Everything is different with these musicians. It's as if they're on a whole other plane from everybody else. The singer-bassist, the guitarist, and the drummer-who I consider the cutest of the three (though it's not like I'd say no if any of them asked me out)-brush by me on their way to the stage. I can practically taste their rock-star auras, their magic.
They take up their instruments as the hunky lead singer says a generous and humble thank you to the adoring crowd-and I find myself actually squealing with Janine. No wonder the Bionics are banned by the N.O.
But then-What the heck? How could -?
Suddenly an enormous poster of The One Who Is The One is rising up behind the band.
I know it's just a poster, but I'm totally creeped out, seeing him looming over the stage like that.
The audience hushes, too. Just a picture of that evil monster is enough to throw a pall over the concert hall.
But then-totally brilliant-the band strikes the first chord of their first song, and the poster catches fire in the lower-left corner. The whole thing quickly goes up in flames as the underground arena explodes in the most unbelievable screams and cheers.
I don't know how to explain it-I mean, I know I can't do what they do, but I'm not intimidated; I'm inspired.
And it's a good thing, too, because their set-eight great songs-seems to go by in a flash. And then it's just like the open-mike list says-next up is a little-known wonder hailing from… Garfunkel's department store?
"Wisteria Rose Allgood! Give it up for her!"
The Bionics drummer actually winks at me as he walks by. And, at least in part to keep my face from exploding into a fierce blush, I dash out onto the stage.
Chapter 26
Wisty
"UMM, HI, EVERYBODY," I manage to say after a few seconds in which I feel totally flash-frozen. What did I just get myself into?
The brilliant spotlights and-even more blinding-the glare of hundreds, make that thousands, of pairs of eyes… looking right at me.
This is definitely a little more than I was expecting or prepared for. It's definitely a little frightening… but it's also exhilarating. I feel a strange connection to all these people. We're in this together, right? It's us against the big bad N.O. They've got the guns, but we've got the numbers.
"How 'bout those Bionics, huh?" I ask lamely, but they reward me with a massive cheer anyway. Cool. I guess they're in a generous mood.
"So I'm going to sing a couple of songs," I say, trying to slow my speech down and not blurt or stutter. "But first I just want to remind you all of one important thing. You know how we're kind of outnumbered outside of Freeland?"
Massive boo.
"And you know how they've taken away so many of us? Just kids, even little babies. They have control of the cities. They have the country. They have the planes. They have the tanks."
Right then, almost as if on cue, the chasm shakes and shudders from another overhead bomb blast.
More massive boos.
"But what they don't have is our spirit. That… they cannot have!"
Massive cheers.
"And not only that but-as a kid I met in one of their horrible prisons reminded me-they're afraid of us. That's why they're hunting us. That's why they stage their plots and propaganda against us. That's why they bomb -"
There's another ground-shaking blast from the surface.
"- the world like there's no tomorrow. It's because, for them, there is no tomorrow. No next generation. No future," I continue. "And we're not going to give it to them either! Not now, not ever!"
Massive cheers that last for minutes. This is maybe the best thing that's ever happened to me.
"There's just one other thing," I say when my voice can be heard again. Then I produce my drumstick, the one my mom gave me the night Whit and I were kidnapped. "They don't have our… magic!"
And, with that, I grab a guitar and even more lights come up, revealing that I'm standing in front of a newly conjured amp stack that nearly reaches to the ceiling. Now I'll be even louder than the Bionics.
I strike the first chord of my first song, and I've never felt so amazing, so blessed, in my entire life.
At least until Byron comes onstage with a bass guitar and joins in.
Chapter 27
Wisty
EVEN WITH THE KING of the Weasels in my band, I totally understand why people want to become rock stars. There's no other rush, no other feeling like it. This cavern has a natural reverb that seems to transform my voice into a chorus of hard-rocking angels. It's like an out-of-body experience.
And then I realize I'm playing the audience, too. Hundreds, make that thousands, of people are moving to my rhythm, to my melody, to my words.
Well, not all "my" words.
After I finish the first song and I think my face is going to bust open because I'm smiling so hard from the euphoria, I let everyone know who wrote the words to the next number.
"This is for my brother, Whit, who wrote the lyrics and who unfortunately couldn't be here with us tonight."
I'm actually pretty glad Whit's not here, because I'd have to explain how I kind of copied the lyrics out of his journal when he was sleeping. I don't regret it, not for a second. I've wanted to put these words to music ever since I first read them.
"It's called 'The Fire Outside,' and it goes like this." I begin picking out a simple, clean melody.
Byron waits a few bars and sticks a bass line underneath. We are disturbingly in sync, I have to admit. Musically, I mean. Apparently he must have been a pretty good upright bass player in the school orchestra back home, and he's showing a surprising sense of rhythm here. With his shirt untucked and his hair kind of messy for once, he almost looks like he belongs at a rock concert.
Lighters are being held aloft, and a whole cavern full of people is swaying back and forth to the music we're making.
No sooner are Byron and I laying down the final chords when the six-foot-one poet himself appears at the back of the amphitheater. There he is! Whit is peering around intently, his head bobbing, as if he's trying to find somebody, and it's important.
Now he's sidling through the crowd toward the stage. He's shooting urgent looks at me and drawing his finger across his neck as a sign for me to stop the set, and pointing off to the dressing-room area to the left.
Something's definitely up.
Chapter 28
Wisty
THE POWER OF THE STAGE and the crowd is too much to resist, though. I finish the song first. Whit deserves to hear his words sung out to the masses.
Then I hurry backstage, expecting him to accost me-or strangle me?-instantly, but… he's MIA.
"You were fantastic out there," says Byron while I look around for Whit. "If this magic thing doesn't work out, you could always be a musician, you know. I mean, I guess after you failed out of orchestra in, what was it-fifth grade?-I just assumed you were hopelessly terrible."
"Yeah, well. It took you long enough to realize that a perfect grade point average isn't the only measure of somebody."
"Definitely not," says Byron. He steps toward me with an infuriating eager-beaver expression on his pinched little face. "I really should have taken you seriously a lot sooner, Wisty. I want to make up for that."
Ew. He's not doing what I think he's doing, is he? Please, somebody tell me Byron Hall Monitor Swain is not trying to put his weaselly moves on me. I don't want to hurt his feelings, especially tonight, but he's not leaving me much choice.
"I was wrong to underestimate you," he goes on, inching even closer-and there aren't many inches left at this point. "I mean, you were always beautiful, anybody could see that, but I guess I never appreciated… the brains behind your… badness." He said "badness" with a sly smile, as if he were thinking about a kind of badness… of which I wanted no part. Gross!