festival?” he asks.
“I think it’s something like that.”
“You have directions? Like I said, we’re a band. We’re called the Nopes. Ever heard of us?”
I resist the obvious response and just shrug my shoulders. “I think it’s in a stadium in the next city, down the old interstate—about
twenty miles south of here.”
“Really? I heard it was north, dude. The
other
way.”
“That’s what they told me anyhow,” I say. “I honestly don’t know. Sorry, guys.”
“Well, we’ll come back here if you got it wrong,” he says with a threat in his voice. “Hey, can you tell me this: will Wisteria
Allgood be there? At Stockwood?”
“Wist-a-who?” I say, hoping I don’t look panicked. Even though I kind of am.
“Wisteria Allgood, the Youth Resistance leader,” he repeats.
“I think I’ve heard of her,” I say. This is getting worse and worse—the “Youth” Resistance is something you just don’t hear
us referring to ourselves as.
I shiver and look back casually at the visitors. “Hey, guys, it’s getting late, and I’m supposed to go meet some friends for
a pickup game. Want to come?”
“We’re musicians, not jocks,” he says, narrowing his eyes at me. “Come on, guys. We better get rolling so we can do some rocking.”
And, with that line—a dead giveaway that they
aren’t
“rockers”—they turn and walk away. I watch until they round the corner.
As soon as I’m pretty sure the phonies in black are gone, I take the fire-escape stairs three at a time. Up in my makeshift
room, I flip open my journal to take another look atthe poem I’d written earlier. And, as if by some otherworldly magic, I see a short message instead.
It packs quite a punch.
GO TO YOUR SISTER. SHE NEEDS YOU. TRUST NO STRANGERS.
It’s written in familiar handwriting. Like
my father’s
handwriting.
And then, when I blink, it’s gone.
I flip madly through the journal, hoping to find it again to convince myself I hadn’t hallucinated, but instead I come across
my most recent poem.
Another wave of panic comes over me.
What on earth made me write a six-page poem about the
death of my sister?
Chapter 25
Wisty
I HAVE TO ADMIT, I nearly lose my nerve, just watching the level of talent that’s been assembled onstage. I also know that this crowd can
be brutal if they don’t like your music.
Worse, I almost say thank you to Byron for getting us passes so that we can watch the acts from back here. We’re so close
we can see droplets of sweat, and the way a singer’s mouth forms around a particular word, and the speed of a guitarist’s
fingers.
And then the Bionics are up.
Okay,
now
I understand Janine’s personality switcheroo. They’re by far the hottest band
ever
. How do I know? Because seeing their sweat is actually a turn-
on
and not a turnoff. That has never happened to me before. Sweat usually equals stinky Whit-hug after a track meet.
Everything is different with these musicians. It’s as ifthey’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
“I think it’s something like that.”
“You have directions? Like I said, we’re a band. We’re called the Nopes. Ever heard of us?”
I resist the obvious response and just shrug my shoulders. “I think it’s in a stadium in the next city, down the old interstate—about
twenty miles south of here.”
“Really? I heard it was north, dude. The
other
way.”
“That’s what they told me anyhow,” I say. “I honestly don’t know. Sorry, guys.”
“Well, we’ll come back here if you got it wrong,” he says with a threat in his voice. “Hey, can you tell me this: will Wisteria
Allgood be there? At Stockwood?”
“Wist-a-who?” I say, hoping I don’t look panicked. Even though I kind of am.
“Wisteria Allgood, the Youth Resistance leader,” he repeats.
“I think I’ve heard of her,” I say. This is getting worse and worse—the “Youth” Resistance is something you just don’t hear
us referring to ourselves as.
I shiver and look back casually at the visitors. “Hey, guys, it’s getting late, and I’m supposed to go meet some friends for
a pickup game. Want to come?”
“We’re musicians, not jocks,” he says, narrowing his eyes at me. “Come on, guys. We better get rolling so we can do some rocking.”
And, with that line—a dead giveaway that they
aren’t
“rockers”—they turn and walk away. I watch until they round the corner.
As soon as I’m pretty sure the phonies in black are gone, I take the fire-escape stairs three at a time. Up in my makeshift
room, I flip open my journal to take another look atthe poem I’d written earlier. And, as if by some otherworldly magic, I see a short message instead.
It packs quite a punch.
GO TO YOUR SISTER. SHE NEEDS YOU. TRUST NO STRANGERS.
It’s written in familiar handwriting. Like
my father’s
handwriting.
And then, when I blink, it’s gone.
I flip madly through the journal, hoping to find it again to convince myself I hadn’t hallucinated, but instead I come across
my most recent poem.
Another wave of panic comes over me.
What on earth made me write a six-page poem about the
death of my sister?
Chapter 25
Wisty
I HAVE TO ADMIT, I nearly lose my nerve, just watching the level of talent that’s been assembled onstage. I also know that this crowd can
be brutal if they don’t like your music.
Worse, I almost say thank you to Byron for getting us passes so that we can watch the acts from back here. We’re so close
we can see droplets of sweat, and the way a singer’s mouth forms around a particular word, and the speed of a guitarist’s
fingers.
And then the Bionics are up.
Okay,
now
I understand Janine’s personality switcheroo. They’re by far the hottest band
ever
. How do I know? Because seeing their sweat is actually a turn-
on
and not a turnoff. That has never happened to me before. Sweat usually equals stinky Whit-hug after a track meet.
Everything is different with these musicians. It’s as ifthey’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
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