by Jody French
Frank says the label is hoping our song will become a bullet—not the kind of bullet shot out of a twenty-two by local deer hunters, but a single that shoots up quickly on the Billboard music charts.
Frank also lets us know that our management is in talks with the Dallas Cowboys football franchise. Cellar Door Is Gone might actually get the chance to play at half-time for an NFL game! The boys and I are really stoked. Even my dad is excited—he’s a huge Dallas Cowboys fan. We all feel like we’re in the middle of an Oklahoma twister—a rock-n-roll whirlwind.
On the normal side of my teen life, I finally get the chance to talk to Sophie in the middle of the school week. We bump into each other in the hallway between classes and my heart thuds as I thank her for coming to the show. I can’t remember being this flustered in a long time.
Sophie's soft cheeks blush as she lets me know how much she enjoyed our concert. She tells me she loves my music—I can’t help but recall the image of her at my show, singing along with me under the strobe lights. She’s stolen a special place in this rocker’s heart for sure.
Sophie had heard the news that my band got signed by a big time record company and congratulates me with an awkward hug before the bell rings. It gives me goose bumps. I want to follow her like a stray pup to her next class and talk about music. I want to stare into her beautiful, ocean-like eyes and find out her favorite color; her favorite food; if she has any brothers or sisters, but we only get to talk for two minutes—the best two minutes of my entire day.
Miss Heather is still trying to cling to me because of all the attention that Cellar Door Is Gone is getting. She loves it when the other students come up and ask me for autographs, but it’s a very strange concept for me. I actually find it kind of ridiculous, but I always oblige. I have friends that I’ve gone to school with since kindergarten who are now asking for my signature. It’s so weird.
Kyle pretends to be my assistant, and has the students form a line when needed, especially when hot girls are involved. I find myself putting my John Hancock on some really odd stuff—lunch tickets, a progress report, a volleyball, and you can't believe how many hands and arms.
My sis strolls up as I’m signing a group of students’ geometry homework. Kyle is in full personal manager mode and asks her if she wants to butt into the front of the line.
Megan just shakes her head. "Puhleeeease—like I need his signature. I taught that little squirt how to write his name when he was still using crayons.” She says with a coy attitude and big grin.
"Oh, so that's how it is?" Kyle laughs.
"Yup. That's how it is," Megan replies with a wink and continues down the hall, cool as a cucumber. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear that my sister is flirting with my best friend.
I quickly and literally shake that idea out of my brain before it scars me for life.
D.J. and Sam strut by as several students linger. The two football jocks break through the crowd that has gathered. "Oh, Forrest, will you sign an autograph for us?" D.J. mocks in a swooning feminine tone. He holds his hand over his heart looking as though he might faint at any moment.
"Sure, come on over," I dare. The wheels in my head are turning. Sam and D.J. take me up on the dare. Trying to humiliate me, the two football jocks lift up their shirts. D.J. is proud to expose his tanning- bed-tanned six-pack abs. And then there’s Sam. He exposes his pasty white stomach that’s bulging like a keg.
"Put it right here," D.J. says smoothly, pointing to his chiseled mid-section.
"Be glad to," I agree, nonchalantly. I begin to quickly scribble across their mid-sections with my permanent, black Sharpie pen. More students gather around the autograph session and begin to laugh and point as I finish up.
"What's so funny?" Sam asks dully, as he stands behind D.J. The volume of the laughter increases as D.J. and Sam turn to look at each other's supposed autographs. I watch a combination of fury and humiliation well up on their faces as they quickly pull their jerseys down and storm off to the boy’s bathroom. I had written on each of them with bold, black, indelible marker: I'M WITH STUPID with a big arrow pointing straight up.
“Who’s Stupid? I don’t get it, D.J.,” Sam mumbles. He’s clueless.
Yes. Sweet revenge—a dish best served well-chilled!
Our school week wraps up and Saturday night rolls in. Our main man Frank scored the boys and me tickets for the hottest concert in town. I almost flip when he tells us who we are going to see. It’s my all-time favorite band in the history of metal bands—the mighty Metallica!
I’ve actually been called mini-James Hetfield by disc jockeys. It’s a thrill and honor since the Metallica front man has inspired me so greatly. We even share the same birthday—August third. He doesn’t know it, but I consider him my soul rock-bro for sure.
Megan generously offers to drive the whole band to the B.O.K. Center for the concert. It's no secret that Jake, Randy and Cody love the way she harmlessly flirts with them. It’s something that I can do without, but Megan is paying for the gas, and at $3.59 a gallon, I’ll gratefully let her. I know that Mama won’t let me drive solo in the city at night, so I have to put up with it for the evening.
As usual, Jake, Randy and Cody are running late again. Megan and I have to wait over fifteen minutes for them. I tell the boys that I’m sure they’re gonna to be late for their own funerals. I can’t help but be frustrated. I know the line for the concert is going to be huge.
I figured correctly. Megan drops the boys and me at the B.O.K Center and, just as I thought, the line winds more than half way around the immense arena. The crowd is heavy metal—just our style. Many of the concert goers recognize the boys and me. We take pictures with several fans and visit with Phil and Brent, the D.J.s from our local radio station, KMOD. They were the first D.J.s to play a Cellar Door Is Gone song on the air. We were just twelve years old.
The two brash comedians love to tease us about our age. In our last interview, they razzed me about the peach fuzz on my chin and asked me how in the world my voice could be so deep since I hadn’t even hit puberty yet-—good old Phil and Brent.
We wait outside the venue for over thirty minutes. Randy is hungry and complaining about the long line. He’s going on and on about hot dogs and cheese pretzels when I hear my name being called out by a sweet voice. I lean around the snaking line and see a bright, shining, familiar face. It’s Sophie!
"Forrrrrest!" she yells, as she makes her way down the disorderly line, eventually hugging each of us. "I knew you'd be here!" Sophie beams. She looks cuter than ever. "Hey, you guys. Follow me. I'll get you into the building."
We all follow closely as she leads our group with confidence. She looks so adorable in her black leggings, Metallica hoodie, and turquoise blue chucks. I love the way Sophie looks, but more than that I am in with love her positive personality and giving spirit. She’s so bubbly and friendly. She’s soooo different from Heather.
Sophie continues to lead us down a chrysanthemum-lined sidewalk that brings us to a side door of the slick, glass-paneled building. A guy that looks like he’s in the Secret Service promptly opens the door as Sophie flashes the laminated pass that hangs on a neon pink Hello Kitty lariat around her neck.
"My dad works for the B.O.K. Center and gets the best tickets to the concerts and shows," she informs us, with a humble shrug of her shoulders.
“This is freakin’ awesome! I can’t believe we don’t hav’ta stand out in that long line!” Jake exclaims.
“Where are your tickets?” Sophie asks, getting down to business.
“We’re in the nosebleed section,” I admit with disappointment.
"Not anymore," Sophie declares, as she plucks our tickets from our fingers one by one. She leads the boys and me down a dark ramp that opens up to the glorious floor-seating area.
Sophie directs us to our new, plush, upholstered seats just four rows back from the stage. I think I might actually hear a choir of angels singing as I realize just how close we’re going to
be to the stage.
"Is this okay?" she asks, with a sly smile on her pretty face.
"Is this okay? Is this okay? Yes, I do believe this is very okay!" I hug Sophie, lift her off her feet and swing her around. She lets out a giggle and a shriek, just like Mama always does when I’m being ornery and pick her up.
"Well, at least we don't have to pack a lunch for our trek up the stairs," Cody interjects dryly. I set Sophie back down and we connect with a perfect snapping high-five.
"Speaking of lunch, I'm gonna go get a hot dog, a pretzel, some popcorn and nachos with jalapeños and a Diet Coke…Y’all want anything?" Randy asks. We all laugh in unison at his concession stand grocery list.
Sophie fits in great with my bandmates—just like one of the guys. On the other hand, I can never in a million years imagine my band buds hanging out with Heather.
We all settle into our prime seats for the best concert of our lives. It’s such a rush to be hanging out with someone of the opposite sex who likes the same music as me. Sophie is definitely a rad rocker chick.
I stand close by her side, sneaking glances at her perfect, angelic face. I notice her ears are gauged. They’re awesome—just the right size with small, light catching, aquamarine stones that match the color of her eyes. I have gauges, too. My mom was cool. She let me get it done, but made it clear I wasn’t to go over a double-zero. She understood I wanted an edgy look, but also knew I might get tired of having holes in my head someday. The size I gauged to could still close up if I left them out over time. One of Mama’s favorite quotes is from Thomas Jefferson: "In matters of style, swim with the current; in matters of principle, stand like a rock.” She has this quote hung up in my music room. I know exactly what it means.
The concert is beyond amazing. Sophie’s perfectly neat hairstyle gets mussed as she flings her head to the rhythm of the heavy metal songs. I love the way her cheeks flush as she rocks out. I find myself loving everything about Sophie. She doesn’t put on airs. What you see was what you get with her—I sure like what I see.
Just when I think the night can’t get any better, it does. As Metallica is finishing its encore song, James Hetfield looks my way. Holding up his guitar pick, the mega-rocker motions toward me. He launches the pic in the air. I reach up above the surging crowd and stretch open my fingers. To my utter amazement, I catch the tiny, treasured piece of silver-flecked plastic. I open my hand slowly, showing Sophie I’ve secured it.
"The pic of destiny!" Sophie screams with excitement. She puts her soft hands over mine. Her midnight blue fingernail polish sparkles under the stage lights.
I’m dumbstruck. "Thank you for one of the best nights of my entire life!" I yell to her over the roaring cheers of the rocking crowd.
"You’re totally welcome, Forrest. This is definitely the best concert I’ve ever been to—besides yours of course!" Sophie returns sincerely. She smiles back at me with a slight hint of shyness.
Sophie and I stand hip to hip, the crowd of thousands surrounding us seems to disappear. I recall the silly comment Randy had made about Megan and her perfume.
I understand now why he had that goof-ball look on his face. Sophie smells like sweet vanilla and fresh oranges. I stand next to her with a starry-eyed expression, inhaling the intoxicating scent that is Sophie. There’s nowhere else in the world I would rather be at this moment—I am officially crushin’.
As my band buds and I give our heroes, the mighty Metallica, one last standing ovation, I realize that I’m totally and completely falling for this cool, rocker-chick, marching band, amazing girl named Sophie.
Another boring Monday morning at school rolls around, and is creeping by as Mondays at school tend to do. I sit in history class doodling on my Civil War quiz and daydreaming about Sophie and the incredible Metallica concert. I reach in my pocket and pull out the “pic of destiny,” as Sophie had named it. I’ve officially made it my new good luck charm.
As I continue to draw little swirls and stars and zone out, I feel my cell phone vibrate. It’s cruel and unusual torture for the teachers to allow us to have our cell phones on us, all the while knowing if we’re caught using them during class time, they’re taken away. It’s like giving a five-year old a candy bar, and telling him to put it in his pocket until lunchtime—virtually impossible.
I know easygoing Mrs. Smith won’t confiscate my phone, so I retrieve my BlackBerry from my hoodie pocket, hold it under my desktop and click on the message screen. It’s a text from Mama.
Hey, Forrest! U r never going to believe where u boys are gonna be playin nxt Sunday… :)
She leaves me hanging in suspense until I retrieve the second message.
THE DALLAS COWBOYS!! Half-time at Texas Stadium!!! :0 Woo-Hoo!
I suddenly get dizzy with excitement. With shaking hands, I text Jake, Randy and Cody, who are sitting in the classroom with me just five rows back. The four of us race to Mrs. Smith's desk and request hall passes in unison.
Mrs. Smith is so flustered she drops her hall pass pad and crafty, silk daisy-topped ink pen. We’re flipping out and ready to celebrate the news. One by one, she writes out the passes. One by one, we spill out into the silent, empty hallway where Jake, Randy, Cody, and I begin doing an impromptu victory dance. We high-five each other and attempt to scream in raspy whispers. Two girls on their way to the office with attendance sheets see us jigging around and whisper-screaming. I’m pretty sure they think we’ve lost our ever-loving minds.
We do our best rendition of Jed Clampet’s Beverly Hillbillies hoe down. Cody grabs one of the leery co-eds and spins her around twice as though they’re at a local VFW square dance. The bell rings. The boys and I collect ourselves into one tight group hug before we float our way back into Mrs. Smith’s classroom to pick up our textbooks.
The rest of the school day seems to crawl along, but finally the last hour arrives. I can’t wait to share the news with my football team and the coaches, and when I do, they’re all so stoked for me. Except for D.J., that is. My football buds request an 8 x 10 glossy of the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders for the locker room, and Coach Bryan is completely blown away by the fact that I’ll be standing on the same field with the Dallas Cowboys and Baltimore Ravens. I revel in the sweet moment while D.J sulks by himself in the weight room doing bicep work. Coweta’s team jerseys are orange and black, but it’s clear D.J.'s only color is envy-green today.
After football practice, I head to Aunt Carmen's for band practice. I motor down the dusty dirt road with my radio cranked and flip through my iPod to find a Taylor Swift song that I’ve strategically hidden among my heavy rock tunes and metal music. Listening to Taylor Swift is one of my guilty pleasures. Taylor’s popular tune “You Belong With Me” blares as I belt out the chorus. There’s no one here to make fun of me. Only the generic, black and white Holstein cows chewing their cud lazily in the field are witnesses to my complete insanity. I think of Sophie as I sing along—the words remind me so much of her. I wonder if she has Taylor’s album. I’m sure she does. I wonder if she thinks of me when she sings along with the song. I hope she does.
When I arrive home, Dad meets me at the door. He wears a strange, controlled grin. "Bud, I’m beginning to think your rock-n-roll dream is starting to pay off. Your mom and I both are going to go with you to the Dallas game on Sunday.”
Are my ears deceiving me? Is my dad actually congratulating me on my band’s success? Mama just laughs and asks Dad if his excitement has anything to do with getting to see the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders up close and personal.
Dad smiles and says, "Maybe."
The day of the NFL game arrives with great anticipation. Our families are totally floored by the accommodations for us at Texas Stadium. We’re personally escorted to a green room. It isn’t even painted green, but is a term for the special waiting room reserved for V.I.P.s, or “very important persons.” It’s stocked with all the food and beverages we could ever want to consume.
Cody drinks five Red Bulls and is bouncing
off the walls. Randy’s in finger food heaven. My parents and Megan are thoroughly enjoying being exposed to "the good life." Jake and I explore the Sky Box that’s reserved for us. It looks like a fancy living room, complete with an overstuffed, off-white couch, big screen TV and glass coffee tables. Our families are going to get to watch the game here in luxurious comfort. Servers in crisp white shirts glide in and out, refilling trays ruffled with fancy green lettuce. We feel like rock-n-roll royalty as our parents toast us with a glass of complimentary bubbly.
Just before the game begins, Mama announces that she’s going to go down onto the field to take pictures of us during the half time show. She’s so very sentimental and loves taking photographs. Mama always has at least two electronic devices on hand at all times to capture special moments. Her reserve includes two camcorders, a flip cam, three digital cameras, a cell phone camera, an old Nikon 35 mm camera, plus a big bag of back up batteries and chargers for them all. Megan and I have nicknamed her “Mama-razzi.” She gets lots of, “Oh, Mom, that's enough pictures,” from Megan and me, but our scrapbooks are fat with happy memories that we’ll cherish in the years to come.
Our band is in place and set to play two Cellar Door Is Gone songs for the Dallas half time show. The Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders have even choreographed a dance to our new single, “Rocket.” The boys and I are so stoked. We aren’t as nervous as we thought we’d be, playing in front of sixty-five thousand football fans, because we get to lip-sync the songs. My vocals will be covered up by the professionally recorded track. We can all just chill and jam out.
Frank has a quick pep talk with us in the end zone. He makes an off-color remark about the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders provocative uniforms, and then sends us on our way with a “Do work soldiers!”
Jake, Randy, Cody, and I jump on the mobile stage. We’re mesmerized by the crowd. The diehard football fans look like tiny, fidgeting insects in the stands of the gigantic stadium. I inhale deeply and take in the view from the thirty-yard line. It’s absolutely breathtaking. I feel like I’m king of the world. Goose bumps rise on my forearms as my brain buzzes into killer rock mode.