Breakout (19 page)

The sunlight streaming in …

The inmates rushing the guard towers …

And also the glares and shouts of the teachers once the dust settles. And then the suspending and grounding and lecturing …

But
who cares
what happens afterward? So I’d be sentenced to my room … I could sit in there and relive that amazing night onstage over and over! Watch the viral videos on YouTube. Who cares if we can’t play the Spring Arts Night? We’ll just go to the Philippines to play, or at least the Vera Project. For a sold-out show because everyone in town will have heard what happened, and after that maybe even on to New York …

The
Consequences of My Actions
would be worth it.

And I’d be true to the song. To all the people who believe in it. And to myself.

And so I nod to my band of brothers.

“Okay,” I say.

That night at dinner we are halfway through our chana masala when Mom asks:

“So, did you decide?”

“Oh …” I shove in a bite of brown rice, then chew, then swallow. Here we go.

“I’m going to change the lyrics,” I say, and the mission is officially launched, our Allied march to the Elbe. You can almost feel the relief in the room.

“What are you changing them to?” Mom asks.

“I don’t know yet,” I say. “I’ll figure it out. We have practice tomorrow.”

“Ms. Rosaz had a good suggestion, I thought,” says Mom.

“Mmm,” I say.

“Well, I think that’s the right choice,” says Dad, “and then you still get to play the show, which will be great.”

“Yeah,” I agree, but this whole grown-up-approval thing is still annoying and so I can’t help adding, “A real musician wouldn’t have to, but whatever. I just have to accept it.”

I get ready for the blowback from that comment, but Mom and Dad let it slide. Everything is solved, everyone is happy, and no one suspects the truth.

Thursday. BandSpace is still rocking along:

There’s a new comment from someone in Bahrain. I have to map it online to figure out where that even is.

The Middle East.

Awesome!

“We’re gonna hit five thousand plays by Arts Night,” says Keenan at our lockers.

“Yeah.” I am looking around at the passing kids, and once again I pretty much have no idea what to expect from everybody, but then I start to see that today’s thing is kind of a hybrid of yesterday and the days before. People still aren’t talking to me about the song like they used to, but instead of kinda ignoring me like they did yesterday, today they are doing this saying-hi-and-smiling-nodding thing. It’s almost like everyone has turned into miniature Ms. Tiernans and I am the richest handsomest parent to ever walk down the halls.

“Hey, Anthony.” Two eighth-grade girls, Maddie and Taylor, by our lockers. Big smiles.

“Hi, Anthony.” Blake and Natty outside science class. Big nods.

“Hello, Anthony.” Mica bobbing his head at our social studies table, like he’s listening to our music in his mind.

This can only mean one thing, so when I see Skye at lunch, I say: “You told everyone, didn’t you.”

Skye grins. “Not
everyone
. Just the kids I knew could handle it. And look.” She swipes at her phone, then holds it out. There’s a virtual invitation on the screen.

“Sixty three is more than enough to make it
insane
,” says Skye. “And don’t worry, I’ve told them all what they’ll be singing, and sworn them to secrecy.”

“Great,” I say. I guess I should have expected something like this, with Skye involved. But it’s a little weird, because when people were just psyched about the song, it was something I had already done, but now they’re psyched about something I’m going to do, and so there’s pressure. But I remind myself that it’s pressure to be a hero, and that’s a good thing, except for how it’s making me feel crazy inside.

Finally that afternoon we get to practice. It’s amazing that, only a week ago, we were here and waiting for Sadie and I hadn’t even come up with the Flying Aces part yet or the lyrics, that “Breakout” didn’t even exist.

Mr. Darren isn’t there yet, so Keenan and I start getting the loops of cable out of the blue plastic bin, setting up the PA and mics. You can’t get me to clean my room or anything, but setting up and putting away music gear is totally different. It matters that it’s done right.

I grab the silver mic stand from the corner and set it up on
the lowest level where Sadie would usually be but then realize that it’s going to be mine today. I look up at my normal spot on the high back level and wonder where I should stand. Do I come down to the front now? Or is that making some kind of statement like I’m a big shot? That could be weird. So I put the stand up at my normal spot and then a music stand beside it.

Mr. Darren walks in. He’s on the phone. “Look, I’ll see what I can do,” he says with a sigh. “We can live without a sound check. We’ve played the Tractor how many times? No … I know you like to dial in the stage sound, it’s just, Camille has this math night at school.…”

He notices us listening and I see that expression on his face, the tired-grown-up one. “We’ll chat later.” He hangs up, checks the time on his phone, and says, “Oh hey, didn’t realize I was running late.” Then he smiles. “Mr. White, Mr. Novoselic, nice to see you.”

Normal Mr. Darren is back but I feel bad for him about that phone call. He’s trapped in a stalag too, trying to play his music but having a family and even things like teaching us in the afternoons get in the way. And all that plus gigs at the Tractor on a Thursday are probably not what he dreamed about as his life in music. He mostly wears the same couple outfits every time we see him, and that’s probably something to do with money. Maybe all that is why he wanted me to at least fight for the song lyrics at the meeting: because we are both artists who have to battle through so much to do what we love.

But maybe Mr. Darren and I are also different. He is on the has-been side and I am on the will-be side, or maybe I
should call it the could-be side. I
could be
the singer who sings the lyrics that matter when it matters most, who goes for it no matter what the cost, who takes the big risk for the big payoff and says what’s on everybody’s mind.

It’s like that on every level of
Liberation Force
. No matter how carefully you learn the sequence and plan your moves, there’s always some moment at the end where you just have to go for it and do something crazy, some ten-step combination of moves that also needs timing and luck, and is the
only
way to victory.

Also, if I play it safe, what if the chance never comes again? Everybody’s always saying to go for your dreams and not to let them slip away and isn’t
this
moment exactly what they’re talking about?

So, I am
not
going to sell out, I am not going to blow this chance, I am not going to end up a has-been. In Fat Class, Sergeant Mike says you can’t ever give in, you have to keep fighting, and really it’s all kind of the same, right? How I don’t want to end up dead on the end of a German bayonet is like how I don’t want to end up old and fat with the bad circulation or the heart attacks is also just like how I don’t want to end up arguing with bandmates about a sound check at the Tractor on a Thursday night instead of playing a sold-out arena.

“Thanks for running the cables,” Mr. Darren says, plugging in his Les Paul. “So, Anthony, first day on lead vox. You ready?”

“Yeah,” I say as I get Merle out of her case.

Valerie comes in.

“There’s Ms. Blackman,” says Mr. Darren.

“Hey,” she says, glancing around at all of us and I feel like too quickly at me.

“Hey,” I say back. It feels weird. Like I wish she wasn’t here.

She pulls her stick bag out of her stuffed blue backpack, adjusts the drums, and then warms up with a couple bars of “When the Levee Breaks.” It sounds so awesome. And that feels weird too.

But maybe that’s all because of what Mr. Darren asks next:

“So, how’d the lyric rewrite go?”

And now is the time in the mission when we leave Mr. Darren and Valerie behind.

“Good,” I say. “I changed them. I’ve got some new words to try.” I glance at Keenan to make sure he’s keeping his cool, and he’s tuning his bass like everything’s normal. Then I look at Valerie but she’s peeling a sliver of wood off her stick. I was maybe expecting a smile of approval. Maybe she feels bad now? Guilty that she had a part in me changing them. Whatever.

I put my notebook on the music stand and open to the page where I have crossed out the f-bomb lines and replaced them with Ms. Rosaz’s suggestion:

Forget this place
.

It’s a bonus feature of the plan that I am using Ms. Rosaz’s suggestion because it makes it seem like I value her opinion. Like I’m a nice little convert.

“All right, great,” says Mr. Darren. “Then let’s play ‘Breakout.’ ”

I put on Merle and step to the mic. I have to fiddle with the stand to get it far enough from my guitar that I don’t bump it, but then the mic has to be close enough to my mouth. I’m pretty sure mic stands are built by morons who aren’t good enough to get jobs working on drum stands. They have all these twist-tight things that never really work right. Just as Mr. Darren is turning on the PA, the boom on the stupid stand slips down and the mic thumps on the top of Merle and there’s this big pop through the speakers and then a whine of feedback.

“Sorry,” I say.

I fix it, then try to get into a position where I can sing and play, but then my guitar cable is stuck under the base of the stand. I bend down, but Merle bangs the stand, and it’s like, okay, forget it! Being the singer and guitarist sucks!

Then Mr. Darren comes over. “Just stand like you want to be, and I’ll get it worked out.”

“Thanks,” I say, but feel bad again. I don’t like him being helpful when he can’t know the truth.

“Ready?” Mr. Darren asks, returning to his guitar.

I check the positioning. “Yeah.”

Valerie nods and starts the kick on the quarter notes. She’s learned the version from online. She adds a simple hi-hat beat to it that sounds great too.

Keenan and I start the Killer G riff quietly, setting the
mood. My heart is racing and I’m totally sweating as the measures pass and I have to get ready to sing. Here it comes.…

I lean into the mic.

It comes out whispery and the tone is kinda right. Through a PA it’s not as cool as through a mic at home. Maybe I need to move back a little off the mic, but thinking about this makes me immediately lose track of what my hands are doing, and the Killer G riff falls apart.

Valerie and Keenan keep it together, but I suddenly feel like I’m thrashing around blind in dark water. Where are the bars? Where does the riff come back in? Oh, sing again now!

But my hands lose the guitar part again.

We train-wreck to a stop, a pile of derailed cars.

Crap! This whole thing feels like a terrible idea. What was I thinking? I’m not good enough to do both these things.…

“Don’t worry, Anthony,” says Mr. Darren. “Easy fix. While you’re singing, just strum a G chord at the start of each bar. Keenan and I can handle the riff. We need to clear some space in the tune for the vocals anyway.”

“Okay,” I say. He’s right. Even though I want to play the riff, that’s what the lead singer would do. Just keep it simple.

“Let’s try it again.”

I get a little further the next time, but then we crash and start again. My body is contorted weirdly to reach the mic, which makes it harder to make the chords with my finger, and then my throat feels tight and I need to think about relaxing to sing but then also keeping up with the tempo around me and remembering what chords come next, and this is while trying to sing the words not just on the right notes but also with the right emotion to them.…

I feel like I’m balancing on a circus wire, or maybe on a German motorcycle, a Zündapp KS750, and I’m careening down a twisty mountain road like in Level 21 of
LF
, escaping from the Bavarian Alps, being chased by SS on bikes and in biplanes. You have to steer the bike with one hand while at the same time holding a Panzerschreck bazooka on your shoulder, the one you grabbed from your partner, the British SOE agent who is dead in the sidecar. You’re trying to blow up Hitler’s home there, the Berghof, based on intel that he and his top commanders were meeting there, but your cover gets blown and so then you’re screaming down the valley trying to escape, and there is this moment where you have to get the Zündapp up to max speed and jump the blown-out bridge (and you have to jettison the sidecar and your dead mate to do it, which is something I had to read about online after crashing to the ravine floor like ten times and having biplanes strafe my broken body as the Mission Fail music played). Then as you make the jump you have to simultaneously fire your Panzerschreck and hit the sentry post hidden on a rocky outcropping above the far side of the chasm.