But that’s okay. Because we’re on a break.
And I’m sleeping with his best friend, anyway.
“Um,” I say. My voice reverberates throughout the church, sounding amazingly loud. I unfold the piece of paper Mom gave me. “A reading from the holy Gospel according to John.” What’s my gynecologist doing here? I mean, it’s true she’s Mom’s gynecologist too. And maybe Rose’s and Sarah’s also, for all I know. But did she know Gran? Was she Gran’s gynecologist? Did Gran go to a gynecologist? That is totally weird. I never thought about my grandmother’s vagina before. I don’t want to be thinking about my grandmother’s vagina. Not here, at her funeral. In a church. While I’m doing a reading from the Bible.
“Jesus said to his disciples… ”
Wow, my voice sounds loud. Why am I reading about Jesus? Gran couldn’t have cared less about Jesus. I mean, if there’s any justice in the world, she’s with Jesus now, but chances are, she’s with Elvis, like Chaz said, in hell. I mean, if there is a hell. And if Elvis went there, which I’m not saying he did. Hell probably is a lot more interesting than heaven. Less boring. I bet Gran would rather be in hell.
“‘Do not let your hearts be troubled.’”
I’d rather be in hell. I mean, if Elvis is there. And Shakespeare. And Einstein. And Gran. And Chaz.
“You know what?”
Oh God. Everyone is looking at me. Mom looks like she’s about to have a coronary. Oh well. She shouldn’t have asked me to do a reading. She had to have known this was going to happen.
“My heart is troubled,” I say, laying down the sheet of paper with the Gospel of John written on it. “It’s troubled because I don’t think any of this is what my grandmother would really have wanted to hear at her funeral. Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s very nice,” I assure Father Jim, who is looking alarmed (although I can’t help noticing that the altar boys seem delighted by this unorthodox turn of events—beneath their crisp white robes, their sneakers are filthy). “I just don’t think anything that’s been said so far actually has anything to do with my grandmother. Which is why I took the liberty of preparing an alternative reading earlier this morning.” From the pocket of the black vintage jacket I’m wearing, I pull another slip of paper, on which I’ve penned a set of lyrics. “This is from a song I know my grandmother actually did enjoy. Don’t worry—I’m not going to sing it.” I see my sisters visibly relax. “But I think it’s important that we honor the memory of those we’ve lost by actually mentioning a few things they really did enjoy… and this is something I know Gran really did like. So, Gran… this is for you. Wherever you are.”
And then, unfolding the slip of paper, I read: “‘Season ticket, on a one-way ride… ’”
I risk a brief glance up. I notice that the assembled congregation are staring at me, most with open mouths. My mother, in particular, looks stunned. Dad, however, has a slight smile on his face. It grows larger as I read this next part:
“‘Nobody’s gonna slow me down… I’m on the highway to hell.’”
Now a few more smiles have joined Dad’s. Angelo is smiling too. So is Chuck. Even Sarah has cracked a small one.
But that’s pretty much it.
Except for Chaz. Chaz is grinning broadly. And giving me a thumbs-up.
I grin back at him.
“Thank you,” I say demurely to the parishioners. And then I step down from the lectern.
“That was quite an interesting reading you gave,” my former gynecologist, Dr. Lee, says an hour later, once we’ve all returned to my parents’ house for refreshments after the funeral.
“Thanks,” I say. I’m holding a plastic plate, on which I’ve piled as many different kinds of cookies as I could find. Thanks to the number of concerned friends and neighbors who’ve dropped off baked goods in the past couple of days, this turns out to be quite a lot of cookies.
I am not sharing these cookies with others. I am eating them all myself.
“Was that the Kinks?” Dr. Lee wants to know.
“AC/DC,” I say.
“Oh, of course,” Dr. Lee says. “How silly of me.”
She drifts away, and Chaz ambles over to take her place. He’s holding a plastic plate containing two different kinds of samosas, Korean barbecue, chicken satay, and cold sesame noodles. I can tell he’s been visiting the table where my dad’s grad students have plopped down their offerings.
“How’s it going?” he wants to know.
“Great,” I say. “My gynecologist liked it.”
“That’s two,” he says.
“Two?”
“I liked it,” he says, gnawing on chicken satay.
“Oh,” I say. “Right. Dad liked it too. And Chuck and Angelo. And Sarah, I think.”
“So five,” Chaz says. “Out of two hundred. Not bad.”
“So when do you think we can get out of here?”
“I was going to ask you the exact same question.”
“Give it another fifteen minutes,” I say. “Mom hasn’t had a chance to really ream me out yet.”
“Okay. And we’re sticking around for that why?”
“To make her feel better?”
“You’re a really good daughter,” Chaz says. “Have I told you that you look hot in that skirt?”
“About twenty times.”
“You look hot in that skirt.”
“Twenty-one.”
“You’d look hotter with it off. You know what you’d look hottest in? One of those really tiny Knight’s Inn bath towels.”
“Make that ten minutes,” I say to him.
“I’ll go make sure no one’s blocked in the rental car,” he says and abandons his plastic plate.
Not ten seconds after he’s gone, Sarah and Rose corner me by the piano that all three of us loathed being forced to learn to play (and none of us succeeded in learning to play well).
“All right, spill,” Rose says. “What’s the deal with Shari’s ex? And don’t try to deny there’s something going on. You reek of cheap motel shampoo.”
“He can’t take his eyes off you” is Sarah’s more charitable contribution to the conversation.
“I don’t know,” I say to them. “Look, I don’t have time for this. I have to go get reamed out by Mom.”
“Mom’s got a migraine,” Rose says. “She’s in her room with a wet washcloth over her face. You already killed her. So just give it up. What are you going to do about that Luke guy? Isn’t he, like, Chaz’s best friend?”
“Are they going to fight over you?” Sarah wants to know. It’s been her dream since seeing West Side Story that two guys might one day fight over her.
“I really don’t want to talk about it,” I say, stuffing a whole chocolate chip cookie into my mouth so that, no matter what they say next, I won’t be able to talk about it.
“Does this mean you’re not getting married in France?” Sarah wants to know. “Because I was going to take some French lessons over at the Y. But if I don’t have to, let me know. Because there are way cuter guys in the Italian class.”
“If you think Mom’s dead now,” Rose says, “wait until she finds out you’re not marrying this Luke guy. She’s already told everybody in her scrapbooking class that you’re engaged to a prince. This will totally finish her off. What AC/DC lyrics are you going to read out loud at her funeral, I wonder?”
I cannot speak, due to all the cookie in my mouth. This, I think, can only be a good thing.
“Lizzie?” I turn my head and see Shari standing there. My heart sinks. Not that I’m not happy to see her. I’m just not looking forward to what I know is about to follow.
I swallow. “Hi, Share,” I say. “How are you?”
“Oh, fine,” Shari says, eyeing my sisters with distaste. “I was wondering if I could have a word with you—alone—for a moment.”
“No problem,” I say. But of course it’s a problem. I can tell from the expression on Shari’s face that I’m not going to like whatever she’s got to say.
I follow her up the stairs to my old room—which has been turned into a guest room—nonetheless, and sink down onto my old bed, trying to avoid the accusing stares of the Madame Alexander dolls my mom’s parents sent me over the years. Jo March looks particularly disappointed in me as she glares down at me from my childhood bookshelf.