Power Chord

Power Chord

Ted Staunton

ORCA BOOK PUBLISHER

Copyright © 2011 Ted Staunton

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced
or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including
photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now
known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Staunton, Ted, 1956-
Power chord [electronic resource] / Ted Staunton.
(Orca currents)         

Type of computer file: Electronic monograph in PDF format.
Issued also in print format.
ISBN
978-1-55469-905-6

I. Title. II. Series: Orca currents (Online)
PS
8587.
T
334
P
69 2011
A
     
JC
813'.54     
C
2011-903428-
X

First published in the United States, 2011
Library of Congress Control Number:
2011929395

Summary:
Fourteen-year-old Ace starts a band and learns a tough
lesson about plagiarism.

Orca Book Publishers is dedicated to preserving the environment and has printed this
book on paper certified by the Forest Stewardship Council
^®
.

Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its
publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government
of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts,
and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council
and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

Cover photography by First Light

www.orcabook.com
Printed and bound in Canada.

14  13  12  11  •  4  3  2   1

Thanks to Liz, Kim, Bernice, Tabitha,
Sue, Florence, Roma, Lindsay and Daniel,
for great suggestions, and to my son Will,
for great music.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter One

Denny is yelling, but I can't hear his words. Onstage, Twisted Hazard has just ripped their last chord. It's still bouncing around the gym.

“What?” I yell back. I pull the tissue out of my ears. I always take tissue to Battle of the Bands.

“
I got a great idea
,” Denny yells.

Denny gets lots of ideas. His last one called for coconuts, shaving cream and our math teacher's car. If this is a
great
idea, it'll be the first time he's ever had one.

“What is it?” I say.

Denny says, “We hafta start a band.”

“What for?”

“What
for
?” Denny waves at the stage. The Hazard bass player is a hobbit in red plaid pajama pants. He's talking to two girls in amazingly tight jeans. The lead singer looks too young to stay out after the streetlights come on, plus he's in chess club. Three girls, one very hot, are chatting with him. The drummer has glasses and is wearing flood pants. He's handing his snare and a cymbal to two girls in grade
ten
. One of them is his sister, but still.

“Look at those guys,” Denny says. “Imagine how we'd do.”

I hate to admit it, but maybe Denny has a point. Those guys are in grade nine, and we're in grade nine. They are nerds, and yet those girls are all over them.

We're not nerds—even if Denny's ears do stick out—but we're invisible to girls. There are girls all around us, in cool shapes and sizes and smells. They don't help
us
with anything, except maybe give us something to stare at.

Maybe a band is the answer. I bet playing in a band is easier than playing basketball, especially for someone my size. There's a problem though.

“Uh, Den,” I say, “don't you have to play music to be in a band?”

Up onstage, the next group is plugging in. It's No Money Down. The guitar players are in my English class.

“Well,
duh
,” Denny says. He's patting his pockets. He pulls out his cell and flips it open. “No problem. You've got that stuff at your house.”

There is a bass and a guitar at my place. I fool around on them a little.

Denny says, “And I play guitar and sing.”

Denny did take some guitar lessons a couple of years back.

“Since when do you sing?” I ask. In between ideas, Denny has been known to lie.

“Me?” he says. “I sing great. I was in that choir, remember?”

I make a face and say, “So was I, Den. That was grade four.”

Denny says, “Yeah, well, I sing all the time at home. While I'm playing guitar. I just don't do it around other people. Anyway, it's your band style that counts.”

“Band style?” I say.

Denny says, “Yeah. You know, your look, your attitude. That stuff. Like, notice how cool bands never smile in pictures? Anyway, most of them don't even play, they fake along to their records.”

“How do you know?” I ask.

Denny shrugs. “Everybody knows that.”

“One problem, Den,” I say, “we won't have any records to fake to.”

Denny is too busy texting to answer.

How did we end up talking about starting a band? Really, we only came to see who was around. And to look at girls and make jokes about them we don't really mean. Soon we'll probably yell and fake wrestle with some other guys. Later we'll walk back to my place to watch downloads of
Python
Pit 6
and
Facemelt
and laugh at them. I mean, you have to do
something
on a Friday night.

Up onstage, some goof from the student government introduces No Money Down. One of the guitar players hits a power chord behind him. Everybody is crowding the stage around them. Girls are crowding the stage around them.

I look at the two guys from English. They look the same as they do in English, only they don't. They have sweet guitars that I don't know the make of. Lights are shining on them, and everybody is watching. They're trying to look cool, but you can tell they want to giggle like little kids.

Do I want that? Yes I do. I turn to Denny and say, “Let's do it.”

“Wait.” He's still texting.

“Who are you texting anyway?” I ask.

“I'm not texting.” Denny looks up and grins his big maniac grin. “I'm tweeting.”

“What?” I say. “Since when are you on Twitter?”

“Since today. Look, I just told the world.” He holds up his phone as No Money Down stomp off their first song. On the screen it reads:
Hot new band
startup 4 u. dr. d & ace will rule. watch
for more later.

“Let's do it, Ace,” Denny says.

“Props.” We bump fists. I'm in.

Chapter Two

We decide the first thing we need to do is find a drummer. We start at three on Saturday afternoon. We're not what you call early risers.

“We'll get Pigpen,” Denny says to me on the phone.

“I didn't know Pig played drums,” I say.

“His older brother has drums. He was in that band, remember, when we were in grade eight.”

I do remember. They were pretty good, even though at the time, I said they sucked.

“His brother plays drums, but that doesn't mean Pig does,” I say.

“I heard Pig tapping pencils in study hall,” Denny says. “He's great.”

We meet at the bus stop. Pig lives a ways from us. When the bus arrives, Denny insists we sneak on the back doors as other people get off. Not many people get off on a Saturday.

Right away, the driver calls, “You in the green hoodie!”

Denny looks around as if he's not wearing a green hoodie. He's also grinning.

“And your buddy,” calls the driver. “No free rides. Get up here. Pay your fares or get off.”

Everyone stares at us, which I don't like. Denny grins bigger than ever. We shuffle up front, digging in our pockets for cash.

It's a seven-stop ride. When we get to Pigpen's house and ring the bell, his mom answers. Denny blathers all over her, the way he always does with adults. I wait. Actually she is pretty nice.

“Jared!” she calls down to the basement. Jared is Pigpen's real name. “Friends!” She sends us downstairs.

Pigpen is not exactly a friend of ours, but we knew him in grade three. Then his family moved. We met him again this year when we all started at the same high school. His nickname is kind of a joke, because he's a neat freak. He has a buzz cut and always tucks in his shirt. His jeans are pressed. Even his locker is organized. It's spooky.

When we get downstairs, Pigpen is polishing a pair of black combat boots. I wonder if he's a closet punker. Sure enough, a drum kit is set up in the corner.

Denny makes his pitch. Pig listens, then nods. “Okay,” he says.

Pig isn't a talker. He could have been in silent movies. Denny is a talker. In fact Denny is a motormouth. I can be a talker with my friends, but not around adults.

“Cool,” says Denny.

There are more props all round. I notice Pig is wearing latex gloves to keep his hands clean as he polishes.

Denny says, “I'll bring over my Tely, and Ace has got a bass and amp and—”

“Can't,” says Pig.

“Huh?” we say.

“Can't.” Pig dabs more polish on a boot. Then he says, “Mom won't let us. Too loud. Said New Teeth made her grind her own.” New Teeth had been the name of Pig's brother's band.

“But the drums are here,” I say.

“Gotta move 'em,” Pig says. He starts buffing the toe of a boot with a brush. “My brother won't care. He's away at school till Christmas. We can use his microphone too.”

“There's no room at my place,” says Denny. He's right. That leaves us with my place. They both look at me.

I sigh. “I'll have to ask my mom.”

“So call her,” Denny says.

“She said not to call unless there's a disaster. She's showing a house.” Mom sells real estate. She says the market is slow.