“Tell you what,” Dad said. “Why don’t you head home and get started on the salad for dinner. I’ll go see about Oren. We’re just about done with his uncle anyway.”

“All right,” I said, disappointed. I was already a giant failure in my role as a junior funeral director.

“Evie,” Dad said, his hand landing on my shoulder before I could turn away. “Don’t forget that dealing with grieving families is the hardest part of this job. You already have a take-charge attitude and good instincts—these are great qualities for a funeral director, and they can be hard to teach. But what you can learn is that everyone is different. Sometimes your take-charge attitude can get ahead of those good instincts. Learning how to read people and what they might need is part of the job too. That will come with time.”

I didn’t really believe him about the instincts thing, but I was glad to hear that at least some things can be learned. “When’s the funeral?”

“Tomorrow,” Dad said. “If Nate’s home, let him know, okay? We’ll need him to update the website as soon as we confirm the time with the rabbi.”

“Sure.”

“And of course, we’ll need your help too,” Dad said sadly. “We are expecting a fairly large crowd.”

At least handing out tissues was something I couldn’t screw up.

Five

Later that night I sat at the dining-room table with my giant craft box, working on my latest paper quilling project.

After I’d returned from camp last year, I’d used all my birthday money to buy a quilling starter kit. At first I’d made little things—flowers, hearts and simple random shapes. But now I was attempting more challenging things. Not just individual shapes, but incorporating those shapes into entire scenes.

The one I was working on now was a meadow filled with flowers and grass. All made from tiny strips of paper. And glue. Lots of glue.

I’d been working on it for nearly a week, and it was really starting to come together. It still needed a few things though, like a sun and some clouds. Maybe a few birds or butterflies.

But tonight I was having trouble concentrating.

“What’s wrong, Evie?” my mom said, startling me. I hadn’t even realized she was in the room.

“Huh?” I blinked up at her.

She sat down in the chair across from me. “Look at you!” She laughed. “You’re covered in glue! It’s even on your face—please don’t get any on the chairs.”

“Sorry.” She was right. I was making a huge mess.

“So tell me what’s going on with you.”

“Nothing,” I said.

“Evie,” she said. “I know you. And I know when something’s up. The two giant sighs you’ve let out in the last two minutes were a big clue too.”

Weird. I hadn’t even realized I’d sighed. I looked down at my fingers covered in glue. I could feel a tight patch of it drying on my cheek.

With a third sigh, I carefully closed the lid of the glue bottle. I thought about what I could say to my mom as I wiped my sticky hands on a paper towel. But I wasn’t even sure what I was thinking.