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Eight

  October 15, Junior Year

  “Welcome to Radio-Free Flint!”

  With those words, Radio-Free Flint debuts in the parking lot of Southwestern High School on the night of the Homecoming dance on a perfectly crisp fall Michigan evening. We ripped off the name from Flint’s hometown antihero Michael Moore. I hope he doesn’t sue us, because we don’t have any money, my dad hates lawyers, and it’s the only name all three of us band mates liked.

  Alex, Sean, and I had spent most of the past week rehearsing in Sean’s basement. It was really the only choice, since Alex and his mom live in a small apartment. There was also no way we could have rehearsed at my house, since it would’ve meant changing the chorus of every song to incorporate my father yelling, “Turn that racket down!” Besides, God forbid our rehearsals interfere with something important, like waxing the Camaro for the thousandth time.

  I don’t get that about Dad. Even though I hate everything about his obsession with that damn car, I half admire that he cares about something so much. If he’s so damn passionate about an ordinary thing, why can’t he understand how much I care about my band?

  The band has played a couple times at small parties some of the theater folks hosted, but this night is our official debut. Of course, we’d hoped it would have been inside the school, not in the littered parking lot. Sadly, Will Kennedy, Becca Levy, and the rest of the Homecoming committee hired a DJ, a mere spinner of CDs, and told us that our funk-punk wasn’t needed.

  So we’re having our concert on the concrete, between the yellow lines. This will literally give us street credibility. We aren’t full-blown punks or real rappers, but we share their attitude; outside, looking in suits us perfectly. Our sound is a blistering blend of Sean’s and my punked-up funk rhythms, Alex’s machine-gun heavy-treble guitar, and my shout-and-sing vocal style.

  We borrowed my dad’s purchased-for-an-emergency generator. Well, “borrowed” might imply that I asked permission and he agreed, so I guess “stole with the intention of returning” is a more accurate description. We shoved it in the back of the Crown Vic, which has a trunk that could sleep twenty, and set it up while everyone was at the football game. We used Alex’s car and Sean’s silver SUV as curtains to hide the gear.

  As the Southwestern student sheep move toward the gym, Sean starts thumping the big bass drum to create a thundercloud of rhythm raining over students and proud alumni just across the circle driveway.

  Once we reach a critical mass, Alex and I slowly back up his car and Sean’s SUV to “open the curtain” on our little makeshift stage. We turn the cars at just such an angle so the headlights act as our spotlights. We cut the engines, and then bound out of the cars. Alex plugs in the Gibson, creating a wailing wall of screeching feedback that sounds more beautiful to me than anything on earth. I strap on my bass, then clutch the microphone like my life depends on it, and in a way, it does. I have imagined this moment for years. I wink at Kylee, who’s wildly adorned in a skin-tight blood red dress, then leave the fringes for center stage.

  We fire off with Alex’s best song (“Matter of Fact”). Alex and I fought about the set list until he came to pick me up. He wanted to only do his songs, but I fought for one classic cover because for all my “don’t give a crap” complaining, I really want everybody to like us.

  Except for that, Alex and I disagree on very little, about the band or anything else. We are not soul mates or fraternal twins sent to different homes, but rather Siamese twins separated at birth, once joined at the head. We must have shared one brain for a few years, since we think alike on just about everything except the merits of cover versions.

  For the debut, we decide we’ll do all his material, but we’ll end with a cover of “London Calling” by The Clash, a song older than me that’s still played on Ann Arbor alternative radio. We’ll change the title to “Burton Calling” to poke fun at Flint’s feeble eastside suburb. Alex’s angry opus (“Throw the Lions to the Christians”) about water walkers like Hitchings will be the encore.

  We never get that far. It is not long into our set before one very angry führer Robert D. Morgan comes upon the scene in all his blue-suited and red-faced glory.

  I signal to Alex and Sean to just keep playing. I know if there is a sound of silence, Morgan would loudly fill it.

  “You are creating a disturbance!” Morgan shouts, putting his hand over the microphone. “You are not authorized to do this!”

  “We wanted to play inside, but they wouldn’t let us,” I yell at him as Alex cranks up the volume on the amps. Morgan just looks at me. He’s used to deference, not defiance.

  “You are not allowed to do this!” he repeats to me, close enough for me to enjoy the moist mix of his spit with my sweat.

  I turn my back on Morgan and we keep playing. Morgan might own the school in the day, but tonight, his students and his parking lot belong to us. We have gathered quite a crowd, and they’ve not been standing still. They’ve been moving to the music, with Kylee and some of her girlfriends from Central up front and leading the way. Kylee would periodically stop spinning like a red top long enough to capture images of the band with Sean’s digital camera. On this one night, I have never felt so free or powerful, so it’s no wonder I’m not afraid of Morgan.

  Before we launch into our next song, Alex’s epic ass-kicker, “Trinkets,” we lose our power, literally. Morgan’s security stooges have shut the generator down. “I’ll see you three on Monday,” are his departing words to us, very cool, very in control.

  I never acknowledge him. He is nothing to me. I’ve pulled back the curtain of fear.

  “May I have your attention!” I shout, crawling on the hood of Alex’s Crown Vic. “We’ll do the rest of the set tonight in the parking lot of Kmart at ten thirty.”

  “That was great. We should have had you guys play inside,” Becca Levy says to us as she and a bunch of her not-so-geeky popular-crowd girlfriends applaud wildly.

  “That was cool with Morgonzo,” Will Kennedy says; he’s this strange half-jock and half-jazz-band creature. It’s clear many of my fellow Spartans liked our clash with Morgan.

  I shake a few hands, but sadly no autographs are requested. I take the Fedora off, wipe the sweat off my forehead, pull the rubber band from my hair, letting the ponytail explode and my hair cover my damp shoulders. Kylee comes up, giving each of us a big hug, and then embarrasses me with a huge public kiss, which I think was for Becca’s benefit, not mine.

  “Kmart on Miller Road, right?” Will asks, and I answer him with a high five.

  “Let’s get going,” I say, my passion for the moment far too obvious.

  “I gotta break this stuff down,” Sean whines, although I detect more of a whiskey odor.

  “What’s the rush?” Alex asks as he tucks the Gibson into its case. “We got time.”

  “We have an errand,” I say, picking up Sean’s cymbals and putting them in his SUV.

  “What’s up?” Alex asks.

  “We’re gonna send Morgan a little reminder.” My face is almost fluorescent. “We’ll take Alex’s car, get the goods, and Sean and Kylee, why don’t you just meet us there.”

  “Where is there?” Sean asks.

  I’m halfway into Alex’s car when I shout back, “The Rock.”

  The Rock is a Flint tradition. Located down the street from Southwestern, it is a small concrete structure that houses water pumps, or something like that. It doesn’t matter what is on the inside, because only the outside matters; it is a canvas for every celebration or cause. There has to be a thousand coats of paint on it. We’ll be one-thousand-and-one. This might be Homecoming, but I’m not coming home; instead, I feel like I’m starting to come into my own.

  After a quick run to a hardware store off Fenton Road, we have an ample supply of white and black paint, plus brushes and two flashlights. Sean is sitting on top of the Rock when Alex and I get back, while Kylee is in the car writing in her ever-present journal. I hand her the set list, which she t
ucks away inside the purple binder as a keepsake. It takes the three of us less than an hour, which will give us enough time to get over to the Kmart parking lot for our encore set.

  We sit on top of the Rock, watching the cars exiting early from the Homecoming dance. When their headlights shine on the Rock, the stark white background reflecting and pushing out the thick black letters, they’ll get the message. I just know this is the way that Morgan drives home to his cozy suburban castle in Grand Blanc. We have the last four words in black block letters, each one almost two feet high, loud and proud enough for Morgan, Hitchings, and his fellow gridiron goons, and all the gods and goddesses of Southwestern High to see:

  RADIO-FREE

  FLINT FOREVER

  Nine

  October 16, Junior Year

  “Was it worth it? Gimme a hell yes!”

  Alex agrees, clinking his Vernor’s ginger ale bottle against mine as we toast our Kmart musical conquest and Morgan clash of the night before. Not only did our contraband concert get us uninvited to school, which is more vacation than punishment, it also got us invited to Will Kennedy’s house for a party, where some people who once scorned us now celebrate our success.

  “Where’s Sean?” I ask Alex because we’re both worried about him. He’s upset about the suspension, plus he just got dumped by his latest squeeze.

  Kylee emerges from the basement, talking with Will and his friend-but-not-girlfriend Becca. Kylee’s no doubt been dancing downstairs; her violet hair is damp, and she probably doesn’t realize she’s just a few drops of sweat on her tight white tank top from winning a wet T-shirt contest.

  “Great party, Will!” Kylee says, giving him a quick hug, oblivious to his embarrassment.

  “Thanks for coming, guys,” Will replies. “Bret, if you ever need a backup drummer—”

  “Sure thing!” Alex cuts him off and down with a sarcastic smile, which Will misses as he heads toward the door to greet more guests. I notice Kylee watches him walk away.

  “I hate that guy,” Alex says once Will is out of earshot.

  “He seems cool enough,” Kylee says sharply. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Just look at him,” I answer. “He doesn’t know who he is: half jock, half jazz, and—”

  “All jerk. The only letters he knows are the ones on his jacket,” Alex declares.

  Kylee frowns. “Alex, relax, you don’t need to prove you’re cool to me; I get it.”

  “I’m going to go find Sean,” Alex says, no doubt biting his tongue. I feel like I’m playing a game of monkey in the middle as Alex and Kylee fight for my time and attention.

  “He was downstairs playing DJ while I danced,” Kylee says.

  “Downstairs,” Alex repeats, makes a drinking motion, and then walks away.

  “Alex doesn’t like me, you think?” Kylee says as we move outside to the porch where the smokers are gathering and grinding to techno music to fight off the evening chill.

  “That’s just Alex. You’ll get used to him,” I say, then collapse into an empty chair.

  “Like your dad did, right?” Kylee replies as she starts moving to the music. As she sways, putting all the helpless dancers to shame, I’m overcome by how free she is in front of others and in her own home. Her parents treat Kylee and me like adults, not little kids. They know what’s going on in their daughter’s bedroom, yet according to Kylee, they say nothing. Her parents are hands-off about my putting hands on their daughter, letting her do just about whatever she wants, like some weird opposite world of the harshly ruled Hendricks household.

  Since Kylee’s never been any farther into my house than the driveway, she’s yet to meet my parents, which is fine by me, although Mom says she wants to meet her. One day soon, I’ll need to teach Kylee a lesson in Hendricks Family History 101: the men drink (although my father is sixteen years sober) and work deadend jobs. I don’t desire to do the dirty work my brother and father and grandfather before have done, from hanging drywall to working in car washes to getting splinters at a lumberyard, or any other work that breaks the soul and back at the same stupefying speed. I don’t plan to live and die every day in Flint like them.

  “What’s with Sean tonight?” Kylee asks as she finally dances back over next to me.

  “He said he broke up with his girlfriend,” I say, choosing to ignore his occasional alcoholic overindulgences that convert him from shy-but-self-confident Sean into some asshole alter ego.

  “Too bad for that sweet kid,” Kylee says. She likes calling all of us kids since we’re all juniors and she’s a senior. “Sean’s a good-looking guy; he’ll get somebody else.”

  “I guess.” I squirm in my seat, wondering why it’s OK for Sean to ticket Kylee as tenriffic all the time, but her making comments about him churns up my envy engine.

  “What’s his story, anyway?” Kylee asks as she sits down on my lap.

  I pull her closer. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean other than hanging with us, he seems like just another future frat boy.”

  “You’d have to ask Alex; he’s closer with Sean than I am,” I say, unsure why I’m so uninterested in sharing what I do know about Sean’s divided life with her. Two sets of parents and two sets of influences: the Lexus and Rolex bunch he’s born into, and the Radio-Free Flint faction into which he fittingly belongs, not to mention his Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Jack Daniels duo.

  “He’s like us, hating all the pathetic posers out there,” Kylee says, her confidence in her opinions total, especially when I nod in agreement. “Overall, I’d say that Sean’s pretty cool.”

  “Maybe,” I say with a shrug. I won’t tell Kylee, but I know Sean finds his fellow mall-shopping SUV-driving set a bore, with their ideas and opinions stamped out like another GM assembly-line part. He can’t bring himself to reject the trappings of his parents’ privileged life, but he can’t bring himself to embrace the mainstream. Like me, Sean admires Alex’s in-your-face existence, but Sean doesn’t want to deal with the bullyboys, like Hitchings from his block, who have started to arrive at the party and invade the back porch.

  “Hey, dance with me,” Kylee says, leaping up and then extending her arms.

  “K, I’m exhausted,” I say, producing on her bottom lip a pout of pure beauty, which overwhelms my chores in the morning, band practice in the day, and ushering at night weariness.

  “Let’s show these lug nuts what a real dancer looks like,” Kylee says, then starts spinning small circles again on the porch, while some of Will’s baseball buddies giggle at us.

  “What are you looking at?” I say to the group while looking at the ground.

  “What do you think?” Jack Bison, one of Hitchings’s closest cronies cracks.

  “Let’s blow,” I tell Kylee, but she’s still dancing for her pleasure and my enemies’ benefit. She’s showing off, and showing them that, unlike me, she’s resistant to their ridicule.

  “She can stay Hendricks, but you’re welcome to leave anytime,” Bison says. I put my hand in my pocket and flip him off, but say nothing, since outwitting Bison would be child’s play.

  “That faggot wouldn’t know what to do with a hot chick like that, anyway,” Hitchings’s voice booms behind me. He’s standing in the doorway between the porch and the house.

  “Come on, Kylee, let’s go,” I say, clutching her hand tightly.

  “She’s fine,” Hitchings slurs.

  I’m frozen in the heat of the moment. The only way out is through the door that Hitchings blocks with his massive frame. I’m trying to figure out what to do to get by Hitchings without humiliating myself in front of Kylee. I’m frozen in space and time when I notice Sean whisper something to Hitchings, who grunts, then steps away. Sean motions for us to join him, so Kylee and I slip by Hitchings, who manages to give me a slight shove. As I balance myself, Hitchings laughs loudly and then points his nose toward the sky. “I smell chickenshit.”

  As Kylee and I cross the threshold, I know he’s just a creep. But he’s also
correct.

  Ten

  October 22, Junior Year

  “Bret, come on inside.”

  I enter school counselor Mrs. Pfeil’s office without much enthusiasm. It’s my first day back in school after Morgan’s four-day suspension, although Sean somehow talked his way out of it, no doubt using skills taught to him by his lawyer parents. It is my second suspension and our school has a three-strike policy. I’m one more screwup away from kissing my career at Southwestern good-bye. I’ll be shipped to an alternative school, where Flint’s future felons, freebasers, and other losers labor their way toward a GED. As much as I hate it sometimes, I don’t want to leave Southwestern, Alex, or Sean behind.

  “What do you want to talk about today, Bret?” she asks. Unlike Morgan, she seems to really want to help me, but I’m beginning to think I’m hopeless.

  “Let’s talk about why Morgan hates me.”

  “Well, Bret, Mr. Morgan seems to think you have a problem with authority.”

  “Well, it’s like Stone Cold Steve Austin used to say: ‘I don’t have a problem with authority because I am the authority!’” I do the Stone Cold salute, arms raised, although I leave out the upturned middle finger. Mrs. Pfeil laughs at the performance.

  “You’ll have to help me here, Bret, who or what is ‘Stone Cold’?”

  Professional wrestling is my not-so-secret passion. Even though I don’t really like sports, I appreciate the athletic effort that goes into wrestling, whether it’s real or not. Add cool, larger-than-life characters, some great storytelling, and the drama inherent in banging a steel chair across someone’s head, and you have almost everything I like rolled into one total package.

  “Tell me about Stone Cold,” Mrs. Pfeil says. Her pearl necklace suggests she’s probably more a fan of theater-in-the-round than the squared circle. She’s all business-suit style, but my rough rags don’t bother her.

  “He’s a pro wrestler. His real name is Steve Williams,” I explain, excited that someone is at least pretending to be interested. My father hates what he calls “rasslin’,” and my mother rolls her eyes and leaves the room. Even Alex parts ways with me on this one. When the band formed, I told them Monday nights were off-limits for rehearsing because I needed to be in front of the TV watching the WWE’s Monday Night Raw show. Not even Kylee can rip me away, and I’ve never had any luck trying to get her to watch what she calls “beefcake ballet.”