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away, his voice low. “Greg, this is Jerry. Let us give you a call back tomorrow. I haven’t had a chance to explain this to Melanie yet, and … yes, yes, we’ll talk tomorrow. Thanks.”
    I folded my arms across my chest. “What was that you were saying about people exploiting my gift for their own purposes?”
    Mom spoke up, her voice soft. “This isn’t like that, Mel. It’s not the same. You know your father—”
    “How is it not the same?” I turned to leave but then swiveled back around. “I’m joining The Grime. And I’m not asking you, I’m telling you.”

CHAPTER EIGHT
    I slipped down the aisle and into my regular bus seat, third from the back on the left side. As usual, I texted Lana the entire time. I figured texting made me look like less of a loser, like I had better things to do than talk to these kids. None of them ever sat with me or said a word to me.
    Our texts this morning were a continuation of our conversation last night—Lana and I had IM’d until almost midnight. She felt I was being unfair to my dad. She thought my parents were the most wonderful people in the world. No matter what they did, she’d defend them to the grave, but that’s only because her own stepfather was such an idiot. We went back and forth for about twenty minutes until I finally made the point that it didn’t matter whether my dad was being a jerk because in the final analysis, I WAS JOINING THE GRIME. That led to a marathon IM session regarding Bruno and what she should wear the first time she met him. Which was exactly what she was texting me about this morning:
    “Finally decided. Blue tank dress w/flip flops. Casual but still sexy.”
    I replied, “Excellent choice.”
    “Oof.”
    I looked up, startled. John Borden had plopped himself down next to me just as I hit “send.” John was a huge guy with a shaved head and exceptionally hairy arms. Rumor had it Virginia Tech was recruiting him to play linebacker. “Hey, Mel.” He leaned over so we were cheek-to-cheek, stuck his phone out at arm’s length and snapped a photo. “Thanks.” Just as quickly as he’d sat down, John was gone, showing off the shot to his friends a few rows up.
    My face grew warm as I looked around. All eyes—and a bunch of phones and cameras—were trained on me. Holy crap. By tonight, I’d be on the Facebook page of every kid on the bus.
    ***
    “That’ll be two hours of detention.” Ms. White slipped Trey Jackson’s cell phone into her desk drawer, making him my fifth and final casualty of the day.
    She continued our pre-calc lesson as if nothing had happened, but I could feel everyone’s eyes on me, and I could hear them whispering. It had been the same way in Spanish III, and AP World, and English Lit, and PE and AP Chem. Not to mention the lunchroom and hallways. Turned out the primary difference between being the Freaky Funeral Girl and the Funeral Singer was that I now had zero privacy. This afternoon a freshman had even stuck a camera over the bathroom stall. She became casualty number four, the only one I’d snitched on myself.
    I tried to concentrate on the quadratic equation on the board, but it was no use. It was more than the stares. I was nervous about this afternoon. As soon as chorus was over, I was supposed to go to Ty’s for my first rehearsal with The Grime. I still hadn’t told anyone other than Lana about it, mainly because I couldn’t believe it was happening. What if they changed their minds?
    When the last bell finally rang, I stuffed my notebook into my backpack, shot out the classroom door and made a beeline to my locker.
    I arrived to find a crowd of kids waiting for me.
    “Hey, Mel.” Ryan Dent stepped forward. He was a hard-body soccer jock, totally not my type, but I had to admit he was hot. And he knew my name. He probably thought it stood for “Melody,” but still.
    “What’s up?” I tried to sound casual.
    He held up his cell phone. “How about a shot?”
    “Right. Sure.” Did