Free Mia the Melodramatic by Eileen Boggess Page A

came today,” she said. “He said it was the strangest thing he’d ever seen. He couldn’t figure out how the crickets got into Mia’s room. He said there were no cracks or crevices in the walls and ceiling.”
    “Wow, that is strange,” I said, glaring at Chris. He was so going to pay for this. Just when I thought I was out of this prank thing, he had pulled me back in.
    “So, anyhow, the crickets are gone,” Mom said, “but how they got there in the first place will remain a mystery.”
    “A mystery I intend to solve,” I said, tearing off a piece of Italian bread. “And when I do, the person responsible will be sleeping with the fishes. Capeesh? ”

    I was hiding the last of the mushrooms in my napkin—the mushrooms, I’d discovered, were the infamous funghi of the meal—when the doorbell rang.
    Mom frowned. “Who could that be?”
    “Oh. I forgot to tell you. Zoë said she might drop by tonight.”
    Actually, I had purposely not told my parents about Zoë’s visit, hoping the shock of seeing her for the first time would jolt them into instant submission, after which they would agree to let me go see her band Friday night.
    I wadded my napkin into a ball and got up from the table. “I’ll get it,” I said, running for the front door.
    As I opened it, Zoë held up her hand. “I don’t want to hear a word about my hair,” she said.
    Her neon-pink hair temporarily blinded me, and I had to look away from the glare. “Uh, it looks nice.”
    “I look like I stuck my head in a freaking cotton candy machine,” she said. “I only did it because my band-mates thought their lead singer would stand out with this shade of hair. But I don’t care what they say—I’m dying it back to black tomorrow.” She walked into the living room and looked around. “So, this is Barbie’s Dream House. Where are Skipper and Ken?”
    “They’re in the dining room, but I think I better warn you—”
    “Yeah, I know.” She pushed past me. “They’re a bunch of dead-beats like you.”
    “No, it’s not that. They’re just a little...” My voice trailed off as we entered the dining room. My parents were crooning Frank Sinatra’s anthem song, “My Way,” while improvising some elaborate dance moves. “... weird.”
    I sighed. I knew I shouldn’t have let them drink that second glass of Chianti. I turned to Zoë to explain how they’d kidnapped me as a child and held me captive over the years, but Zoë held up her hand to silence me. And then to my amazement, she joined my parents in the last chorus, her voice strong and clear.
    “For what is a man?... What has he got? If not himself... then he has not... to say the things... he truly feels... and not the words... he would reveal... The record shows ... I took the blows... and did it my way.”
    Zoë held the last note, harmonizing with Frank until the song’s last chord faded.
    As Frank started swinging with “The Best is Yet to Come,” I stammered, “Um, Mom, Dad, this is Zoë.”
    Dad ran over and pumped her hand up and down like he was trying to get water from a well. “Your voice is amazing. Where’d you learn to sing like that?”
    Mom dabbed her eyes. “Old Blue Eyes never sounded better.”
    “It’s nothing.” Zoë shrugged. “My parents listen to Sinatra all the time. I guess I just picked up the words from them.”
    “I wish Mia had a singing voice like yours,” Mom said. “Unfortunately, she inherited her vocal abilities from her father’s side of the family.”
    Zoë smiled at my dad. “Then,” she said, “your family must be very talented.”
    “What an insightful girl,” Dad said, pulling out a chair for Zoë. “Here, sit in Mia’s seat and tell us all about yourself.”
    “Then where am I supposed to sit?” I sputtered.
    Dad shooed me out of the room. “Go get another chair from the kitchen.”
    I couldn’t believe it. One Sinatra verse and Zoë had taken my place at the table? I bet if she sang Tony Bennett, she’d