Stealing The Show (Such Sweet Sorrow Trilogy, Book One)

9

"THAT WAS AWESOME! Lacey, most egggg-cellent!" Shoe says from the back seat where he's sitting with the mop bucket and the mop. I notice that he even went to the trouble of putting on Randy's clunky white shoes. 

Dramatical, who I have to remind myself is actually named Lacey, is riding shotgun. She's beaming. She even takes a bow in her seat.  

"Yeah, thanks," I say. "Can we give you a ride home?" 

"No fucking way," she says. "I saved your asses in there without knowing what was going on. And Shoe is dressed up in janitor clothes and has a mop bucket. I am not going home. What is going on? I'm in." 

I give Shoe a look in the rearview mirror. He has this scheming glint in his eye. 

"Lew-lew, this could be even better than we planned it. Lacey, can you fake cry?" 

"Give me a minute," she says. She turns away and covers her face with her hands. I turn back at Shoe and mouth What the fuck are you thinking? And he mouths back Trust me.  

When Lacey turns back to us, her face is red and puffy and there are real, genuine tears smeared all over her face. "Why?!! Oh, why did Lord Buckingham have to kill The Baron in cold blood?!?!"  

Fucknuts, she's dramatical. That's why she's Dramatical. But Shoe loves it. 

She still sounds like she's crying when she asks, "Okay, but can somebody please tell me what we're doing so I can get in character?" 

By the time we get to Beckman Chapel Funeral Home, where they did Paps' cremation, they're both in character. Dramatical has the waterworks going, making real-sounding, deep sobs. And Shoe is whistling and looking bored and beat down by his sucky job mopping for a living. I'm in character because I'm playing me, mostly. 

She and I get out and we walk to the door. She puts her arm around me right then and hugs in tight, so I put my arm around her. She lets out this enormous wail right when I pull open the door. 

"Hello," I say to the receptionist. "I was hoping you could help us. Our grandmother is very sick and we're afraid she may pass away soon, and my sister and I were looking for a funeral home. Our mother asked us to come here." 

Everything I say sounds totally wooden, like I'm one of those bad actors in a cheap commercial. But Dramatical saves me. 

"Grammmmmmmmyyyyyyyyyyy!" goes Lacey. She's getting slobber and snot all over my hoodie. She hugs onto me tighter.  

"I'm so sorry," the receptionist says with absolutely no emotion. What a shit job if this is something you have to deal with regularly. She says, "We have some brochures here and--" 

"No!! Noooooo!" wails Dramatical. I'm afraid she's going over the top, but the receptionist buys it. 

"There, there," she says, deadpan. She hands me a big envelope full of what are supposed to be dignified photos, of plants and bouquets and maybe some artful ironwork or a stupid fountain.  

It's the glossy, pre-packaged version of death, not the real gutsy shit that death actually is, where it gets under your skin and festers and hurts and won't go away. At least, that's how Paps' death feels to me. 

Dramatical starts to go weak in the knees and crumples to the floor. The receptionist comes around the desk and squats down to comfort her. 

Shoe takes this as his cue. He slips in with the mop bucket and mop and pushes it quickly past us and down the hall toward the back. He looks at nobody, like this is normal, something he sees everyday while he works at the funeral home. Where he's never been before.