Bobby Sky

by Joe Shine

  What could I tell them? For two years I’ve been trained by a super-secret organization, and their amazing plan to save the world is me joining your boy band?

  Then I remembered those stupid creative writing classes we had to take and an idea hit me. I couldn’t help but smile. I had this. It was easy. They wanted me to be myself, huh? Well, I was not Bobby Sky. I was Hutch and always would be. Hutch was the bad boy they were looking for. He was the reluctant rocker. So pre-FATE Hutch—all dirty, grimy, and unpolished—was the one who should answer this question.

  “I’ve been arrested nine times but only convicted four times,” I started. Then I raised my fist as I added, “Point of pride. No, I haven’t learned my lesson. You need money to eat, right? Either I get away with it and my folks and I get to eat a bit better for a while, or I get busted and then not only do I get three squares a day in juvie, but my parents don’t have to split up their paycheck to figure out how to pay bills and feed me. It’s a win-win.”

  All eyes were on me. No one took notes. No one blinked. I had them.

  “Today will also be the first time I’ve been allowed to sing in over two years without being afraid of being punished. My . . . dad and my family weren’t too fond of it, so I had to sing in secret, where I knew they couldn’t hear me. Said it was something I had to give up to become a man. I just like to sing, but when you live in the world I do, it’s not really something people respect. ‘Tough guys don’t sing,’ he liked to say. Figured this could be my chance to show my dad and the world, maybe they do. So I snuck away, hopped on a freight train headed north, and here I am. Oh, and I stole a car to get here from the station. I’ll return it when I’m done, hopefully before anyone notices. I’ll change the oil, check the tires—you know, Good Samaritan stuff—before I put it back. And that’s me. That’s who I am underneath it all.”

  “Any of that true?” Linda asked.

  “At least half,” I replied coolly.

  “Ha.” She chuckled. “Which half?”

  “Which half do you like more?”

  She smiled, enjoying the game. “A few more questions, if you don’t mind?”

  “Shoot,” I said, playing along.

  “If you weren’t here right now, what would you be doing?”

  “Running for my life,” I replied.

  They assumed I was joking, of course, and loved the response. If only they’d known the truth.

  “From who?”

  “The man, the fuzz . . . Take your pick. I’m a popular guy.”

  They got a kick out of that one, too, and one member of the audience quietly muttered to another, “God, I hope he can sing and dance.”

  “Who cares?” the hipster girl whispered back. “I can teach a fish to sing and dance. I can’t teach that,” she concluded, referring to what I assumed was my attitude and best attempt at smug swagger.

  “Would you say you’re a good person or a bad person?” Linda asked.

  “I’m a good person who’s good at being bad.” Man, that felt cheesy to say.

  More excitement from the crowd.

  Someone said, “He’s the genuine article. Wouldn’t even have to coach him.”

  “Ever been in a fight?” Linda asked.

  “Not on a Tuesday,” I replied, which was true. I’d never been in a fight on a Tuesday. It was my lucky day.

  “He’s so saucy,” a sweaty, gross, heavyset man in a suit said. I assumed that was a good thing, but I hadn’t heard the term before and made a mental note to google it later on. You lost touch with new slang at FATE.

  Linda looked at the others. “I’m sold,” she said, dropping her notepad to the table with finality. The others nodded in agreement. “I mean, assuming, of course, you can carry a tune?” she asked me. “You can, can’t you?”

  “I’ve been told I have the voice of an angel, ma’am,” I said cockily, though internally I’d gotten a bit nervous again. The singing was coming. Judgment was coming.

  “I bet. Okay, so what’ll it be? What tune will you grace our ears with today?” she asked me, playing along with my carefree, jokey attitude.

  It had taken Brance and me a long time to figure out what I should sing. I could hit a few notes really well, but as Brance liked to put it, my voice was “limited,” so it was tough to find something that worked for me. As a joke, I tossed out doing something from the ’80s. Like some GNR. On top of my mother’s Christmas carol obsession, she had a thing for ’80s metal, so I had one, too. I never thought my comment would ever be taken seriously. To be fair, it wasn’t either, not at first. But the more I thought about it, the more it made sense, so I pleaded my case.

  Brance, like most others, only saw ’80s metal as stadium-pumping, electric-guitar-screaming anthems, but there’s more to them than that. There’s heart in them. The lyrics are raw and unfiltered, but they’re real and relatable. More so than most music is now by a long way. Yeah, the heart of it is drowned out by bouncing hair, tight leather, pyrotechnics, and guitar solos that last for hours, but when looked at as words on a paper and nothing else, there’s real beauty to some of them. Once I showed Brance this, he was in.

  Now, I wasn’t about to go into the audition and unleash an electric guitar ballad on the panel, so Brance and I compromised. The song we chose was still decidedly “metal” because of the band, but for all other purposes it wasn’t. It’s a simple song about heartbreak, written in a laundry room, after a guy found out his girl was cheating on him. The guy? Bret Michaels of Poison. The song?

  “‘Every Rose Has Its Thorn,’” I said with a grin. By the reaction of the audience, Brance and I had made a wise choice. All smiles and head bobs in my direction.

  Meh.

  That was how I felt about the singing. I hadn’t butchered it. The dance number, though? Nailed it. Leggo woulda been proud. I even added a bit of Moonwalk at the end. You know it!

  After the song and dance show, I hung around for another thirty minutes, chatting with them about my life and upbringing, pre-FATE, of course. I held nothing back about my run-ins with Johnny Law, making absolutely sure to lay it on thick that I was the most legit bad boy they’d find with a heart of gold underneath. They’d bought it hook, line, and sinker.

  So while my singing hadn’t really blown them away, all were still convinced I had the genuine look and attitude they were going for. And I think this was before any extra greasing. They actually seemed to like me. It still felt weird, very weird. Linda herself walked me out and told me she’d “be in touch.”

  It’s strange how a few hours ago, heck, an hour ago I hadn’t given two craps about the boy band part of any of this; it was only what had to be done. Now that they actually liked me, though, I was sorta into it and, dare I say, excited?

  As I left the convention center, I passed by another group of excited youths heading into the auditions. I almost felt bad for them. Almost. They were all probably more talented than I was, and had probably been taking singing and dancing classes since birth in preparation for this moment. They honestly thought that if they were the best, they’d have a shot. If only they knew the powers that be were looking for a certain type rather than talent.

  “Suckers,” I called out to none of them and all of them as I headed toward the street.

  Claire was sitting on a bench waiting for me. I’d texted her I was done after Linda had walked me out.

  “So?” she asked.

  I bobbed my head. “Okay, I guess?”

  “When will they let you know?”

  I shrugged. “No clue. Now what?”

  She checked her watch and looked around. “Want to go to the aquarium? I’ve never been and hear it’s great.”

  Go to the aquarium? It was such a normal-person thing to do. So spur of the moment. It felt weird. I was so used to structure, a schedule that cannot be deviated from.

  “Shouldn’t w
e be going back?”

  “Do you want to?”

  “Not really.”

  She checked her watch again. “We have a few hours. Come on. We can grab a hot dog while we walk.”

  It took us a good thirty minutes to reach the Shedd Aquarium, but I didn’t care. The air was fresh and brisk as we grabbed some sodas and dogs from a vendor and took the route through the park to the famous Soldier Field. I’d been cooped up inside for so long I’d forgotten how big the world really was, or what normal everyday people looked and acted like.

  Two hours later, while watching the penguins play in the polar zone, we got the call. The gig was mine. All aboard the Sky train.

  Chapter 13

  The Missing Link ... Get It?

  Immediately after landing back at FATE, Claire escorted me to the elevators. From there, we were whisked to the hallway and into a round room—where there was nothing but a single circle of light on the floor with my name in it.

  Oh, memories.

  Claire pointed at the circle. She was about to speak when I cut her off.

  “Yeah, I’m not an idiot.”

  I moved into the light. A woman in a white nurse’s uniform scurried over from out of nowhere, holding a small syringe in her latex-gloved fingers.

  “What’s that?” I asked her.

  “Assists with the link.”

  “Link juice,” I joked.

  She didn’t laugh.

  “Ow!” I cried out when she stuck the needle into me.

  Her head jerked up. Her eyes were wide.

  I grinned. “Just kidding. Didn’t feel anything. Come on, lighten up.”

  Claire laughed at least, and someone was chuckling from somewhere behind me. A slow clap started, too. I spun around to look.

  Blake was walking toward me with a big smile, smacking his hands together. He was just so dang likable it was annoying!

  “That was funny, Bobby,” he said. “Well played.”

  I shrugged and repeated, “Couldn’t help it.”

  He stood over by Claire and asked, “Any questions, concerns, what-have-yous?”

  Of course, but none I’d bring up here.

  “All good,” I said. “Let’s kick this pig.”

  Blake walked over toward me and shook my hand. He looked like he’d recovered from whatever funk he’d been in at the cottage.

  “Best of luck, Bobby.”

  “Yeah, thanks. You too,” I added automatically like we all do. You too? What was wrong with me?

  “I eagerly await your first album,” he said before walking away and calling out over his shoulder, “I expect a signed copy.”

  “Do I get to keep the money I make?” It had only recently occurred to me I could be a millionaire soon.

  “Not a dime,” he called out before disappearing around a corner.

  Once he was gone, the creepy, appears-out-of-nowhere nurse was suddenly right next to me again, holding a black metal box that had a pair of those clear, plastic-looking science-class glasses. I didn’t wait for any go-ahead or indication of what to do. I grabbed the things and put them on.

  His name is Ryo Enomoto and he is from Shinjuku, Japan.

  I’ll admit it, I really didn’t know what to expect. Yeah, we’d all heard stories, but until you experience being linked, no amount of describing can do it justice. Basically, imagine that every single priority in your life vanishes and is replaced by one thing and one thing only. That’s the best way to explain it, I think. In my case, that one thing was to protect Ryo. There was nothing else. All I cared about now was keeping him safe. All of life’s other problems? Poof! Gone. I had one singular focus. It not only felt good; it felt right.

  Ryo was now the beginning, middle, and end of all my thoughts. His face was always front and center in my mind. He was good-looking with elf-like features and kept his hair shaved on the sides, but longer and slicked back on top. He was tall and thin, like borderline unhealthy thin. Like he’d had a growth spurt and his physique hadn’t caught back up yet. A gust of wind could knock him over. I only had images of him in my head but was well versed in reading people now. His eyes—and the way he held himself—confirmed that he was shy and nonconfrontational. Was it something in his head, or was it the fact that underneath those lips were some of the biggest, Chiclet teeth I’d ever seen? Wow, those were some honkin’ chompers. No wonder he never did more than smirk.

  I don’t really remember leaving the spherical room or even getting on the elevator. My mind was buzzing and too busy working through how quickly I could find him to worry about crap like walking. Now I understood why I had to audition first. No way I’d have even gone to the audition, let alone been any good. Finding Ryo and making sure he was okay was all that mattered to me now. I couldn’t rest until I did. All I knew was that he was in LA, so I had to get there like yesterday.

  Claire was waiting for me in my apartment with a stack of empty boxes. “Pack up whatever you want.”

  “Huh?” I had barely heard her. I felt like I was on drugs or something.

  “Anything you want is yours.”

  “Oh, right, yeah.” I didn’t move, though.

  “Are you okay?” She seemed genuinely concerned.

  “Yeah, a little out of it. Sorry.” I tried to shake it out. Not much help there, either.

  “How does it feel? I’ve always been curious.”

  “Like a crush, but without the love part. It’s like how I felt when I met Leggo. I wanted to see her so badly it hurt. Same for Ryo, but minus the ‘wanting to make out’ part.”

  Had I just said that out loud? I did, didn’t I?

  “Better get packing,” I blurted out, embarrassed.

  Clothes, gear, and a “care package” (wink, wink, my arsenal) would be sent for me so I didn’t have to worry about them. I didn’t want anything in the room, but I also didn’t want to not pack anything, either. Felt rude. I took all the Dr Peppers, in case they didn’t have any in LA, and all the Doritos. What? I like Doritos. Lie to me and say you don’t. Exactly, everyone likes Doritos.

  “Done?” Claire asked.

  “Guess so.”

  “Then let’s go,” she said.

  I picked up my box of munchies and headed out with her.

  “You do this for everyone?” I asked as we got on the elevators. It had been eating at me for a while. She was the boss’s assistant. Surely she didn’t see out every Shadow, right?

  “No, you’re special.”

  “Aww, thanks.”

  “When I told Blake that you hit on me when we first met, he insisted that I be around to motivate you.”

  “Sneaky.”

  “It worked, though, didn’t it?”

  I didn’t have the heart to tell her that my crush on her disappeared the moment I met Leggo, so I lied and told her, “It did.”

  We got on the elevator.

  “So why are you with me now?”

  “Seemed like the right thing to do. Why ditch you on the last ride?”

  “Thanks.”

  She shrugged. In a case of total déjà vu Claire led me down and outside the building, where the same two security guards and the golf cart were waiting for me. I eyed the one in the passenger seat until he reluctantly got out and slid around to the back. I hopped into the front seat like before.

  “Next time you see me, I’ll be famous,” I teased.

  “It will be strange,” she admitted.

  “How old are you?” I asked as the cart pulled away.

  “Thirty-four,” she called out.

  “What?!” I blurted out before quickly adding, “You look fantastic for an old chick!”

  She laughed as she called out, “Goodbye, Bobby.”

  The guards drove me deep into the woods again to the same private airstrip where the same row of bare-bon
es no-frills military cargo planes sat waiting. I climbed inside the one they dropped me off in front of, and strapped myself into one of the standard jump seats that unfolded from the walls. I wondered if it was the same one that had taken me to Chicago and shamed myself for not scratching my initials into the wall or something to mark it. Oh well. Unlike my last plane ride, though, I’d come prepared. I cracked open a Dr Pepper and ripped into a bag of Doritos. Plane snacks! And you thought I’d simply grabbed this stuff by accident. A little faith, please.

  I leaned back, as comfortably as one can, in the hard-as-stone seat and took a moment to reflect. This flight would mark my last and final hours as Robert Hutchinson. Once we touched down, I’d officially be Bobby Sky from Tyler, Texas.

  I’d pitched them Austin, since I knew the town pretty well and could answer any questions about it, but they’d shot it down. Yeah, I looked different now, but my mom, assuming the band took off and she eventually saw me, was going to freak out. Anyone I’d known back home would probably. Being from Austin would have been too coincidental for them to ever let it go, so I was from Tyler. Bonus time—if my mom ever did get a bug up her butt that Bobby Sky was actually her son, which he was, then they had plenty of lies and stories to convince her or anyone else that it wasn’t me. I knew, though, that if my mom really thought it was me, there was no chance in the seven hells she’d listen to them, and the only way to get her to drop it would be me telling her I wasn’t her son. Wasn’t looking forward to that and already hated myself in advance for doing it, even though I hadn’t even done it. No way I’d get through that conversation without crying. Yeah, I admit I’d probably cry, so deal with it. Hopefully it’d never get to that point.

  Nope. Hutch was almost gone now—nothing but a blip in the old memory banks. A typed-out line on the computer, highlighted and cut into nothingness. Nothing but screaming fans, private planes, and first-class livin’ for your pal Bobby Sky from here on out. No, seriously, this clunker was dropping me off at the Tyler airport, where I was flying first class to LAX. That’s right, the rich seats where the tray tables come out of the arms and you get served hot nuts. LA and, more importantly, Ryo, here I come.