by Bill Myers
“But we have passes!” Mom reminded him. She, too, talked loudly, as if trying to talk over the concert noises.
Scott nodded, trying to get them moving even as he talked. “I know, Mom! But you’ve got to show your pass to the guy at the door before he’ll let you through! And before you can show your pass, you’ve got to get to the guy! And that’ll be harder with every second we wait! Come on!!”
“He’s right!” Becka nodded. “We’d better go!”
The three of them made their way to the stage door. As they got close, Scott leaned over to Becka and whispered, “What about Mom?”
“What about her?”
“Maybe she shouldn’t go back there with us. I mean, she doesn’t fit in and . . .”
Becka looked at him blankly. It was obvious she wasn’t going to help. “And what?”
“Well . . . you know.” Scott fidgeted. “What are we going to say? ‘Hi, Mike, we’re Scott and Becka, and this is our mom’? Nobody brings their mom backstage.”
Becka shrugged. “I don’t think that’s our decision, Scott.”
“What do you mean?”
“Z is the one who sent the tickets and the passes. He must’ve wanted her to come along.”
“What are you kids talking about?” Mom asked. Finally, her voice had returned to its normal volume. “If it’s what I think it is, you needn’t bother to discuss it.”
For an instant Scott thought Mom was going to be a sport and let them go by themselves. But then she added, “I’m going with you. Who knows what might be going on back there?”
Scott sighed. Great. Here he was getting to do practically the coolest thing in the world and his mom had to tag along. He felt like a ten-year-old.
It took a while to get through the horde of kids pressing toward the door — but not as long as Scott had expected. There was one very simple reason for that:
Mom.
“Excuse me, sir!” she called out above the crowd to the burly guard at the stage door. “We have backstage passes! Would you let us through, please?”
Scott knew that would never have worked if he or Becka had shouted it. Either the guard would have thought they were lying or everyone in the crowd would have pounced on them and tried to take the passes.
But with a mother in the lead, it was totally different. Scott watched in amazement as the sea of rough-looking, pierced, and tattooed fans parted to let them through.
The big guy at the door eyed them suspiciously — that was his job — but as soon as he saw the passes, he immediately opened the door for them.
As they stepped inside, they noticed a party going full blast. All kinds of strange and interesting people stood around talking and laughing. None of the band members were around, however.
Scott turned to a tall guy with long blond dreadlocks. “Hey, excuse me. Could you tell me — ?” he began, but the guy walked away without giving Scott a glance. Undaunted, Scott turned to a girl who had a fake ruby in her belly button and wore leather pants. “Miss, uh . . . could you tell me where to find the band? We’re supposed to meet them and — ”
But the girl was already laughing. “Don’t expect them for a while. It’s way uncool for them to show up at their own party any earlier.”
With that, she moved off toward a table of refreshments next to a huge bar. Scott shrugged and followed.
In the center of the table was a guitar made of salmon. The strings had been made with cream cheese and the tuning pegs were black olives on toothpicks. It must’ve been pretty good because several people scooped up crackers full of the stuff and wolfed them down. So, of course, Scott followed suit.
“Yuuuck!” he said loud enough to draw several disapproving looks. “This stuff tastes terrible!”
Now, even that wouldn’t have been so bad, but there were a couple of minor additions . . .
The first was when Scott tried to spit out the offending bite of salmon. The second was when he tried to get rid of the taste by eating some salsa. The green salsa. The extra-hot salsa.
He ran to the bar, hand over mouth, gesturing to the bartender for something to drink. The man started to hand him a beer but caught Mom’s disapproving look and changed it to a bottled water. It didn’t matter to Scott . . . as long as it was cool and wet. Anything to put out the fire.
After gulping down the water, Scott suddenly noticed at least a dozen people staring at him. He turned to Becka and whispered, “What are they looking at? We’re at a backstage party, for cryin’ out loud. Everything should be cool here. I mean, look at these people! Are you telling me you still have to do things a certain way or people stare?”
Becka sighed. “I think it’s called having manners.”
Before Scott could fire off a smart comeback, the room broke into applause. He turned to see the band’s arrival at the party.
They had on different clothes than the ones they had worn on stage. Some of the band members’ outfits were just as outrageous as their stage clothes.
Doland headed straight for the bar, where he ordered a double shot of whiskey, gulped it down, then ordered a beer.
Scott gawked. Tommy Doland, the lead singer of the Scream, was less than five feet away from him! Amazing! And, to top it off, Doland turned and actually looked at him!
He sees me! Scott thought. He’s going to speak to me. We’re gonna become friends!
Doland stared at him a long moment before finally speaking. “Get lost, freak!”
Scott’s mouth dropped open even farther. Everyone stared at him as if he had just thrown up in the punch bowl. It was a good thing there wasn’t a punch bowl there, or he might have done just that.
And then, to make matters even worse, he saw Mom making a beeline for Doland. Oh no! he thought. She’s coming over to defend me!
Fortunately, Mike intervened by walking up to Scott. “Are you Scott Williams? I’m Mike Parsek.”
Scott tried to answer. He knew his mouth moved, but no sound came out of it.
Mike continued, “Z is a friend of mine on the Internet. He told me you’d be coming. How’d you like the show?”
“Uhhh . . . I . . . uh . . . good . . . It was good.” Scott knew that he sounded like an idiot. He threw a glance at Doland. Fortunately, the guy had already forgotten him and was nuzzling up to a girl wearing an extra-large Scream T-shirt and platforms so high she could hardly walk in them.
Scott turned back to Mike. By that point, the drummer had turned to Becka.
“You must be Rebecca,” he said. He sounded a shade friendlier than he had with Scott. “How’d you like the show?”
Caught totally off guard, Becka did a repeat of her brother’s stellar performance. “Uhhh . . . I . . . uh . . . good. It was good.”
Mike laughed. “I can see a strong resemblance between you two. And this must be your mother,” he continued. “Hello, Mrs. Williams. How are you?”
Mom smiled warmly and shook Mike’s hand. “Very well, thank you. I’m not used to that sort of show, but I found it . . . fascinating.”
“Thank you,” Mike replied with a smile.
“Who’re your friends, Mike?” It was Doland, his arm draped over the girl in the T-shirt. He looked at Scott and smiled. Or was it a sneer?
“Lemme guess — they’re from your daddy’s church? Or maybe your Sunday school class?”
“Bug off, Doland,” Mike replied. He turned back to Becka. “Nice to see you,” was all he said before turning and walking away.
Doland snickered and also headed off.
Scott turned to Becka, looking disappointed. “That’s it?”
“I guess so,” Becka said, sounding as disappointed as he seemed to feel.
Scott shook his head. “So much for the world of heavy metal.” How was he going to tell the guys back home about this? What a bust! “I guess we should go.”
Becka agreed. “I guess we’ve done enough damage here for one night.”
“Do you think going to that concert was a bad idea?” Becka asked Mo
m. Scott had gone for a late-night swim in the hotel pool, leaving Becka and Mom alone.
“No, honey,” Mom answered. “The music was pretty loud though. I thought my ears would never stop ringing!”
“Some of the kids there kinda freaked me out a little,” Becka continued. “Most of them seemed really angry. Even the band members seemed angry.”
“Some of them were nice.”
“One of them was,” Becka corrected pointedly. “Part of me wants to get away from this place as fast as I can, but another part is saying that I should stop judging the Scream and try to help them. I must be crazy. I mean, these guys have the biggest-selling CD in the country, and I’m supposed to think they actually need my help?”
Mom smiled. “Maybe they do. Money doesn’t give you peace. It certainly doesn’t get you to heaven.” She paused, then said, “That drummer, Mike, came from a decent home. I could tell that just talking to him. But he’s mixed up with some pretty rough people. I can see why Z thinks he might get hurt.”
“So, what am I supposed to do?” Becka sighed. “Run away from the bad stuff . . . or stick around and try to help fix it?”
“I guess that depends on what the Lord is telling you.”
“What do you mean?”
“The Bible says we are to flee from evil.”
“That’s right,” Becka agreed.
“But it also says we are to help people, to bring light into the darkness. The trick is to know what God wants you to do and when to do it. If you find your light growing dim because you’re getting caught up in what the world’s doing, then you should flee. But if your light is shining brightly, then maybe you should stick around for a while and see if you can light up the place with the help of the Holy Spirit.”
“And how am I supposed to know the difference?” Becka asked.
Mom took a deep breath and slowly let it out. “I guess that’s between you and God, isn’t it?”
Becka nodded. As usual, Mom was right.
Twenty minutes later Becka was out on the balcony, all alone, staring out at the twinkling lights around Los Angeles.
She prayed silently. Dear Lord, things are really weird this time around. I mean, I know you want us to reach out to these guys. I know you love them as much as you love me. But . . . how do you do it, Lord? How do you wade through a mud hole to help someone without getting muddy yourself? I really need your wisdom, Lord. I need to know what you would have me do.
Becka paused for a moment, then continued. I guess, to be honest, Lord, I really need your heart too. I mean, I’m really tempted to just avoid the guys in the Scream. So help me see them — really see them — with the love you have for them. Thank you, Jesus. Amen.
She opened her eyes, suddenly aware that she felt better, but not because she had an answer. She was just as clueless as she was before she started praying. But she felt better all the same because she knew that the answer would come at the right time. And that was enough.
The Scream was back onstage before a packed auditorium as Mike blazed through his drum solo. Once again the great cannon began to vibrate as it prepared to fire. Only this time it was not disguised as a dragon. This time it was much bigger and far more ominous.
Becka sat in the audience cheering, when suddenly her expression turned to horror. A gnarled, twisted hand, more animal than human, snaked out from behind the curtain and moved the giant cannon until it was again pointed at Mike.
But he didn’t seem to notice it. He just kept playing, getting closer and closer to the climactic moment.
Becka screamed, but he didn’t hear her.
No one heard her.
And then it happened. Mike went into his final crashing pattern. Suddenly, flames shot from the huge cannon, engulfing him. He stood up, staggered, and fell to the stage. He was on fire, writhing in agony, rolling this way and that, trying to extinguish the flames. But nothing worked. Finally, his eyes met Becka’s. He reached out his burned hands. His charred lips muttered something. She couldn’t hear the words, but she knew what he was saying all the same.
“Help . . . me. Help . . . Please, help . . .”
Becka sat bolt upright, her chest heaving and her face bathed in sweat. She grappled for the light switch and turned it on. She was in bed in the room she shared with her mom. Her mom still slept peacefully in the double bed next to hers.
Becka pressed a trembling hand to her clammy face, trying to slow her pulse rate. The dream had been intense. But at least she had her answer. She would stay. Mike needed her to stay.
It made no sense — not as far as she could see. But as long as there was a chance that she could help, she would remain.
5
When Becka opened her eyes the next morning, the first thing she saw was Scott sitting in a chair at the foot of her bed eating a bowl of cereal. And the first thing she heard was: “You know something, sis, Frosted Flakes taste even better from room ser vice than they do from the box.”
Becka looked at him through sleep-swollen eyes. “You woke me up to tell me that?”
“Not just that,” Scott said. “I also wanted to tell you about my plan.”
Becka sighed. “This better be good.”
“No, listen. I’ve got an idea.”
“You always do.”
“Let him talk, honey,” Mom called out from the bathroom.
“Okay,” Becka mumbled, “so talk.”
“All right, here’s what we do. We check out of this fancy hotel and cash in the rest of the vouchers Z sent us for housing. Then we check into a cheaper hotel and spend the money at Disneyland.”
Becka rolled her eyes. “That’s your plan?”
“It’s better than going home. Or staying in this fancyschmancy place and not being able to do anything else.”
“I think we should stay where Z wants us to stay,” Mom said, coming into the room. “And I do have a little extra money.
Maybe later we could spend a day at Disneyland.”
But Scott wasn’t satisfied. “A day? I bet we could score enough on those vouchers to be there the rest of the week. Besides, Z only wanted us to stay here because this is where the band was staying while they got ready for their big cable TV show. And now that we’re not seeing the band anymore, what’s the point? I mean, this place is expensive. And for what . . . those little chocolates they leave on your pillow after they make the bed?”
“What chocolates?” Becka and Mom asked in unison.
Scott turned sheepish. “The ones I ate yesterday . . . all three of them.”
They were interrupted by a knock at the door.
“I’ll get it!” Becka said, throwing on her robe. “It’s probably the maid with more chocolates. I want to be sure I get some this time.”
But it wasn’t the maid. When she opened up the door, she found Mike Parsek standing there. And instead of chocolates, he held out a rose. “Hi,” he said, smiling at a very shocked Becka. “This is for you.”
Becka couldn’t say a word. All she could think about was her morning hair . . . her morning face . . . her morning everything. She tried to smooth down her hair.
Fortunately, Mom came to the rescue. “Mike, how nice to see you. Why don’t you come in for a while?” She nudged the dumbfounded Becka aside to let Mike enter the room. Becka flashed off into the bedroom to throw on some clothes. Any clothes would be an improvement over her robe and Crescent Bay T-shirt.
As she hurriedly dressed, all the while wishing that she had time to jump into the shower, she could hear her mom making small talk. “So, how did you find our room number?”
“Oh, Z gave it to me. I found it in my email this morning.”
“Cool,” Scott chirped.
“Anyway, I just came by to see if Becka would maybe like to go out for lunch.”
Becka had chosen that moment to make her entrance in her most flattering jeans and a top that matched her eyes. At first she was astonished by Mike’s announcement, then flattered, and finally a little bugged.
“I appreciate the invite, Mike, but . . .”
“But what?”
Becka shrugged. “I don’t know. Could I ask you one question first?”
“Fire away.”
“Why did you leave like that? Last night, I mean. As soon as Tommy Doland came over, you walked away without hardly saying a word.”
“Ah.” He nodded.
“And now you show up here with a rose and everything. I mean, I’m flattered, but . . . what’s going on?”
“That’s a good question,” Mike answered, “but not an easy one. Let’s just say that Tommy Doland is not someone you want to know.”
“You acted like it was you who didn’t want to know us,” Becka said.
“I know. It’s just that . . . well, sometimes he likes to make fun of my friends.”
“That’s pretty lame,” Scott muttered from across the room. He suddenly looked embarrassed that he had spoken aloud.
Mike looked at him, then nodded. “You’re right, it is. But if you give me another chance by going to lunch with me, maybe I can explain it better.”
“Okay,” Scott said. “I’m willing to give it a shot.”
Becka turned and glared at him. “I think he means me.”
“Yeah.” Mike grinned. “I meant Rebecca.”
Scott snorted in disgust.
“Sorry, Scott.” Mike shrugged. “But if you’re going to be in town, we could sure use some extra help setting up for the cable gig. Nothing too heavy. Just odds and ends. But we’d pay you twenty-five bucks an hour.”
“Twenty-five bucks an — ” Scott caught his breath and then tried again. Becka smiled as he did his best to respond with some semblance of being cool. “Okay, I’ll consider it . . . but only if you’ll sign some things for my friends that I brought from home.”
“Sure. And if you don’t mind, maybe I can throw in a signed copy of our latest CD for you.”
“You’d do that for — ?” Once again Scott’s voice cracked, and once again he fought to sound cool. “Yeah, uh, I think that would be all right.”