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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.
    “I’m not planning to ask his permission,” I said, hoping my voice sounded more confident than I felt. “I’m going to tell Dad my plans, and he’ll just have to deal with it.”

CHAPTER SEVEN
    “Absolutely not.” Dad’s fork dropped onto his plate with a loud clatter, and he gave my mom his you need to back me up here look. “This would be nothing but a distraction from school, your job, chorus. Don’t you have All State coming up? You love All State. How can you compete if you’re off touring with some rock band?”
    I slumped a bit in my chair. Probably not a good time to use my I’m not asking you, I’m telling you line. “Dad, it wouldn’t be like that.” I tried to keep my voice even. Dad didn’t respond well to whining. “These guys don’t tour, or at least, they haven’t in a long time. Zed said something about a studio session and a few concert dates, but it’s all local. Anyway, we’re talking backup vocals. If I had a conflict and needed to skip a show, they’d probably never even miss me.”
    Dad picked up a chicken wing and bit into it. He chewed slowly, staring at the candles flickering in the center of the table. Either he was uber-ticked or he was thinking about it.
    “What type of rehearsal schedule do they have?” he asked, finally. “Because you may not have a way to get there. Did you think of that? You’re certainly not using either of my limos, and your mother needs the Jetta on Tuesdays and Thursdays for her yoga class, not to mention—”
    “Understood,” I said. This was a good sign. We were talking logistics. “Zed said they usually practice at Ty’s house, in that neighborhood behind Fair Lakes Mall. Worst case scenario, I could take the bus.”
    “Ty?” Dad’s face darkened. “Wasn’t he the one with the hand grenade tattooed on the side of his neck?”
    Uh oh. Tactical error. As I tried to figure out how to recover, the phone rang. I jumped up to answer. O’Hara & Sons Mortuary. Great. Nothing could put my dad in a worse mood than a call from his biggest competitor. I handed him the receiver.
    He checked the caller ID, and to my surprise, a wide grin spread across his face. “Well, if it isn’t the Archduke of Death himself. Had a feeling I’d get a call from him tonight.”
    I gave my mom a questioning look, but she just shrugged.
    Dad let the phone ring twice more before answering. “Douglas, my good man. What can I do for you this fine evening?”
    Mr. O’Hara’s angry voice boomed so loudly in response, my dad had to hold the receiver a foot away from his ear. “Gerald, what kind of dirty tricks are you up to? The Grayson family canceled their service with us this weekend, and now I see them listed on your website. This afternoon I had two pre-need cases call and transfer their paperwork over to your firm. Are you soliciting my business?”
    My dad chuckled. “Soliciting your