Mr. Waldron grabbed a booth in the back while Lana and I waited for our orders.
“You and Bruno seemed to have a lot to talk about after the movie last night.” Lana’s voice had an edge to it.
“Sure.” I plucked a napkin from the dispenser on the counter. And another. “It had some interesting themes, right?”
“Uh huh. Seemed like more than that, though.”
Pluck. Pluck. “Meaning?”
“Oh, come on, Mel. You know what I mean. Or did you somehow not notice the awkward vibe between you two at the end of the night?”
I had a huge handful of napkins now. “No, I did not. Maybe because things are always awkward between Bruno and me. Nothing new there.”
I grabbed my sherbet and headed back to our booth, leaving Lana to follow behind me. Screw Bruno. I knew I wasn’t perfect. And I took criticism all the time from Ms. Jensen. Everything he’d said was true. But it was the way he’d said it. He thought I was some kind of diva. He didn’t know the first thing about me. I sat down next to Mr. Waldron and changed the subject. “That sundae looks fantastic.”
Lana’s grandfather eyed his two scoops of ice cream topped with hot fudge, caramel, nuts, sprinkles and extra whipped cream. “Doctor says I’m not supposed to do this, but what’s the sense of living forever if you can’t enjoy it?” He scooped up a spoonful of ice cream and held it out to me. “Want a taste?”
“No, thanks.” I nibbled on my sherbet and reminded myself of the way the purple dress curved perfectly around my hips.
“How about you, sweetie?”
Lana shook her head. “Grandpa, you should listen to your doctors. What about your heart?”
“Oh, pish. My ticker’s doing fine. You’re starting to sound like … ” His voice cracked and he set down his spoon. He dabbed at his eyes with his napkin and drew a deep, steadying breath. “I say a night out with my beautiful granddaughter and a hot fudge sundae with all the fixin’s is exactly what my heart needs right now.”
Lana’s eyes misted up, but she smiled as she reached over and plucked the cherry off the top of his enormous pile of whipped cream. “Can I have it?”
He nodded. “You know I’ve never liked those.” He took a bite of his sundae and rolled his eyes up toward heaven. “Delicious. Now tell me about these boys you’re going to the dance with.”
Lana gave me a sideways look. “They’re nice. They’re in a band—Mel’s band.”
“Your mom says they’re older.”
Lana rolled her eyes. “Just a couple of years older. I don’t know why she’s freaking out about that. Girls mature faster anyway.” She turned to me. “So, what do you think people are going to say when we walk into prom with Bruno and Zed on our arms?”
I assumed what I hoped was a thoughtful expression. “Well, I think they’ll probably say: ‘Ah, so Bruno and Zed are the mystery dates Lana has been hinting about on her Facebook page, and on Twitter, and on the school chat board and in every conversation she’s had with every single person every minute of every day.’”
Lana laughed. “That’s not true. I went through the entire fourth period today without mentioning prom once. Well, maybe once.”
“Impressive. Such self-control.”
“Hey, you should be thanking me. I’m starting a buzz. It can only help your chances at winning prom queen.” She turned toward her grandfather. “Did I tell you Mel was nominated for prom queen?”
Mr. Waldron pointed his spoon at me. “Congratulations. That’s quite an honor.”
“And she is by far the best candidate.” Lana gasped. “Oh my gosh, I just realized, your dress will go perfect with the tiara. With those rhinestones on the shoulder strap? You’ll look amazing.”
I closed my eyes and imagined it. The dress was the shade of a ripe plum. It was fitted and stopped just below mid-thigh, with a low-cut back and a gem-studded strap across the right shoulder. As I stepped forward to accept my crown, Zed would be standing beside me, wearing a black-and-white tux and a slightly sinister expression that would both frighten and thrill every girl in the room. Afterward, I’d smile sweetly at Hannah Massey and accept her utterly insincere congratulations.
I opened my eyes and shrugged. “I haven’t won yet, you know.”
“No, but you will. Everyone says they’re voting for you.”
I remembered what Zed said about making a splash. Being named prom queen would be … well, it would be the cherry on top of the sundae. And walking out of prom as Zed Logan’s girlfriend? That would be like a whole new, never-ending sundae.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
My dad always said, “Death has no timetable.”
Growing up, I disagreed. It seemed to me as though death knew exactly what it was doing: It showed up whenever it was least convenient for the Martin family. I couldn’t count how many times death interrupted our holidays and family vacations, so I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised that Jeanine Merendino, who’d named me as vocalist on her funeral service contract, died four days before the 9:30 Club concert. And that her family decided to have the funeral that evening—three hours before the start of the show.
When Dad called me into his office two days before the service to discuss the song selection, I protested. “By the time it’s over, I’ll have less than two hours to get dressed, drive into D.C., find parking and do my sound checks. There’s no way.”
He held up Mrs. Merendino’s paperwork. “Melanie, a contract is a contract—a binding agreement. We have no choice.”
“Come on, Dad. This wouldn’t be the first time you had to break a contract. What about last summer, when I had strep?”
“That was different. People understand that things like that come up. Emergencies.”
“Well, this is an emergency.”
Dad’s eyes darkened, and he spoke so softly I had to strain to hear him. “You want me to tell a family who just lost their mother that your rock concert is an emergency?”
Tears sprung to my eyes. This couldn’t be happening. “Dad, I swear, if it were any other night, any other time, I’d make it work, but this concert is too—”
“Melanie!”
I jumped. Dad almost never raised his voice. He stood and gripped the edge of his desk. When he spoke, his voice was soft again. “You are going to sing at this woman’s service, do you understand? Funeral service is not a part-time job. It is a career and a calling. It is a twenty-four-hour-a-day commitment.”
There it was, his go-to argument. So unfair. If I didn’t stand up for myself now, I never would. My knees shook and a bead of sweat made a slow trickle down the back of my neck, but I forced my voice to stay steady and strong. “Yeah, well, it’s your career, your calling, your commitment. Not mine. I’m out.”
I turned and ran out through the lobby. Dawn’s eyes never left her computer screen as I sped by.
If I didn’t hurry, I’d be late for rehearsal. It was our last one before the show, and we were running through the set from start to finish. Our two sound guys would be there, and even the lighting tech was coming to take notes.
I borrowed Mom’s Jetta without asking, hooked my iPod into the car’s sound system and blasted Simple Minds, “Alive and Kicking.”
I rolled down the windows and sang as loud as I could. Why should I have to pay the price of my father’s “calling”? If he wanted to spend his whole life working with dead people, that was his choice. I chose to sing for people who were alive and well and, yes, kicking. Dad might not think this concert was important, but he was wrong. It could mean the beginning of something huge for me and The Grime. Certainly their comeback would mean a lot to their fans. And the fact was, with me now in the band, they had more fans than ever.
I was one of the first to arrive at Ty’s studio, and a surprise was waiting for me when I walked in: Tex. It was the first time he’d come into town since our audition. I couldn’t help but notice again how small the room felt with him in it.
“Evening, mate.” He held out hi
s arms for a hug. “You look to be in a great mood.”
“Good to see you. You staying for the show Friday night?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
As the rest of the band members filtered in, each seemed as happy to see Tex as I was. This concert, and the chance it gave us to break out, seemed more and more real all the time.
Once everyone had arrived, he sat us down. “You’ve had a great couple of weeks. My sources tell me there’s a lot of local buzz, and our Google alerts have been going bonkers. That’s good. Oh, and I love the poster.” He turned to me. “You, sweetheart, look hot in those shorts.”
I blushed, but I was glad he’d said it. I glanced around at the guys. The shorts! Surely it was all about the shorts.
Zed pulled out our play list and handed it to Tex. We planned to open with “Merry Jane,” which would get the crowd going right away. The rest of the show mixed in the band’s old stuff with some of the new songs we were working on. For our encore, we’d open with “Altogether Blue,” and we saved “Medium Well” until the very end.
“Brilliant, brilliant,” Tex muttered as he read through the list. “You’ve put a lot of thought into this. I love it.”
We all looked around at each other. Even Bruno was beaming.
“Except … ”
Uh oh.
“I have one suggestion. For your encore, before ‘Altogether Blue,’ what if Mel walks onstage by herself and sings ‘Danny Boy’? She could wear one of her black dresses, and we’ll put a single spot on her and … ” He pulled out his phone and started scrolling. “I know a guy in town who plays the pipes. Let’s see if I can bribe him with some free drinks to come and play with you.”
He slipped out of the room, phone to his ear. No one said a word, but I could feel five sets of eyes staring at me. I picked up a light blue guitar pick sitting on a shelf beside me and fidgeted with it. What was the big deal? It was one stupid song. One-nineteenth of the entire concert.
Finally, Zed broke the silence. “That could work, I guess.”
I glanced up and gave him a smile. Not exactly a huge endorsement, but at least he’d spoken up for me.
Tex came back into the room and handed me a slip of paper with a phone number. “It’s a go. Guy by the name of Sean Lewis. Give him a call tonight to go over it with him.”
We ran through the entire set. We sounded good. Tight. When we wrapped up “Medium Well,” Tex stood and smiled.
“You’re ready. This is going to be good.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
The next morning, I skipped breakfast so I could avoid my dad, but it was no use. He and Mom confronted me on my way out the front door of the apartment.
“Mel, we’d like to have a word with you,” he said.
I reached for the doorknob. “Can’t it wait? I’m going to miss the bus.”
Actually I was running early, and Mom knew it. “This won’t take long.” She gestured toward the loveseat and gave me the same reassuring smile she gave her grieving clients. Except it didn’t reassure me. Today was one of the most important days of my life—my chance to do something big, something that could change everything—and I was being double-teamed by the Guilt Guild.
Dad went first. “About our conversation yesterday.”
“Yes?”
“I’ve thought a lot about it. I have to tell you, it was very hard for me to hear you say those things, and then to watch you turn and walk away.” He paused and glanced at my mother, who reached over to pat his knee.
Please.
Now it was her turn. “Sweetheart, we’ve said it before, and we’ll say it again: You have a very special gift. Your singing has added so much to the services here. It’s been a real blessing to these families.”
That was enough. I stood to leave. “You’re right. I do have a gift, and it’s my gift. That means I get to choose how to use it. And I choose to sing for The Grime.”
I turned toward the door, but Dad rose out of his seat and took a step toward me. He didn’t seem angry. His shoulders sagged, and his voice was soft when he spoke. “You’re right, Mel. And I guess that’s what we wanted to talk to you about. Although we may not like your choice, we realize it’s yours to make.”
For real? I looked back and forth at him and my mom. They weren’t going to try to convince me to sing at tonight’s service? Or any service? I nodded. “Well … good. Thank you.”
Dad gave me a tight hug. “We just want what’s best for you. And I guess deep down we’d always hoped you’d decide to follow in our footsteps. You have such a—”
I pulled away. “You can’t be serious.” Hadn’t they noticed that I could barely handle being in the same room as a grieving family? Had they forgotten the Vinetti incident? “I would suck at what you do. Totally.”
Dad shook his head. “You always know exactly which version of each song to sing and how to sing it. You have a natural sense of empathy. That’s something that can’t be taught in mortuary school.”
Mom nodded. “That’s a gift, too. And how you use that gift is your choice, as well.”
***
I thought school would never end. Everyone was buzzing about the concert. Even a few teachers told me they had tickets. When the last bell finally rang, Zed was waiting in the parking lot to take me downtown.
Traffic sucked, as always, so by the time we got to the 9:30 it was almost four o’clock. The rest of the band and our tech guys were unloading the van.
The club smelled like stale beer, and our voices echoed throughout the empty hall as we set up our equipment. While Zed and Bruno fussed over their sound checks, I sat on the edge of the stage and peered out. Hard to believe this huge space would soon be filled with more than a thousand people, all there to hear us play.
We holed up backstage as the manager opened the club’s doors. We had to give people a chance to hang out before the show, build some suspense. As we waited, Andrea Little showed up to do her interview. The guys all gathered around, but she asked them to step back. “Mel’s the story tonight, folks. Her first big show.”
I was prepared for her first question, the one we all knew she would ask: “This is a lot different from singing at a funeral. How does it feel?”
The truth was, it felt awesome. There would be no grieving widows to avoid, no tears, no smothering sense of regret or guilt or pain. Just a bunch of fans having a great time. But I couldn’t say that. “It’s not so different, really,” I said instead. “Music is ultimately about emotion, about making people feel a certain way, no matter what the venue. That’s what I’m here to do tonight.”
Andrea smiled appreciatively at my answer, and Zed gave me a thumbs-up sign. Image management. Maybe I was getting the hang of it after all.
Finally, it was time for the show to start. As the tech guy dimmed the bar lights and brought up the stage lights, a few people hooted and whistled, and someone in the audience shouted, “Here we go.”
My stomach felt like a tiny machine gun was going off inside.
Zed grabbed my hand and gave me a quick kiss. “You’re going to be awesome.”
Tex had warned me the stage lights would be blinding, but I had no idea. I couldn’t see a thing. The room looked like one huge, pulsing shadow. And when Jon strummed the opening notes to “Merry Jane,” the shadow exploded in a roar.
The first set flew by in a blur. The crowd sang and cheered and hollered in all the right places. I’d always imagined myself playing it cool onstage, but after the first couple of songs, I knew it was hopeless. I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face. We sounded amazing.
Just before the last song of the first set, Bruno stopped and guzzled some water. “Thank you very much,” he shouted into his mic. “We have one more song for you before the break, but first I want to introduce you to the members of the band.”
Each of the guys stepped forward and waved as Bruno called out their names. When it was my turn, he recited my intro just the way Tex had coached him. “And last but not l
east, I want you to meet our new back-up singer.” A loud cheer went up, and Bruno paused and smiled. “Many of you know her as the Funeral Singer. Ladies and gentleman, the lovely Melanie Martin.”
The pulsing shadow erupted. “Mel. Mel. Mel.”
I walked to the edge of the stage, out of the lights, where at least I could scan the crowd. The place was completely packed, a sold-out show. I recognized a bunch of faces from school but there were lots of people I’d never seen before. Toward the left, near the exit door, was a tall guy with reddish hair. Pete? It looked like him, but he turned around before I could tell for sure. I bent down and slapped the hands of a few of the fans in front of the stage and then blew a kiss up toward the balcony. A silly gesture, but they seemed to love it.
As I walked back to my mic to get ready for “White Out,” the crowd continued its chant. “Mel. Mel. Mel.”
My heart was racing, and I couldn’t help but grin. Definitely no tears. These people were having a blast. They loved me, and they wanted more.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The second set went by just as quickly as the first, and then it was time to get ready for my encore. I slipped into the dressing room backstage and changed from my jeans into one of my black dresses—one with a fitted waist and capped sleeves.
I crept to the side of the darkened stage, mic in hand. Tex had advised us not to rush our encore entrances. “You want to give the crowd time to work itself into a frenzy,” he’d said. And they had. The club was lit up with waving cell phones and the occasional lighter, and everyone was clapping and shouting. “Grime. Grime. Grime.”
My legs began to shake, just as they had that day in the cemetery. It was only a couple of months ago, but it seemed like a lifetime. I grabbed the railing to the steps at the side of the stage. My heart raced and beads of sweat formed along my hairline. The waving phones began to blur before me.
The Funeral Singer Page 13