Born to Rock by Gordon Korman

Author:Gordon Korman
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: ebook
Publisher: Disney Publishing Worldwide
Published: 2006-06-15T21:00:00+00:00

[15]

THE RADIO CLICKED ON, BLASTING ME back to consciousness with the pounding onslaught of punk guitar. Rubbing my eyes, I was surprised to recognize the song—Chemical Ali’s set opener, “Rigor Mantis.”

The digital readout on the clock came into bleary focus. 10:02.

10:02? That was impossible! Cam set the alarm for eight! We were supposed to be leaving for Phoenix at nine-thirty!

“Cam, wake up!”

I was alone in the hotel room. Cam’s stuff was packed and gone.

That jerk! He had deliberately changed the alarm so that I’d miss my ride to Phoenix. It was his revenge for catching flak from Bernie over the thing with Pete.

I called Bernie’s room, but I already knew it was too late. By now, the band was at Madame Tussauds, attending the unveiling of their wax likenesses. They were heading straight to the airport from there.

Frantic, I threw on clothes, crammed my stuff into my suitcases and backpack, and rushed downstairs. What an idiot I was to trust Cam! It was no secret that he hated me.

I stuck my head into the restaurant in the hope that one of the other bands’ crews had been delayed, and I could catch a ride with them. No such luck. The reality of my predicament was starting to sink in. What could I do? Take a bus to Phoenix? That would look great—rolling into town hours after everybody else. It would only prove to King that bringing me on tour was a mistake.

There was one more chance. I ran out of the hotel and threw my bags into a taxi. “The fairgrounds!” I barked at the driver. Maybe I could hitch a ride on one of the Concussed trucks—the big semis that transported the stage setup and sound system.

As we pulled onto the festival site, my heart sank. The speaker towers were gone, the stage and lighting arrays dismantled. There were no eighteen-wheelers, only the cars and vans in the campground across the way. This was home to the die-hard fans who were living on the road, following Concussed from city to city, crisscrossing the country in a summer blitz of punk and Porta Potties. And if the Concussed band members were a bizarre collection, their zealots were extraterrestrials. Picture several thousand headbangers living in tents and rusty old vans, sweating their way through all-day outdoor concerts. The black hole of Calcutta with body piercing.

That’s not to say everybody was bizarre. There were plenty of ordinary kids and young adults traveling with Concussed. The normal people seemed strangest of all—like Leave It to Beaver characters who had taken a wrong turn in the studio back lot, and had wandered onto the set of Planet of the Apes. My eyes fell on one preppy-looking polo shirt in the bathroom line, surrounded by Mohawks and safety pins on all sides.

“Stop the car!” I bellowed.

The shocked driver slammed on the brakes, and the taxi fishtailed on the gravel lane.

Not possible. You don’t travel twenty-five hundred miles from home to run into Owen Stevenson in a tent city outside Las Vegas.

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