My natural inclination is to agree, but something holds me back. She’s just Mom, doing her job as a mom and making sure my life doesn’t get too crazy. Sure, I push against her barriers like a crazy pushing against the padded walls, and I argue with her plenty, but I’m not about to throw her under a bus.
So, I tap, why would you want to meet me?
You’re Richie Van Bender. Who wouldn’t want to meet you?
So true.
We chat for another ten minutes, until it’s time for dinner. I can’t stop thinking about how cool it would be to meet Bobby Fretboard. Sure, it would be cooler to meet Nick Savage. Or maybe Marti Walker. But Bobby Fretboard is a pretty good score. It distracts me all through dinner.
Before I go to bed, I check to see if he’s sent me any more messages. I even dream about meeting him.
It all seems weird. I know I’m not supposed to trust anyone I meet online. And I’m sure not supposed to meet them in person. But I mean, it’s Bobby Fretboard. A well-known artist. What harm can come of it? Besides, I love the idea of meeting a peer—even if it means pushing Mom’s boundary.
Maybe in the long run she won’t care. I mean, in ten years would it make a difference? In fifty. Nah.
But, of course, I can’t ask her. She would just shoot me down. It would probably work better to meet him, then let her know I’m not ruined or anything. Maybe then she would relax the rules a little more.
In the morning, I pull out the iPad. Before turning it on, I run a palm over the smooth screen. My reflection in the glass shows me smiling. My long blond hair is all tangled.
I send him a message.
It would be cool to meet up. I’d like tips on my guitar work.
* * * *
Chapter 4: I give reason a shot
The rules were Elizabeth’s idea. I was willing to go along because I knew that someday the rules would go away. And things would be awesome when they did.
-David Van Bender
Saturday afternoon. No band practice. No tutoring. Mom and I lounge on the back porch. A low table between us, with our sweating sodas and the remnants of a plate of nachos.
Later on, Sandra and Kurt will come over for a barbecue, but I already have a head start on the snacking. I’ve downed the entire platter of nachos and three cans of red cream soda.
A breeze blows from the ocean. Clouds spot the blue expanse above, moving in from the Pacific like a fleet of planes coming to bomb the crap out of us. Mom and I try to identify their shapes.
Yeah, it’s weird for a teenager and his mom to look at clouds, but it’s a holdover from when I was little—from before the cancer. I’ve been trying for months to stop doing it, but she insists, and I have no really good reason to deny her.
Yeah, I know. I’m not super-consistent with how I feel about Mom and how I act. I’m working on it. I should just rebel against her, outright, and get it over with.
But she lured me with the plate of nachos.
One cloud looks like an ice skater taking a nasty fall. Another like a basketball player getting ready to shoot two balls simultaneously. At least, that’s what I think it is. Mom says it’s a woman with an abnormally large and—probably—an exceedingly fake bosom. My favorite nimbus of the day is a cloud shaped like a man sticking out his behind in order to emphasize the toxic puff of gas he’s just passed.
My mood is light. My stomach is on its way to being full. I’m feeling bold.
“Mom, I’m fifteen now. Don’t you think we could relax my rules just a little bit?”
It’s absolutely the wrong way to approach the subject.
“No,” she says. “I’m not a lunatic.”
“But—”
“No.”
“Can’t I just meet one rock st—”
“No, Richie. How many times do I have to tell you? They can’t be trusted.”
“You would be with me.”
“They’re dangerous in ways you can’t understand.”
I pretend not to be too upset about it by wiping some of the remaining cheese from the nacho plate. As I lick the cheese from my finger, I mumble, “How come?”
“Why do you think?”
She does that all the time. Makes me answer my own questions. I roll my eyes. Why would I ask the question if I knew the answer?
“Because an exposure to their pure awesomeness would blind me?”
“Hardly.”
“They’re evil magicians and would curse me?”
She gives me a sharp look, with narrow eyes. “You’re not meeting any rock stars.”
“Then maybe,” I say, “it’s because I would see just how brilliant an adult could actually be?”
“Richie, you have no idea what’s going on here. It’s for your own protection.”
I stand, pick up the plate, and head for the kitchen for another bag of chips.
Very well, then. Mom isn’t willing to bend her rule at all. Enough is enough. I’ll just have to break it.
* * * *
Chapter 5: Saved by the squeaky floorboard
The moment is never right with Richie. But that’s okay, I’ll wait patiently.
-Sandra Montoya
One a.m. Darkness fills my bedroom except for the iPad’s screen. Silence shrouds the house, except for the rush of the air conditioning and the tapping of my fingers on the screen. I lay on my bed, on top of the covers, chatting with Kurt and Sandra. We do that a lot, these days. Until the iPad, we haven’t had any un-chaperoned conversations in years.
Sandra says, I can’t believe you’re going to do it. Your mom will kill you.
Kurt: I can believe it. I would do it.
Sandra: But you’re an idiot.
Me: She’s not going to find out.
Sandra: Is it worth the risk?
That’s the question, isn’t it? Is it worth it?
Kurt: What’s the worst that could happen?
I think about that a lot these days. If I get caught, maybe Mom cancels Moab. Plus, what if Bobby Fretboard manifests as some kind of freak? Mom always says that rock stars are dangerous. I can only assume she’s talking about drugs or something, because how else could they pose a threat? They might teach me how to enjoy my stardom? Come on.
Sandra: His mom might kill him.
That’s not one I’ve considered, but I suppose it’s possible. She is a little trigger-happy when it comes to laying the smack down.
Me: I think it’s worth the risk.
Sandra: Where is the worth?
Me: Meeting a rock star.
I’ve thought a lot about that, too. I actually don’t know for sure if meeting a rock star will be so awesome. How could I know? I’ve never actually done it. But for whatever reason, I really want to find out what it’s like.
I’ve tried to break the rules before, but it never seems to work out. I’ve tried to sneak out with Sandra and Kurt. They tried passing me a smart phone once. I’ve tried about everything, but until the iPad nothing seems to ever work. Mom always catches me. I’m sick of it.
Sandra: You’re a rock star. What’s the big deal about meeting one?
Kurt: Crap.
A message pops up that he’s left the conversation. The next day he’ll probably tell us that his dad caught him. Not that it’s going to matter much. Kurt’s dad tends be a pushover when it comes to punishing him. Sure he’ll make threats, but he never carries through with them. Kurt has it pretty good, really.
Me: Ha ha! Busted!
Sandra: I still think you shouldn’t do it.
Me: I’m going to do it.
Sandra: Richie, I want to tell you something.
My heart starts to thump as I read it. My fingers hover over the digital keyboard. I’ve suspected for a while that Sandra has a crush on me. I’ve got one on her, too, even if I’m not ready to do anything about it. The entire situation is strange because we’ve been friends for about ten years, but we’ve never had a chance to talk about it.
And we still don’t.
/> I hear a noise outside the door. A creak of the floorboards—it’s saved my life on more than one occasion.
I put the iPad face down, slide it under my pillow, and curl up with my face toward the door. I let my mouth drop open—Mom says I sleep with my mouth gaping—and start to breathe in a deep rhythm.
The door clicks as it opens. Then silence. I don’t dare crack my eyes at all. It wouldn’t help, anyway. It’s too dark in the room to see anything.
Mom crosses the room to the bed. Her bare feet shuffle on the carpet. My world consists of blackness, the rush of the AC, the sound of my own deep breathing, and the flowing of blood through my ears.
Until recently, I didn’t know that sometimes Mom comes in late at night. She sneaks over to my bed, stands above me, just looking. Sometimes, if I’m lying in a position close to the edge, she leans over and kisses my forehead before heading out.
I can only assume she’s always done this, and I’ve just never been awake when she has.
This time she stands there for a while. Maybe she can hear my heart, and knows I’ve been up to no good. I sure can, and I sure do. Guilt courses through me, pumped through my blood.
Can I really do this? Can I really defy her?
She leans over to kiss my forehead. I have an instant of warning because of the sound of her clothes rustling—otherwise it would have scared the snot out of me. And that would have been messy in more than one way.
A hand runs over my hair. Mom sighs, retreats from the room, and shuts the door. The floorboard creaks as she heads back down the hallway.
I’ve learned that as long as my heart thunders, there might still be danger, so I wait until my heartbeat calms down before I get the iPad back out. Sandra has logged off, but not before typing several more lines.
I’ve wanted to tell you for a long time.
Richie?
Hello?
Are you there?
Busted, eh? Talk with you tomorrow.
By the time I finish reading it, my heart is once again working overtime. I can’t fall asleep for a good half an hour.
The next night, I make my first real effort to meet Bobby.
* * * *
Chapter 6: Skirting the alarms
I knew I should have changed the alarm code years ago.
-Elizabeth Van Bender
The next night at 2:50 a.m. Mom has already crept into my room and kissed me good night. I get up from my bed and begin to execute my plan.
I dress in my wet suit and pull some shorts on over it. I bring my surfboard with me, careful not to bang it against the walls and doors. If Mom catches me, I’ll have an excuse. Yeah, I know that going surfing at night alone isn’t smart, but Mom might like that excuse better than “I’m defying your direct order to not meet a rock star.”
As far as I can remember, she’s never told me not to go surfing at night. Her bad.
The problem is going to be the alarm system and the fact that Mom is a light sleeper. When I disable the system, it’s going to beep with each push of a button, and then announce in a loud voice that the system is ready to arm. Then when I open the backdoor, it’s going to say that the back door is ajar. My best bet is to muffle the speaker.
I stand in front of the security console in the kitchen. It’s dark except for a few appliances and the moonbeams coming in through the blinds. A green glow illuminates the soft rubber numbers on the security keypad.
Mom has never divulged the security code to me, but I’ve watched from the corner of my eyes over the last year. I think I’ve got it, but am not quite certain. If I don’t, then Bobby is going to be disappointed, and I could end up mortally wounded.
A throw pillow from my couch and some duct tape—those are my tools. In my closet, I peeled strips from the roll of tape so the sound wouldn’t wake Mom. I have five strips, each about four feet long. I use them to tape the pillow over the speaker, and in order to cover the speaker completely, I do partially cover the top row of numbers.
I raise my index finger and lick my lips. My heart rate accelerates. Mom likes show tunes. She especially enjoys Les Mis. Jean Val Jean is her favorite character.
I press the first number in the sequence. 2.
The console beeps. It seems as loud as a rocket engine, even though the pillow does a fair job of muffling the sound. But I’m jumpy, certain I’m going to get caught.
In a rush, I type the rest of the sequence: 4601. Each beep is like a bomb going off in the kitchen.
The automatic icemaker in the fridge, just to my right, drops a tray of ice with a clatter of plastic and frozen water. The sound makes me jump. For several seconds I focus on the sound of water filling the tray. My finger hovers over the Enter button.
Holding my breath, I hit it.
A nice lady’s voice comes from beneath the pillow, “Security system disarmed. Ready to arm.”
It’s so loud.
That’s what it feels like anyway. I’m frozen with inaction, but want to tear the pillow away and run back to my room—abort the mission before it’s too late, and before Mom executes me for insubordination.
But I don’t retreat. I just stand there, holding my breath, watching the hallway from the corner of my eye.
A full minute passes.
It’s safe.
I head for the back door.
* * * *
Chapter 7: Holy freaking impossible
When I saw the purple flash, I knew the gig was up.
-Bobby Fretboard
I unlock the back door and swing it open. It bumps my surfboard, which in turn whacks me in the face. Behind me in the kitchen, the same lady announces from the security system that the back door is open. I can hear it clearly, just as I can hear the waves from the beach and my heart in my chest. Everything else is quiet. But the security alert sounds much softer than usual. The pillow has done its job. Hopefully it’s enough.
I wait, rubbing my face and watching the hallway where Mom would emerge.
Nothing.
I maneuver the board through the doorway, then pull the door almost shut. I don’t close it all the way. After all, there’s no need to take crazy risks. If I do close it, when I sneak back in, it will sound again. If I leave it cracked open the entire time, it won’t make its announcement again.
I head for the stairs on the opposite side of the deck. My sandals are almost silent on the wood. There’s a full moon, so I can see my way past the chairs and table without a problem. At the bottom of the stairs, I follow the concrete path to the gate in the stone wall. Beyond, stairs lead down the cliff to the beach.
I’ve only used them once, not long after we moved in, when Mom snuck me down to the beach one winter day when the place was practically abandoned. Still, fans recognized me and mobbed us. I don’t really remember how it ended, just that I was suddenly back at the house.
Just before I reach the gate, a flash of eerie purple light blossoms on the opposite side of the fence. The glow spills over the wall and makes me squint. A pop, like a single kernel of corn popping in the microwave, accompanies the glow. The light only lasts a second.
I pause. Was it my imagination? It reminds me of the light I saw on the beach in Hawaii. It was so fast, and the pop was so soft, I might have just imagined it.
The house remains dark. The windows reflect the moonlight.
Nothing, it must have been nothing.
At the gate, I lean the board against the fence, fish the key from my pocket, and unlock the handle. The mechanism grinds, and the latch clicks. The gate swings inward.
And standing there in the moonlight, wearing pajamas—
Is Mom.
I’m so screwed.
“I don’t know what you’re thinking,” she says, “but you’d better stop it and get back up to your room this instant.”
Tremors rise up through my legs and into my body and arms. I don’t move. I just stand there, looking at her in her footie pajamas. Yes, my mom wears footies to bed. Tonight, she has o
n her pink camouflage ones.
Past her, down the cliff and out on the beach near the water, stands a person. Just a dark figure. It must be Bobby.
“I’m just going surfing.”
“Get back inside.”
“You haven’t let me go surfing since we got back from Hawaii.”
“So help me, Richie Van Bender, I’m going to cancel the trip to Moab if you don’t turn around—”
“Mom! Come on!”
She points at the house. “Now.”
I grab the surfboard and head back up toward the house. She follows me, lecturing the entire way. I don’t say another word—I’m too busy wondering how she got out there and how she even knew I was awake. Inside, she rips the pillow off the wall and marches me back to my room. The duct tape gets tangled in her hair, which gives me a small amount of satisfaction.
“Go to sleep,” she says. “We’ll talk about this in the morning.”
I’ve almost made it to my closet door, then I turn around.
“What the crap are we going to talk about?” I say. “You won’t let me go surfing. I tried to sneak out. I’m in trouble.”
“You bet you are.”
“There’s only one thing to talk about. And that’s about how you’re going to punish me.”
It’s risky to provoke her, but I’m too mad to care. I was a few hundred yards away from meeting another rock star, and she materializes out of nowhere to stop me. It’s like she has these incredible powers and her only purpose in life is to bend them toward making me miserable.
“Don’t tempt me, Richie,” she says.
“I’m sick of being locked up like I’m some kind of criminal.”
“It’s for your own good.”
“You’ve said that a billion times! Where’s the proof? I don’t believe it! It’s almost enough to make me want out.”
“You can’t have out. It’s too late. You’re a celebrity, and will be the rest of your life. I’m trying to protect you, give you as normal a life as possible.”
“This is normal? Being secluded like a monk is normal?”
“It’s more normal than having people worshipping you. And more normal than the other stuff out there.”
I want to come up with something great. A comeback to totally deflate her. But I only manage, “Well, it sucks!”
I turn my back on her and head into the walk-in closet. I don’t bother turning the light on before slamming the door as hard as I can.