Finally, Mrs. Nolan spoke again. “Anyway, I just wanted you to know that the Mick Nolan you read about in those trashy papers wasn’t the Michael we knew. He was a beautiful boy, with a beautiful heart. If only … I never understood … those damned drugs … ” Her voice cracked and faded, and she closed her eyes.
Oh, no. Just when I thought we were going to get through this. I grabbed a tissue off my mother’s desk and handed it to her.
Mom and Dad always talked about the five stages of grief. They said the funeral was supposed to help people get through the first stage, denial—to see with their own eyes that the person was dead and buried. But I’d heard enough eulogies to know that while funerals could help people accept the fact that their loved ones had died, they couldn’t always help them accept the way they’d lived.
“I wish I’d known Mick,” I said finally. “Sounds like he was an awesome guy.”
Mrs. Nolan patted my knee. “Thank you.” She took a deep breath and gave me a thin, wavering smile as she dabbed at her eyes. We sat again in silence, until at last the office door swung open and my mother breezed in carrying a manila folder.
“You’re back.” I stood slowly, grabbing the back of the chair for balance. “I’d better go. It was nice meeting you, Mrs. Nolan. You’ll be in my thoughts and prayers.”
I shot my mom a look, shut the door behind me and sank into the settee. Man. I had to have the world’s craziest parents. Between my dad embalming bodies and my mom dealing with … that.
I placed my head in my hands. This was the first time I’d had such close contact with a mourner, a real mourner, since Annalee Vinetti died. I shuddered at the memory.
Annalee was twenty-two years old and had just graduated from college when a drunk driver rammed into her brand new Mini Cooper on Route 29. Because of the injuries from the accident, the family held a closed-casket ceremony, but they placed photos of her all around the chapel. She was beautiful.
Annalee was six years ahead of me, but she’d sung in the Edison High School Chorus and was an alto just like me. For the final song of the service, the family requested “Wishing on a Star”—not the Beyonce version but the original Rose Royce composition. Apparently Annalee had performed that song her senior year. I was never so nervous. It was an amazing song, and I really wanted to do it—and Annalee—justice. I started out strong, with just the right amount of emotion, but when I reached the end of the sixth verse, the part about “hopin’ on all the days to come and days to go,” my voice cracked so badly, I had to stop.
Twenty-two. Twenty-freaking-two. What were her hopes? What would her “days to come” have brought? I stifled a sob and peered down. I couldn’t finish. My dad faded the music out. The entire chapel was in tears.
I should have slipped away then, but I wasn’t thinking straight. Instead, I sat and watched the rest of the service. Afterward, as I crept past the chapel door, Annalee’s mother stopped me. Her face was etched with pain, but something in her eyes flickered as she reached up and stroked my cheek. “Beautiful, so beautiful. You’re so much like my Annalee.”
I froze. I looked nothing like Annalee. Maybe she meant I sang like her.
One stroke. Two strokes. Three strokes. Just when I thought she’d finished, Mrs. Vinetti grabbed me in a hug so tight, it nearly knocked the air out of me. The smell of her perfume made my head swim, and that was it. I saw black.
When I came to a few minutes later, the room was in a state of chaos. Apparently I’d set off a chain reaction. Mrs. Vinetti had dropped me to the floor and passed out on top of me. Annalee’s older sister had thrown up on both of us. And one of Annalee’s uncles had begun shouting at Dad as if the whole thing were somehow his fault.
“Are you okay, honey?”
I jumped at the sound of my dad’s voice. I was back in the hallway again, sitting on the settee, but I could smell the mixture of Mrs. Vinetti’s perfume and puke as if it still clung to me. Or was that the lilies?
“Yes, I’m fine. I just … ” I stood and hugged him.
“What’s wrong?” He gave my back a few tentative pats.
I pulled away. “Nothing. I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t be down here in my jeans. I’ll see you later.”
I bolted down the hallway and through the lobby, waving goodbye to Dawn as I passed her desk. I flung open the front door, but as my feet hit the porch, I stopped short and gasped. Because standing there, with my backpack in his hands, was Zed Logan.
CHAPTER FIVE
Dressed in jeans and a faded Billabong T-shirt, Zed somehow managed to look even hotter than he had the other day in his suit. He pointed at me. “Melody, right?”
“Right. I mean, wrong. I mean … Why are you holding my backpack?” Brilliant.
Zed grinned and handed it to me. “Just admiring the sticker on the front pocket.” Of course. My Grime sticker. The one that shouted: High School Fan Girl! “So. Are you Melody or aren’t you?”
“It’s Melanie, actually. With an ‘n.’”
“Then Melody’s what, like, a stage name?”
A stage name? Seriously? Zed Logan thought I’d have a stage name? Zed Logan knew I existed? Zed Logan was here in the flesh, on my front porch, talking to me as though it were the most normal thing in the world for him to … talk to me?
I lowered myself onto a bench.
“You okay?” Zed crouched down in front of me, his deep brown eyes level with mine. For a moment I thought he was going to take my hand.
I took a deep breath and blinked hard. “Sure. I’m sorry. What were you saying?”
“I was asking whether Melody was a stage name.” He said this slowly, as if he were talking to a four-year-old.
“Right. No, that was a mistake. Channel 4 got it wrong. I’m Melanie. Just Melanie.”
Zed straightened back up. “Oh. It would be a great stage name, though. For a singer.”
Okay, this conversation was hovering somewhere between surreal and bizarre. I was pretty sure I wasn’t dreaming, but I bit my lip just in case. Ouch. Definitely not a dream. The shot of pain cleared my mind, and I remembered my manners. “I’m really sorry about Mick.”
Zed’s face clouded over. “Thanks. It’s been a rough few weeks.” He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head as if to wipe away the memories. “Do you have a few minutes? There’s something I want to ask you.”
My heart raced. Zed Logan wanted to ask me something? Um, gee, let me check my calendar. “Sure.” I said, motioning toward the door. “Want to come inside?”
Zed raised an eyebrow. “In there?”
Right. Not everyone felt comfortable hanging out in a funeral home, but it was starting to get chilly and I was pretty sure my parents would freak if they came home and found me alone in the apartment with a guy.
“It’s okay,” I said. “We’ll go into the arrangements office. It’s just like any normal office. Well, except for the keepsakes, but those aren’t gross or anything. In fact, they’re really pretty. And it should be nice and quiet so we can talk. Since you said you wanted to talk.”
Why was I babbling? I’d never been a babbler. Zed no doubt considered me a complete idiot, but he followed me into the lobby. Dawn’s eyes widened when she saw us, but she smiled and said nothing.
I rushed Zed into the office before my Dad could spot us and motioned for him to sit. “Soda?” I opened the mini-fridge and pulled out a Diet Coke for myself.
He shook his head. “I’m good. What did you say this room was again?”
“The arrangements office. Where people … you know … make the funeral arrangements.” I grabbed a bottled water, set it in front of Zed and sat down across from him. My hands shook as I pulled the tab on my can. “Didn’t you meet with my Dad in here for … ?”
Zed took a swig of his water and shook his head. “No, Bruno took care of all that. I was in charge of exactly two things: the printed programs and the limo.”
The limo. I flashed back to that day, when I’d glimpsed it behind the cem
etery trees. Why hadn’t the band members made it to the gravesite? Should I ask? No, that would be rude. I sipped my soda and said nothing.
Zed slumped back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. “You were right,” he said finally. “It is quiet in here.”
“Yep,” I answered. “Dead quiet.”
Wait. Did I say that out loud?
Zed stared at me blankly for a moment, but then a smile crept across his face and he groaned. “That’s bad.”
“I know. Sorry, but sometimes I can’t help myself. I get so many lame funeral jokes: ‘I hear people are dying to meet your dad,’ or ‘Your dad’s always the last guy to let someone down.’”
Zed shook his head and stared down at his hands. “People shouldn’t say things like that. Funerals are serious.”
Ouch. Zed was right. I shouldn’t sit here joking so soon after he’d lost Mick. I was about to apologize, but he glanced up at me, a glint in his eyes. “Deadly serious.”
Now it was my turn to groan. “See what I mean? It’s too easy.”
Zed stood and walked over to a counter filled with jewelry. He picked up a sterling silver bracelet and twirled it around on his finger. “I saw you on the news. How’d you learn to sing like that?”
“I don’t know. My parents say I started singing before I even knew how to talk, so they signed me up for voice lessons when I was four. Plus I take chorus at school.”
Zed shook his head. “I’m not asking how you learned to sing.” He walked over and leaned down, his face just a few inches from mine. “I want to know how you learned to sing like that. That big, bluesy style. It’s not exactly something you expect to hear out of a hundred-and-ten-pound white chick from suburbia.”
“Oh … well … ” I stammered. “Nobody really taught me the style. That’s just how I feel it. And, you know, ‘Amazing Grace’ is especially soulful, so—”
“Do you play the piano?” Zed interrupted.
“Piano? No. Unless you count ‘Chopsticks.’”
Zed straightened. “Hmm. Too bad.”
Too bad? What was this about?
Zed walked back to his seat and sat down, still playing with the bracelet. “What’s all the jewelry for? Do people buy it to wear to the funerals?”
I shook my head. “No, they’re for afterward. They’re keepsakes. Here, let me show you.”
Zed placed the bracelet in my outstretched hand. His fingertips lightly brushed my palm, sending a thrill all the way up my arm. I unscrewed one end and showed him the empty cavity inside. “See?”
He frowned. “I don’t get it.”
“You hide a lock of hair in here, or if it’s a cremation you can include some of the ashes. So you can ‘Keep Your Loved One With You Wherever You Go,’” I said, quoting my dad’s catalog.
“Sounds kind of morbid.” Zed walked back to the counter and began playing with the pendants and rings, trying to figure out where the hiding places were on each piece. He seemed to be stalling, but why?
I took a deep breath. “So, you said you wanted to ask me something?”
Zed dropped one of the rings, and it made a small, tinny clatter against the counter. He picked it up and continued to examine it as he spoke. “Right. It’s about your singing. You’re really good, and so … I’m looking for a singer.”
The air in the room grew very still, the gentle hum of the mini-fridge the only sound.
“You want to hire me?”
Zed turned to face me. “Yeah. If you’re up for it.”
The poor guy. Planning another funeral, so soon after Mick’s. “Gosh, I had no idea.” I shook my head. “I am so sorry.”
An expression of confusion and disappointment passed over Zed’s face. “We would pay you, you know. Not much at first, but if things go the way I hope they’ll go—”
“No, no. I didn’t mean I wouldn’t do it. Of course I’ll do it. You need to talk to my dad first, though. On our way out, I’ll introduce you to Dawn and she can help you set up an appointment.”
Zed gave a slow nod. “Okay. You mean because you’re a minor?”
“Well, no. Because he’s the funeral director. He sets the schedules.”
“Sets what schedules? Are we talking about the same thing here? I’m asking if you want to sing backup with The Grime.”
No way. I grabbed onto the edge of the table in front me. It felt cool and solid. I needed that. “Me? Sing backup? With you?”
Zed laughed and nodded. “Yes. You. Sing backup. With us.”
I bit my lip again. Wow. Still not dreaming.
CHAPTER SIX
As Zed’s car pulled away, I reached into my backpack for my cell phone. Wait until Lana heard. She’d freak.
I’d shut down my phone just a few hours ago, before chorus, but already it showed six text messages and three missed calls, all from Lana. I scrolled through the messages as I climbed up the outdoor stairway to our apartment above the funeral home.
OMG. Call me.
Check ur utube hits. Wild.
Where r u?
What is the use of having a cell phone if it’s never freaking on?!?
Call. IM. Text. Let me know ur alive.
So? What? Too famous for me now?
I smiled. Lana was such drama queen. If she thought an eight-second clip of me singing on YouTube made me famous, wait until she heard my news. I dialed her number, but it went straight to voice mail, and I left a message.
I let myself in and went to my room to power up my laptop. As I waited for it to boot up, I lit the strawberry-vanilla candle on my dresser. Anything to get the smell of lilies, Mrs. Vinetti’s perfume and vomit out of my head.
Me, a back-up singer for The Grime. I still couldn’t quite believe it. I glanced at my phone. Come on, Lana. I had to tell someone about this before my head exploded.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
I went to the front door and glanced out the window. It was Lana, and she looked frantic.
I opened the door. “Are you okay?”
“Have you seen it? Have you been on YouTube?” Lana ran past me toward my bedroom.
“I was just about to check it out. What’s going on?”
Lana said nothing as she brought up the news clip.
What? This couldn’t be. I sunk slowly into my desk chair. Two million views? Last night it’d had less than a thousand. “I didn’t realize Mick’s funeral would be such a huge deal. They haven’t been on tour or anything for—”
And then I saw them. On the right-hand side of the page appeared a string of videos: “Melody Martin,” “Melanie Martin,” “Funeral Girl,” “The Funeral Singer.” All showed freeze frames of me singing. I scrolled through them—seven in all—and clicked on each one. Most were shot at funerals, though one was taken during my solo at a chorus concert.
Why on earth would people be posting these? And an even better question: Why would people be watching them?
“You’ve gone viral. Can you believe it?” Lana grabbed my shoulders from behind and shook me. “This is so cool!”
“Cool? More like weird. Why would a million people want to watch me sing ‘Danny Boy’?”
“Who knows? Why did that video of that big, fat beagle howling ‘God Bless America’ become such a huge hit last week? Nobody knows why these things happen. But it is happening. To you. This is so awesome. So freaking awesome. And check this out.” Lana nudged me out of the way, logged onto Facebook and brought up a page with a huge photo of me and the heading: THE FUNERAL SINGER.
“Whoa. I have a group page? And thirty thousand people like it?”
“Look at these comments: Fantastic voice … How can I get her to sing at my funeral? … Almost makes me wish I were dead (in a good way).”
I laughed. “In a good way. That’s hilarious.”
Lana grabbed the back of my chair and swiveled me around to face her. “Can you believe this?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know what to think. It’s so … so … ” My voice trailed off. I felt as thou
gh I were in a heavy fog trying to make out the road ahead of me. How had this happened? What did it mean?
Lana held up her hands and framed my face. “Melanie Martin: Funeral Singer.” Her voice was like a cold wind blowing a clearing into the fog.
I frowned. “Funeral Singer? I don’t know if I like that. I’ve been trying to shake the funeral image forever. It creeps people out.”
Lana sighed. “Not this again.”
“You don’t know what it’s like, Lana … the way people look at me, having kids call me Morticia.”
“Mel, no one has called you that since the seventh grade. You need to get over it.”
“Four words: Ricky Valasquez. Freshman assembly.”
Lana snorted. “Three words: We’re juniors now.”
“Whatever.” Lana had a point, of course, but she’d never understand how it felt to be me. She could make friends with anyone, anytime, anywhere, and she had guys asking her out all the time. Of course, most of them were jerks—she was a total jerk magnet—but still.
“Let’s concentrate on what’s really important here.” Lana swiveled my chair back so I was facing my screen. “You, my BFF forever and ever and ever, are famous. Check this out. Even Wiz Khalifa likes you.”
“Wiz? For real? That is pretty badass. This day has been completely craz—Oh, my gosh!” I almost knocked over my chair as I jumped up. “I almost forgot to tell you.” I pointed to my bed. “Sit. You are not going to believe this. I have more insane news.”
I told Lana all about Zed’s visit. After a major squeal session and making me promise that (a) I wouldn’t forget her or any of the other “little people” in my life when I became a big rock star and (b) I would introduce her to Bruno at the first possible opportunity, Lana asked the question that had been tugging at the back of my mind ever since Zed left: “Do you think your dad’ll let you do it?”
I sighed. “Right. My dad.”
No, I didn’t think he’d let me do it. But then again, maybe this wasn’t his call. All my life, I’d been singing where my parents wanted me to sing: in the school chorus, in the church choir, and here at the funeral home. Not that I minded. I loved singing at all those places. But I’d turned seventeen last month. Maybe it was time for me to take the next step, move on to something bigger.
The Funeral Singer Page 3
