Fat kid rules the world Page 18
The whole parade could not be more absurd and I can’t help but grin. I take one look at Curt and I can tell he’s having fun. He’s pretending to be pissed as hell, but I know he’s having fun. There’s no way he needs a wheelchair, but even that makes me grin. Leave it to Dad to keep the rules straight even when he’s bending them.
They reach the top and Curt ditches the chair. He stands before me, trying to pretend he hates my guts. “Your dad fucking kidnapped me,” he says at last, glancing over his shoulder. I shrug.
“We’re on in two minutes.”
“He made me leave the hospital and dragged me here while I still have a temperature….”
“You better start if you’re going to warm up, you know,” I say. “They’ve already called ‘time.’”
Ollie slides up behind me with Curt’s guitar.
“You’re late,” he says. “And there are A-and-R guys in the audience tonight. Saw ’em up front. Two old geezers trying to dress like the Sex Pistols.”
He hands Curt the guitar and it’s the moment in the movie when the music swells and none of the actors say anything, but everyone knows what’s going to happen.
Out front the announcer’s voice is whipping the crowd into a frenzy.
“Back from the dead, for one final performance, straight from the psych ward, in the custody of the military police, with one last shot at free expression before being dragged away to jail …”
I look at Curt.
“We’re going to be huge,” I tell him. “Fuck the weatherman, we’re going to be huge!” He gives me a weird look, but I don’t have time to explain. They’re calling our name. There’s a chant rocking The Dump and it’s our name—Rage/Tectonic. I nod at Curt.
“Let’s have this conversation.”
This time I lead. I slide in behind the drum set and let my huge ass sprawl over the chair. I’m the poster boy for obese drummers and I know I look funny. I lift my arms high above my head and hold them there, flesh dangling, waiting for Curt’s signal. I have two seconds to look out over the audience. A moment of time to see all the twisted, bony, warped parodies of hands reaching for me. A flash of timelessness to see my father and brother standing backstage waiting to hear what I have to say. I have two seconds to look at Curt and see the wicked grin on his face.
Then my arms are crashing down and for the first time, live and in public, the drumsticks snap against the skins.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to gratefully acknowledge the artists who inspired this book: Kurt Cobain, whose life and lyrics said, “come as you are,” and J. D. Salinger, who asked if we knew who the fat lady was. My special thanks to Mark Partridge, whose literary advice and musical expertise have been invaluable. I’d also like to thank my editor, Kathy Dawson, for her untiring enthusiasm, and my agent, Ginger Knowlton, for making all the phone calls. Thanks to all my fabulous readers, but especially Laura Blake Peterson, Nicole Kasprzak, Joanna Durso, Rob Pellecchia, Edward Necarsulmer, and Chris Celestino. Thanks to Kendra Davis for teaching me about the drums, and to Julie Litwiller-Shank, Dave Haldeman, Laurie Longenecker, and Mary Bettens for patiently answering my medical questions. Thanks to Maria Bedard, April Celestino, Al Smiley, and Carol Daley for their continuing belief in my work. Finally, my deepest love and appreciation go to my parents, Linda and William Going.
K.L. GOING lives in Beacon, New York. Since graduating from college, she has worked as an adult literacy tutor, a ticket agent for an airline, a front-desk clerk at a resort hotel, and a bookstore salesperson. Currently, she works in a Manhattan literary agency. She has lived in Maine, Oregon, Pennsylvania, Louisiana, and New York City. This is her first novel.
You can visit K. L. Going at www.klgoing.com