Page 16 of Concerted Chaos

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Thedayofthe funeral is sunny and bright. I wish it were raining. I wish the skies opened up and wept down upon us, demonstrating that the entire universe is mourning the loss of one of the greatest lights to ever shine upon our poor, dull, Jaceless planet.

Okay, maybe I’m being a tad bit overdramatic.

The funeral itself is not small, but it is private. That’s what they call it when access is limited to invitees whose names are on a curated list and every guest there is someone who actually knew the deceased. Jace’s personal assistant handled all the details. Making his final arrangements was the last thing she’ll have to do for him. I imagine she’ll retire now; Devon told me she inherited twenty percent of Jace’s fortune, though it hasn’t been announced yet.

I ride there in a limo with Powell, Devon, Brixley, Mason, and Xander. Xander tried to sit next to me, but Powell shoved his way in between us, over Xander’s protests. Ten blocks from the ceremony site, we start seeing the fans. They’re lined up along the sides of the road, some wearing black, others dressed in band shirts from Last Barons or JaDed. Most are holding signs demonstrating their sadness or love or both.

“Lots of people,” Devon observes. I think he’s on drugs. There’s no way he can be so calm otherwise. His face is slack and his eyes are dead.

“He was loved,” Brixley replies, resting her hand on his thigh. It’s a minor gesture, but for her that’s open affection. They are the least publicly demonstrative of any couple I know. Half the time I forget they’re even together. They’re a perfect match though. Both are beautiful, brilliant introverts who manage their fame well and trust each other. Who needs more than that?

I carefully try to wipe away a tear with the tips of my fingers. Brixley’s stylist did my hair and makeup. Everything on my face is supposedly waterproof, but I don’t want to run any risk of showing up with streaks running down my cheeks. Powell passes me a silk handkerchief from his pocket.

“Seriously?” I ask. “Why are you carrying this around?”

“I always take handkerchiefs to funerals. Dad taught me, remember?”

I give him a sad smile. Cancer stole his mother when he was a child. According to Hank, at her funeral he was miserable and acting out, as ten-year-old half-orphans are wont to do. In order to distract him, his father gave him a stack of silk handkerchiefs and told him he had the very important task of helping anyone who was crying. If he saw so much as a single tear, he was to pull one out and offer it. The assignment made Powell feel like he was contributing and gave him something to keep his mind off his own loss. Even after all these years, he still thinks that he must continue the tradition at every funeral he attends.

The problem, however, with him distributing fabric to damsels in distress is what the heck am I supposed to do with it afterward? I carefully dabbed at my eyes, now what? I’m not throwing away barely used silk, but what woman has pockets in her funeral dress? Not me. I end up tucking the square into my cleavage, and unfortunately make eye contact with Xander just as I finish, and he winks. Yuck, he had been staring at my boobs.

Security is keeping the media off the grounds of the funeral home, so the limo is able to drop us off at the door without the Barons and Brixley having to run the photographer gauntlet. People are milling about in small groups outside. I spot our parents, so Powell and I go to greet them.

“How’s Devon?” Mom asks right away as she hugs me. She knows how much harder this is for him than for the rest of us.

“Drugged up,” Powell replies. “Xanax, I think.”

“He’ll get through this,” Mom says. She is close with all the Last Barons—she was the nurse who traveled with them on their world tour, and she treated them like they were all her sons. Even Xander. Heck, even Mason, and he was the wild one back then. My mom swears he was responsible for half of her gray hairs. The other half, she claims, are my fault. If they even exist. She’s been dying her hair for nearly half a decade, so I have no way of knowing.

“We all will, together,” Hank adds. He puts an arm around my shoulders, and I lean into him for support. He’s the best of all possible stepfathers. I’m so glad he and Mom met, fell in love, and married. My life would have been so much emptier without him and Powell in it.

“Shall we go in?” Powell, ever the gentleman, holds out his arm to escort Mom, and I follow with Hank. We’re seated in the front, with the remaining Last Barons and their family members. Mason’s parents are missing—they are playing with their new grandbaby on the other side of the world. They did send an enormous flower arrangement and a generous charitable donation though.

Jace’s folks are also notably absent. They were estranged after having stolen from their son during the height of Last Barons fame, then suing Jace for more when the first JaDed album went platinum. The lawsuit was dismissed, of course, but the hard feelings were not. No surprise they aren’t welcome at the funeral, though I did see them crying their eyes out on television saying how much they missed their beloved son. I’m sure they got paid handsomely for those interviews too.

Devon delivers the eulogy. When it’s his turn to speak, Brixley pats his back gently. He stands, and as he walks to the front of the room, a change comes over him. Gone is the zoned-out zombie from the limo. He straightens, squares his shoulders, and by the time he is standing behind the microphone facing the crowd, he is once again a competent superstar, ready to perform for the masses.

“For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Devon Malloy,” he says to the crowd. Powell snorts out a laugh but tries to camouflage it as a cough. This is a room full of music industry insiders. Everybody knows exactly who Devon is—if they don’t, then they’re at the wrong funeral.

“I met Jace over fifteen years ago, at the final round of the Last Barons of Sound auditions. Thirteen of us had been flown out to compete for five spots. Jace was the first to perform, and from the moment we saw him onstage, every person in the room knew there were only four spaces left. He moved on that stage like he was born there, and his voice . . . well, you’ve all heard how Beautiful and Stunning“—Oh, no! He’s using Last Baron’s song titles in the eulogy. Mason is already struggling to keep a straight face. This might send him over the edge.—“it was. And the way he danced, with his Long Long Legs, it made everyone’s Heart Beat in Sync.”

That’s it, Mason’s lost it. Devon made eye contact with him on that last one, and now Mason is rocking back and forth trying to contain himself. Powell offers him one of those ubiquitous silk handkerchiefs, but that’s not going to hold anything in.

“Jace was the Center of My Heart—of all our hearts, really—when we performed in concert. It was a Devastating Blow to all of us when we, the Last Barons, decided to Unchain from the Pain, and take on Separate Lives. We were afraid we’d Never Dance Sweetly Again...” And now Devon can’t keep a straight face either. He puts his head down on the podium, but the microphone easily picks up his chortling.

“I told him not to do that,” Brixley mutters. She is an island of calm in a sea of laughter. Mason’s face is bright red, Powell has rolled out of his seat, and even Xander seems to have caught on to the humor. As for me? Yeah, I dug that silk scrap out of my bra so I could wipe my streaming eyes. I didn’t expect to find any amusement at this funeral whatsoever, so this laugh is cathartic.

“Jace would have loved this,” my mother whispers to me. “I think he would have found it So Bad It’s Good.” Now she’s doing it too? She’s right though, this is exactly the funeral Jace would have requested. He wasn’t one for seriousness or sadness.

Then Hank leans around her. “I never thought I’d have a Rockin’ Good Time on such a ... hmmmm.” Nice try Hank. He’s out of songs. He chews on his lip, thinking for a moment. “Never mind. I give up.”

“Do you? You don’t want One More Try?” I ask him. That was a mistake—Powell had almost managed to calm himself and now he might be choking. I slap his back hard, just in case.

JaDed’s manager, Ryland, gently removes Devon from the podium and sends him back to his seat, where he collapses next to Brixley and lets out a few last giggles.

“Is everyone finished? Can we continue with the ceremony?” Ryland apparently has no sense of humor. He delivers a much calmer and more depressing eulogy, with no song references or hysterical Barons. I rest my head on my mother’s shoulder, close my eyes and listen. I can’t open my eyes. If I do, I’ll see Jace’s portrait up there, and I’ll be hit with the pain of his loss all over again. Or, For A Long Time Coming, if I want to keep with the cheesy Last Baron’s song-titles theme.

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