“You must be a huge fan to know all their songs so well.”
“What do you mean?” It was true, but I hadn’t said anything about that.
“He said you went up to him after the funeral and told him you knew every single word to every single Grime song. That’s what gave him the idea to ask you to sing backup.”
I went up to him? Okay, so maybe the explanation for all this was something really simple. Like maybe Zed Logan was a compulsive freaking liar. I nodded. “Right, sure. I … whatever.”
Andrea’s eyes narrowed. “I seem to recall specifically asking you what you were doing here tonight, and you failed to mention this rather significant piece of news.”
“Yeah, I was—”
“Listen, Mel,” she interrupted. “There are lots of talented people in this world who never make it big. And do you know why that is?”
I shook my head.
“It’s because no one discovers them. You, however, have overcome that hurdle, because I discovered you. Without me, you’d be just another pretty face waiting for the right people to notice her—stuck in your small-time job with all that potential going to waste.” Andrea’s voice cracked on the word “potential,” and I got the feeling she wasn’t talking about me anymore.
“You’re right.” I decided not to remind her that she hadn’t even managed to get my name right in her report, or mention the fact that her clip had the fewest views of all the videos online now. No sense ticking her off even more, and anyway, much as I hated to admit it, she had a point. “I’m grateful for what you’ve done, Andrea, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about joining the band, but it’s … it’s complicated.”
Andrea nodded. “Complicated. Of course it is.” She took a step toward me. “Let me tell you something. What you do with your fame from here on out is up to you. I hope you make it. I really do. Just don’t forget who gave you your big break. And don’t ever hold back on me again.”
I nodded. “Right.”
Andrea glanced at her watch and squeezed my arm. “Good girl. Now, I need to run. If we make it back to the station by seven-thirty, post-production should have this ready in time for the eleven o’clock edition. Watch for it.”
I avoided Zed’s eyes as the crew packed their cameras and lighting equipment into the van. What was I supposed to say to him? Thanks so much for hiring me to sing at Mick’s service. And by the way, did you notice that the sky was green today?
Zed walked over to me as the van pulled away. “Great job. I have a feeling that clip’s going to end up in syndication.”
“Syndication?”
“Yeah. Stations all across the country will pick it up. Maybe even the national news. And of course, I’m sure it’ll do well on YouTube.”
Oh, great. Because we wouldn’t want his lies to be confined to Channel 4’s viewing area. I pulled myself up to sit on the porch railing and rubbed my temples.
“You okay?” Zed asked.
“I don’t know. I’m—” I took a deep breath and looked him in the eyes. “Why did you lie?”
Zed flinched. “Lie?”
What, he thought I wouldn’t notice? Or care? “Yeah, lie. About Mick’s service, about … me.”
Zed sat down beside me and placed his hand over mine on the railing. His palm was warm and dry, not cold and sweaty like mine would have been if I’d just fed the world a big bowlful of Never Happened. “I’m sorry, Mel,” he said. “I know you’re new to this. The thing is, it’s not really lying. It’s … image management.”
Image management? I tried to pull my hand away, but Zed tightened his grip. “It’s better if people think we discovered you before this whole thing with the videos. You don’t want people to assume the only reason you’re singing with us is because you’re on YouTube, do you?”
“But that is how you found me, right? You said you saw me on the news.”
“Well, sure, but nobody needs to know that. I mean, otherwise, it might seem a bit … opportunistic of us to sign you on.”
I nodded. “Opportunistic. Good word.”
Zed leaned toward me. My heart fluttered as for one strange, wonderful, horrible moment I thought he might kiss me. Instead, he spoke, his voice almost a whisper. “It’s not like that. See, the truth is actually closer to what I told Andrea. Your voice is so genuine, it reached out and grabbed me and made me want to hire you. Where and when I heard it doesn’t matter.”
I bit my lip. “For real?”
“Yes, for real. Your voice … it’s like a soothing drizzle and a thrashing downpour and a booming thunderstorm all wrapped into one unbelievable sound. A guy could lose himself in a voice like that.” Zed’s voice cracked and he pulled away a little, but he continued holding my hand. “The longer you’re in this business, the more you’ll understand. People assume the worst and start all sorts of crazy, screwed-up rumors. I just … massaged a few of the details so the real truth gets out there.”
I allowed myself to relax. So there was a simple explanation. Simple and … awesome.
The sun had long ago disappeared behind the mansion across the street and the air had taken on a chill, but I felt warm sitting so close to Zed. I had the brief thought that now might be a good time to ask why he and the band had skipped Mick’s burial and what exactly they were doing while I was filling in for them, but I pushed it away. I didn’t want to ruin the moment.
I’d wait for a better time to ask. And when that time came, I was sure he’d have a simple explanation for that, too.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Image management? Are you kidding?” Lana’s tone was half annoyed, half amused. She’d seen the report on the late news and was waiting for me at my locker the next morning.
“I know, I thought the same thing at first. But it made total sense the way Zed explained it. If we don’t manage our own image, someone else will do it for us—and then it might not be pretty.”
Lana gave me a poke. “Look at you, with your we and us and our image. Soon you’ll be ordering the roadies to remove the black jellybeans from your snack bar.”
I laughed. “Shut up. Besides, the black ones are my favorites. It’s the yellow ones they’ll have to pick out.”
“Excuse me. Melanie? Could you sign the back of my shirt?”
I turned to see a girl from my gym class, Annika Harper. She was wearing a Grime t-shirt.
“Sure.” I took the marker from her hand as she turned around. I had a shirt exactly like this at home, signed by Jon Marks. One night last winter, Lana and I had waited for hours by the back door of Jaxx in the freezing cold in the hopes of catching the band as they came out. Well, more specifically, in the hopes of catching Zed and Bruno as they came out, but Jon was the only one who did. I remembered feeling silly being such a groupie, asking for his autograph, but there was no way I was going home with nothing but a pair of semi-frostbitten feet that night.
That shirt still hung in a corner in my room. For some reason, it hadn’t occurred to me until now that I could get the whole rest of the band to sign it. And that my signature belonged on it, too.
“Just anywhere on the back,” Annika said, tapping her shoulder impatiently.
“Sorry. Hold still.” I scribbled my name across the top. It was harder to write on cotton than I’d have thought.
As Annika walked away, Lana smiled at me. “It just hit you, didn’t it?” She knew me too well.
“Weird, huh?” I was part of The Grime. I wasn’t with the band, I was the band.
The first bell rang, and Lana took off down the hall. “Still waiting to meet Bruno,” she called over her shoulder.
“Soon, I promise!”
For the next few days, my life was like a carnival ride. The centrifical force of my rising fame shoved me against a wall and everything flew by in a blur, out of my control. My YouTube views ran well into the millions. One of the late-night shows aired a montage of them along with a top-ten list of “Songs You Don’t Want the Funeral Singer to Sing at Your Funeral.” It was act
ually pretty funny for funeral humor. Number one was Elvis Costello’s “Tramp the Dirt Down.”
My Facebook fan page went crazy, with all kinds of rumors about me joining this band or that TV show or dating such and such celebrity—some hot, some not, and some way, way too old. Johnny Depp? Seriously? I finally posted to say that (a) I wasn’t dating anyone and (b) I’d joined The Grime. That started a huge argument about whether The Grime “deserved” me. I noticed the band had added my photo to their group page, which nearly tripled in fans after my announcement.
On Friday, The Washington Post ran a huge story, “Rising from the Depths,” complete with a color photo of me leaning against the Aegean Bronze in my dad’s casket selection room. I’d tried to convince the photographer to do the shoot on the balcony, but she insisted that having caskets in the background would “really tell the tale.” Which I guess it did, since the reporter’s “tale” was all about a girl whose life was a Big Fat Creep Show until she somehow managed to stumble into stardom. My favorite line was a highly out-of-context quote where I called funeral dirges my “one true passion.” Could I sound any darker? I was beginning to appreciate Zed’s image-management philosophy more and more.
By the time I got to school Friday morning, I couldn’t walk three steps without having someone stop me in the hall to ask me to autograph their notebook or backpack or clothes. One guy even brought in a huge poster he’d made using a photo of me singing at Mick’s service. He’d touched up my face and hair and altered the background so I looked more like a fashion model in a steamy rainforest than a singer in a cemetery, and I had the disturbing suspicion he’d lowered the neckline on my dress a couple of inches, too.
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?”
The Funeral Singer Page 6
