Free Putting Makeup on Dead People by Jen Violi

burying someone you love.
    I fold my hands in my lap. I inhale and exhale. “I’m going to mortuary school.”
    “Is that with the birds?” Uncle Lou asks.
    “Dead people,” I say. “Birds are aviary.”
    “You’re going to school with dead people?” Uncle Lou asks. “Why on earth would you do that?”
    I want to say, It just feels right , but that doesn’t seem like a good enough answer—not for him and certainly not for Chapman’s application essay questions.
    “Absolutely not.” Mom’s lips are set in an even line, and a crease divides her forehead. She turns to me. “Honey, you’ve already made your college plans.” I can tell she’s attempting not to raise her voice, and I know I’m about to raise mine.
    Our waiter saves us all, for a moment. His name is Rocky, and he looks less like Rocky the fighter than Rocky the squirrel.
    “You like Stallone?” Uncle Lou asks.
    “I’m sorry?” Rocky says.
    “Sly Stallone,” Uncle Lou repeats, leaning in.
    “Never heard of him,” Rocky says.
    “You’re shitting me.” Uncle Lou raises one thick white eyebrow.
    “No, sir.” Rocky takes a deep breath, and, to our great surprise, is shitting no one. He seems to be trying very hard not to let Uncle Lou get to him. “Can I take your orders?”
    We order lunch, and when Rocky exits, Mom says, “Lou, that was rude.”
    “Well, Jesus, Martha,” Uncle Lou says, “what do kids watch these days?”
    Mom ignores the question and turns to me. “You’ve already been accepted to a wonderful school, and that’s where you’ll be going.”
    “But I don’t want to go to that wonderful school. I never wanted to go there.”
    “This is the first I’ve heard of it.” Mom rips a piece off her roll. “Besides, it’s too late to change your plans now.”
    “Says who?”
    “Says your mother.” Mom rips a piece of roll off the smaller piece she just tore off. I wonder if she might shred the whole thing. “Lou, how’s Sylvia since her foot surgery?” Which is Mom’s way of saying we’re done talking about this.
    “You can’t ignore me,” I say. “I’m right here.”
    “Right now,” Mom says, “we’re talking about your aunt’s surgery. You can participate or not. Your choice.”
    I choose to not participate, which seems unfair, given that we’re supposed to be celebrating my birthday.
    At dessert, I ask for a virgin mudslide instead of pie, and everyone looks at me like I’m some brand of nuts. “That will be my dessert,” I try to explain.
    “You saw they have blueberry pie?” Mom says.
    “Yes,” I say, “but this will be fine.” I smile at Rocky.
    “You don’t want some dessert with it?” Uncle Lou repeats.
    I shake my head.
    “She’s a drinker, Rambo,” Uncle Lou says to Rocky.
    Rocky nods solemnly, writes something else on his note-pad, and walks away.
    Uncle Lou leans across the table and squints at my hand, resting next to my water glass. “It’s definitely hereditary. The way you sit with your index finger pointed out like that. Nicky did that all the time.”
    I look down at my hand, at my pointy index finger like Dad’s, and I wish he was here right now. Without looking up, I say, “It’s not too late to change my college plans.”
    Mom sighs and says, “Donna, I’m glad you found something you’re excited about. Believe me. But it can’t be this.” Her voice sounds soft, and she smiles at me like she’s sad. “You’re already so—” She stops herself. “I just don’t think mortuary school is the best place for you.”
    Under the table, I fold my hands together, pressing my fingers into the backs of my hands.
    “UD is a good school and seems like such a happy place.” Mom brushes crumbs off the tablecloth. “You’ll make lots of friends and have good role models around.”
    “You don’t think I’d find any friends or role models at mortuary school?”
    “That’s not what I’m saying.”
    I feel fluttery in my chest, and my neck is getting hot.