Born to Rock (12 page)

I was chagrined. “I'm so sorry, King. I never should have dragged you out of bed over this. I totally overstepped.”

My bio-dad looked surprised. “Are you kidding? That's the best time I've had in years. But wake me before noon and you're a dead man.”

The mirrored doors swallowed him up, leaving me standing there, hyperventilating.

Well, he didn't hate me. That was something.

Now what was I going to do with this dog?

DENVER, CO (AMALGAMATED WIRE SERVICE):

City of Denver Animal Control denied earlier reports that a purebred poodle was stolen from one of its mobile units by two unidentified white male suspects while the officer had breakfast in a downtown luncheonette.

“We prefer to focus on positive developments,” said a department spokesman, citing an upcoming series of public service announcements featuring Purge lead singer King Maggot.

[19]

THE STRESS OF HIS DIVORCE WAS
turning Max into an oddball. He refused to get on the plane from Denver to Kansas City, opting instead for an eleven-hour drive with Cam in the equipment truck that held his beloved drum kit.

Not that I was complaining. I got to fly on Max's first-class ticket. This burned Cam up no end. “What about unloading the stuff?”

“I'll meet you guys at the fairgrounds in KC,” I promised.

It came straight from King, so there was no point in arguing. By then, everybody on the tour knew about my special status as Prince Maggot, which set me apart from the other roadies. It was seriously interfering with Cam's plan to treat me like snail slime. I almost felt bad for the guy. Anybody who spent so much time talking about hooking up with women, but so little of actually doing it had to be in a permanent foul mood.

Cam wasn't the only one getting snippy as Concussed continued east. Bernie was annoyed at having to smooth over the dognapping affair, and fly King back to Denver to record public service announcements. Zach was bristling because a smart-alecky reviewer had referred to him as Zach
Fatzenburger.
Now Bernie was threatening to hire a professional dietician “…for the health of the band.”

Speaking of the health of the band, Purge had heard from Neb Nezzer, who was out of the hospital and recovering with his family. He said he'd be ready to rejoin Concussed for the European leg of the tour. That was the topic of discussion on the flight—how to tell Neb he was out of a job.

“Pete's the future,” was Bernie's opinion.

The squabbling was widespread. The other three Stem Cells were grumbling that Pete was more interested in his temporary gig with Purge than his permanent one with them. All four Dick Nixons were staying at separate hotels. Chemical Ali had fired two managers; one in Vegas, and one in Phoenix. Skatology's lead singer stood accused of sending love notes to Mark Hatch's wife.

King shrugged it off. “Touring is a pressure cooker.”

He was the one person who seemed immune to the infighting. Just as he'd traded all-night partying for the World Wide Web, he held himself aloof from the backbiting. Maybe it was because, as the true superstar of Concussed, he could afford to. But I was beginning to think it was because he really was aloof.

Onstage, he was as ferocious as ever. At the Kansas City show, the fury of his lyrics blew ripples in the jumping crowd like straight-line winds through a field of wheat. Knowing that it no longer came naturally, I couldn't help but be impressed by the ultimate professional plying his trade.

It was the part of the set where King launched into his usual anachronistic harangue about President Reagan's invasion of Grenada. I frowned. Something wasn't right. Sure, he was all wound up and ranting. But this had nothing to do with the '80s. What was he saying?

“…fifteen thousand shares of Apple Computer!…twenty-five thousand shares of Altria Group!…seventeen thousand five hundred shares of Citibank Financial!…”

The heat of the Missouri summer turned ice-cold. All at once, I realized where my bio-dad was getting this new material. I recognized it instantly. It was my mock stock portfolio from the Web site of the Young Republicans of East Brickfield Township High School.

“This is all we care about!”
King howled.
“Corporations…money…profit!”

How stupid I was to feel that we were finally connecting! To be
flattered
that he cared enough to look for me on the Web! And what had the search brought him? Not his long-lost son, but new material to update his attack on President Reagan. I was the new Grenada.

I listened, stunned, as tens of thousands of throats bellowed their repudiation of my prizewinning portfolio. It was a
game
—a mildly interesting time-waster for a bunch of high school kids who followed the stock market. Yet right then, if King had pointed me out, I swear the crowd would have fallen on me and torn me to pieces. Such was the power of my bio-dad to incite a mob the size of an army.

The ultimate professional plying his trade.

As it turned out, I was a professional too. The fact that I was an employee of Purge was the only thing that kept me from walking out of there.

As we climbed out of the Sunbelt to St. Louis and Chicago, the audiences grew tougher. The novelty of warm weather had worn off, and the crowds expected something huge to make fourteen sweaty, often rainy, hours worthwhile. The pressure inevitably fell on Concussed's headliners. They delivered, but it was killing them. Maybe twenty-year-old Pete could coke himself up into the Energizer Bunny, but Zach and Max were ready to drop. And although he showed it less, I could tell the tour was taking a lot out of King, too.

Melinda exemplified the new audience tone—still worshipful, but God help the band that disappointed her.

KafkaDreams:

Mark Hatch has pierced his nose so many times that the cartilage is gone and he can't sing anymore. During the primal scream solo in “Pus,” he had to stop for breath. What a poser! It isn't primal if you have to take two shots at it….

I hadn't seen her since that searing night when Owen and I had pulled her off one of Phoenix's finest. My info came from Graffiti-Wall, and from Owen, who stopped by a few times to say hi, and to mooch free food from the backstage catering spread. He was probably on a mission from Melinda herself, since he always made a point of mentioning that she was still mad at me for preventing her from protecting King. She had no way of knowing that I'd already seen my semi-forgiveness online.

“The two of us probably saved her a night in jail,” I grumbled. “How come I'm in the doghouse, but nothing sticks to you? You were right there with me.”

He shrugged. “Aw, you know Mel.”

“No, I don't,” I said honestly. “I've been hanging around the girl since the cradle, but I really don't have the faintest idea what might be going on inside her head.”

“You've got to look at it from her perspective. King used to be hers. But how can being his fan compete with being his son?”

“That's only because she sets it up that way,” I argued. “Me being his son doesn't change the music.”

He shook his head. “You still don't get it.”

As a peace offering, I wangled them backstage passes for the Milwaukee show. It was more a gesture of mercy than anything else. It had been pouring for a day and a half. The county park that was serving as the concert venue was a mud bog below a buzzing, churning cloud of insects. Pole-mounted bug-zappers ringed the stage on three sides. When the music wasn't playing, the sickening sizzle of fricasseeing creepies was pretty much continuous. Their tiny carcasses rained down like chimney soot.

The bands were pulling out all the stops today, pounding through explosive sets with a mixture of sympathy and respect. Only die-hard fanatics would brave such conditions for a concert.

By now, Max had evolved the simple process of setting up his drum kit into an advanced science. We had to treat his precious skins like spun crystal so he could beat the crap out of them during the show. Cam and I were the only roadies he trusted. Personally, I could have lived without the honor.

Thanks to that nightly time-waster, I didn't see Melinda until right before Purge went on. I almost dropped down dead at the sight of her. If she hadn't been standing next to Owen, I'm not sure I would have recognized her.

Two weeks of nomadic life had changed Melinda. She had either run out of or stopped applying the pale makeup that gave her a ghostly appearance. Countless hours in an uncovered crowd, at the mercy of the sun, had tanned her a deep golden brown. She was no longer dyeing her hair, which was now growing out blond, and held back in a ponytail. Gone were the black flowing layers of clothing, ill suited to the heat and grime of the Concussed venues. Instead, she wore shorts and a tank top in funky counterpoint to her heavy black-and-chrome boots.

I couldn't keep from staring.
This
was Melinda, vampire of the 600-row of lockers? She looked
fantastic
! Even the nose ring kind of fit into the new style, an eclectic mix of Sex Pistols and the Gap.

She noticed my saucer-eyes. “You try coloring your hair in a Subaru.”

“No—” I stammered. “You're—”

As I struggled for the right adjective, Concussed announced its headliners:
“Lockjaw recording artists
—
Purge!!”

Awash in the blitzkrieg of “Bomb Mars Now,” I decided it was time to introduce Melinda to King and the band. Owen, too. He'd been more of a friend than she had these past weeks. They weren't exactly my soul mates, but who was? Fleming Norwood? Would I fit in with the Young Republicans anymore, even if they hadn't given me the boot? I had become a displaced person—detached from my old crowd, but not really a part of Concussed. Out here on the road, Melinda and Owen were the closest thing I had to a family.

King was normally pretty wiped after a performance, but he was nice to Melinda, and I was grateful.

“You look familiar. Didn't you get peeled off the back of a cop once?”

It was the first and last time I'd ever seen her gushing. “I've listened to
Texas School Book Suppository
at least five hundred times.”

He favored her with one of his rare smiles. “And you haven't gone deaf?”

“Your music has saved my life,” she said seriously. “I don't know if I could have made it without you. I own every note you've ever sung, even the bootleg recorded when you guys were in prison.”

To my surprise, King kept the chitchat going. My bio-dad wasn't the type for small talk. He told me once that he had given so many pointless interviews over the years that he refused to waste his vocal cords on “white noise.” When he had gleaned what he wanted from a conversation, he had no problem turning his back on you and walking away.

“Any plans for next year, Melinda?” he asked. “Going to college?”

In the weeks I'd known King, I could have counted the number of times he'd shown genuine interest in another human being on the fingers of one hand. What did he care about Melinda Rapaport's higher education?

It hit me—these were the questions you'd ask your son's
girlfriend
! I don't know what amazed me more—that he thought Melinda and I were together, or that he was acting like a real father.

King Maggot was a lot of things, but predictable was none of them.

He was also gracious to Owen, who, naturally, said the exact wrong thing: “I didn't think a guy like you would ever get old!”

The other band members took their lead from King, and even Bernie was friendly. The manager had been ice-cold to me since dognapping night. But he greeted Melinda and Owen like VIPs, and made a point of inviting them to the after-party being thrown by Citizen Rot's new record label.

Ersatz Records had taken a monster suite at the hotel, and the bash was a wild one. The whole scene was becoming a little old to me, but it was interesting to see it through Melinda's eyes. For her and Owen, this was a rare glimpse of the rock-and-roll lifestyle, and they had the ultimate tour guide. Bernie was taking the night off trawling for groupies to show them around.

“Hey, Daddy's Boy.” Cam threw himself down on the couch next to me.

I already knew what his line was going to be. “Listen, Cam, if you find a girl tonight, just say the word. I promise I'll find someplace else to sleep—”

“Oh, sure,” he said sarcastically. “The crown prince bunking on somebody's floor? You'll run crying to Pa
pa
.” He accented the second syllable.

“That's bull, and you know it!” I was somewhat distracted to notice that Bernie was alone with Melinda. Owen had gone off to talk with Ylang Ylang and another one of the Ball Peens. “Have I ever used my relationship with King to get the better of you or anybody else?”

“Think you'd have this job if it wasn't for Daddy?” Cam challenged. “You know how long I spent wheeling cheap amps out of crappy airport hotels before I got this gig?”

He was getting belligerent, but I was totally focused on Bernie and Melinda. They were practically cheek to cheek as he pointed out the various punk celebrities around the room. It was the standard operating procedure I'd seen him use on a dozen girls over the course of the summer. His left arm had insinuated its way around her shoulders, and he “inadvertently” brushed her hair and neck as he made a point.

The manager hadn't passed on his womanizing to hang out with Melinda. Melinda
was
his womanizing!

[20]

I THOUGHT MY HEAD WAS GOING TO
explode.

I had tried to avoid being judgmental about Bernie McMurphy's favorite leisure-time activity. And on some level, I'd always known that many of his nightly conquests had been more or less my age. But the fact that those girls had been
strangers
somehow made them seem more mature. As if hanging out with the backstage groupies and wannabes qualified you for the big, bad world.

Melinda had turned eighteen a couple of months ago. She was old enough to vote. She could join the Army and get shot at in strange and exotic places.

But she wasn't old enough for this.

Warning her with Bernie epoxied on would be tricky. I took a step toward them.

Cam grabbed my arm and wheeled me around. “Hey, I'm not finished with you yet!”

“Listen, Cam, if you've got a job for me, I'll do it. If you don't, get out of my face!” I sidestepped him, and strode determinedly on.

Owen jumped in front of me. “Who was
that
?”

“My immediate superior in the roadie hierarchy,” I growled, not in the mood for his pestering. “Hey, what's the big idea leaving Melinda alone with Bernie?”

Owen shrugged. “He wanted to show her around.”

“Bernie's always on the prowl!”

As if to prove me right, the two got up together, and the manager ushered her out of the suite.

I started after them, but Owen held me back. “She's a big girl.”

“You don't know what he's like!”

“She won't thank you,” he warned me.

I ran into the hall just in time to see the elevator doors close on them. I watched the indicator go up to twelve, the floor where our rooms were.

I was blown away by the depth of my emotion. She wasn't my sister; she wasn't my girlfriend. She had barely spoken a civil word to me in weeks! Owen had a point. This was none of my business. He knew better than anybody what it was like to have people sticking their holier-than-thou noses into your personal life.

I stormed back into the suite, a melon-size hunk of plutonium glowing in my stomach. And there was Owen, ready to put out the fire with a bucket of gasoline.

“I get it—you're jealous!”

I unloaded on him, not because he was wrong, but because he was
right.
There were a dozen reasons to be upset about Bernie and Melinda. But I was mad because I wanted her for myself.

I scorched that poor jerk with every ill that had been done to me since my McAllister scholarship had gone south. “You think it's my idea of a great summer job to grub around the country, getting my eardrums busted by a collection of bottom-feeders and lowlifes? You know why I'm here, loving every minute? Because of
you
!”

“Me?”

I'd kept it to myself for all these weeks, but in the flood of passion pouring out of me, it was impossible to hold anything back.

“I
used
to have a scholarship. But now I have to beg King for money because I lost it, thanks to you!”

He was stricken. “Lost it? How?”

“Remember the algebra test? Remember vectors? Borman tried to get me to say you cheated, and I wouldn't. So he made
me
the cheater. And cheaters don't get scholarships.”

I stuck out my jaw and waited for Owen to tell me Harvard was overrated so I could kill him.

His face was ghostly white. “Why didn't you just tell Borman what he wanted to hear? I would have been okay.”

“Yeah,” I snorted, “you're
gifted.
”

“I didn't have so much to
lose.
”

“Easy to say that now—when it's too late!”

“I was
talking
to you, butt-wipe!” Cam again, red-hot steaming mad.

“I'm not ignoring you, Cam,” I told him. “I've just got something else on my—”

“You don't turn your back on me! I'm still your boss
—
I don't care who your old man is!”
He was right in my face, bawling me out at top volume in front of half of Concussed. Heads began to turn in our direction. I'd had more than my share of scrapes as an employee of Purge. But this was the first time I'd been forced to endure public humiliation.

My cheeks burned as he blasted away at me.
“You're too busy schmoozing Daddy to do any work! You don't know a standard jack from a DIN plug! You're hopeless when it comes to—”

He never got to finish the thought, because at that moment, Owen stepped in front of me and delivered a sharp slap to Cam's face. “Relax!”

Hold it. Back up. Did I hallucinate that? No, the evidence was right there—Owen's open hand, still frozen in the follow-through position. But why wasn't Cam on top of the guy, pounding him into applesauce?

Instead, the roadie just looked stunned. I was pretty stunned myself. In all these weeks, I'd never come close to handling Cam and his mean streak. But Owen Stevenson had managed it with a single, surgical smack.

Maybe he was gifted after all.

It was the last straw. On top of everything else, to be rescued by the likes of Owen—to owe him for what was left of my self-respect—that was the end.

I didn't wait around for the fireworks. I got the hell out of there.

I took the stairs all the way up to the twelfth floor.

Disaster—there was no other word for it. All the stewing combustibles in my overheated garage had gone kablooey at the same cataclysmic instant. I mean, Cam and me—that had always been destined to blow up at some point. But why would I suddenly spill the beans about Harvard after keeping it a secret for so long? How did it help anybody for Owen to know that?

And Melinda. Talk about something brewing since forever. After seventeen years, I'd finally realized how I felt about her—just in time for it to be too late. I should have seen through the white makeup and black clothes. I had nothing but my own shallowness to blame. I should have paid attention when Gates had a crush on her. If he could scour the entire Internet and come up with KafkaDreams, then he could spot a pearl inside a goth.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

During high school, Melinda and I had become as diametrically opposite as two people could possibly be. Yet never once had she abandoned me, even when I'd begged her to. What a loser I was. No, worse—pathetic. Now that she was out of reach, I was obsessing on her. I could even hear her voice rattling around my skull.

Then I really
did
hear her. I strained to listen. What was she saying?

“Come on, Bernie, I don't want to…”

Bernie's room! But what number? It would be a suite—those were usually at the end of the halls—

“I said
no…
”

The voice was getting quieter. Wrong way! My agitation growing, I pounded down the corridor.

“Please let go of me…”

Suite 1223!

Taking my lead from cop shows again, I hurled myself full-force into the door. One thing they don't tell you on TV is just how much it hurts to collide with a ninety-pound piece of solid oak. Luckily, the dead bolt wasn't set. The lock jarred open and I tumbled into the room.

It wasn't exactly the attempted date rape I'd been expecting. Bernie and Melinda were on the couch, with some kind of Purge scrapbook spread out on the coffee table. A wine bottle and two glasses sat there. They might have been struggling before, but now they had frozen, their arms still intertwined. They were staring at me as if I had just been assembled from glowing atoms à la
Star Trek.

I scrambled up and bawled, “Let her go!”

“You mind your own business, Cuz—”

But I was beyond reason, beyond language, pure action. I kicked the coffee table out of the way, upending the wine, and sending the scrapbook and a pile of mail spilling out onto the carpet. I hauled off, and slammed my fist into the side of his face. Not being much of a fighter, I was amazed to feel solid contact. The force of the blow was enough to knock the manager over the armrest to the floor.

I reached out to take Melinda's wrist, but at that moment, she came alive. I'll never forget the look of horrified loathing she shot me as she ran out the door.

Me. She was angrier at
me
than at Bernie. If there had been any lingering doubt that I had blown it with Melinda, it was surely gone now.

Bernie stood up, his brow a thundercloud over his rapidly swelling cheek.
“Get out of here!”
he rasped.

I turned and ran.

It was only after I hyperventilated my way into my own room that a clear picture of the mail on the floor presented itself in front of my eyes. Close-up on the logo in the upper left-hand corner of a business envelope:
ALPHA DIAGNOSTIC LABORATORIES
.

The DNA test.