sat in front of him on the coffee table. That couldn’t be good. Except for the occasional beer, Dad rarely drank. Part of me, though, felt grateful. The smell of his whiskey might overpower the smell of my jeans. It would have been so unfair to get in trouble for beer jeans since neither Lana nor I ended up actually drinking anything.
Dad sighed and sipped at his whiskey. “MTV called,” he said finally.
“What?” Not what I was expecting.
“MTV. They want to do a reality show starring you in the funeral home.”
I sat back and blinked. My own reality show? How cool was that? “Great. I’ll call them back in the morning.”
“Don’t bother. I told them no.”
“You what? You’re kidding me. How could you do that without even talking to me?”
Dad gave me a hard stare. “This is a funeral home, a place where people come to say their last goodbyes. I can’t have camera crews and producers running all over the place. Of course I said no.”
I had to admit, he had a point. On the other hand … “Dad, you’re always saying Americans do everything they can to avoid the reality of death. Maybe a show like that would bring it home to them.”
Dad gave a short laugh. “You and I both know reality shows have nothing to do with reality. Nothing. They’re staged to create drama. And drama is something we don’t need here.”
I nodded. “Touché.”
Dad set his drink down and stood up. “I’m going to hit the sack. You have a couple of other phone messages. You should check the machine.”
Phone messages? No one ever called me on our home phone. The number was unlisted. The funeral home had gotten lots of calls this week from fans and the media, but Dawn the receptionist handled those the same way she handled telemarketers: “I’m sorry. This is a place of business and we don’t accept these types of inquiries. However, if you would like to learn how to plan your own funeral today, I would be happy to connect you with someone.” Dawn was the only person I knew who could get telemarketers to hang up on her.
I went into the kitchen and hit “play.”
“Good evening, Miss Martin. My name is Carlos Reynaldo, and I’m coordinator for the Virginia All State Chorus Competition. I’d like to speak with you about our plans to create some media excitement surrounding this year’s competition. Please give me a call at your convenience.”
I took down the phone number, my stomach tightening into a hard knot. Ms. Jensen must have given him my number. And now tomorrow morning, I was planning to go in and tell her I had to miss rehearsal.
As I climbed into bed, all thoughts of my kiss with Zed were gone. I had to come up with the perfect excuse to get out of chorus tomorrow.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I cracked open the door of the bathroom to make sure Ms. Ormond, the school nurse, could hear. I wasn’t proud of what I was about to do. It was stupid. I knew that. But it was the best I could come up with.
I’d timed everything perfectly. I’d handed in my world history project a few minutes ago, and the Wolinski service was starting in a half hour, so my parents would be busy.
I’d eaten three slices of piz
za for lunch, the greasiest ones I could find. They sat like a lump in my stomach. I leaned over the toilet, stuck my finger down my throat and gagged. Nothing came up. I tried again. More gagging. Crap. This had to work.
“You okay in there, honey?” Ms. Ormond called from her desk. “You need help with anything?”
“No. I’m … I’m … ” Finally, I puked. Gross but highly effective.
“Oh, my.” Ms. Ormond tapped on the door. “Sweetheart?”
I spat a few more times into the toilet and then stood and opened the door. “This is so embarrassing. I hardly ever throw up.” I clutched my stomach. “I must be sicker than I thought.”
Ms. Ormond placed her hand on my forehead. “You’re not running a fever, but your eyes do look a little glassy. I should probably send you home.”
I nodded, pulled out my cell phone and dialed the funeral home. I told Dawn I wasn’t feeling well and asked her to send Patrick, one of my dad’s drivers. Today’s service didn’t include a procession, so I knew he’d most likely be running random errands this afternoon anyway.
There was a pretty good chance Dawn or Patrick would mention this to my parents, but I’d deal with them later. The important thing was getting to the studio. I planned to have Patrick take me home, and from there I’d sneak over to the bus stop to catch the 1:45 bus to Fair Oaks Mall. Ty’s house was about a half mile from the mall.
Ms. Ormond handed me a toothbrush and a tiny tube of toothpaste. “Go ahead and brush while you wait. Get that taste out of your mouth.”
“Thank you so much.” I gave her a weak smile. “Ms. Ormond, could you do me a favor and call Ms. Jensen to let her know I have to miss today’s rehearsal? You should probably mention I threw up.”
Ms. Ormond frowned. “I’ll let her know you’re not feeling well, but I cannot discuss the nature of your illness. Privacy laws, you know.”
“But it’s okay. I want you to tell her. She needs to know I’m really, seriously, pukingly sick.”
A wrinkle of worry crossed Ms. Ormond’s forehead. “Why’s that? Does she require you to come to rehearsal even when you’re not feeling well?”
The Funeral Singer Page 9