Sorta Like a Rock Star (25 page)

Ty. I could kiss him.

“Must have been enjoying the tea-drinking moments too much,” I say, and then I get PJ through door security, which is pretty much the bearded history teacher who asked if Ricky was okay when I was tickling him in the hallway three months back and a gym teacher I don’t know who lifts a lot of weights.

Inside the auditorium, Donna and Private Jackson take center front row seats—the best seats in the house. And I can tell Donna thinks Private Jackson is handsome, because she sits sideways in her chair and leans forward a little toward him, so that PJ will get a good view of her boob crack.

I smile, and then carry BBB backstage.

There are a crapload of people backstage:

Chad in Das Boot, Jared, Ricky, and Franks are in tuxedos.

Lex Pinkston and the entire football team have greased their hair and half are wearing leather jackets and jeans and white T-shirts—so that they look like they have just stepped out of the ’50s—and the other half are wearing black pants, purple button-down shirts, and pointy dress shoes.

The KDFCs are all wearing identical beautiful gold dresses.

Father Chee is in his penguin suit.

Door Woman Lucy is in a tight red dress and killer heels—she is also wearing hair extensions and much glitzy makeup, all of which makes her look like Queen Latifah, who is entirely awesome and another woman I admire.

The black men with instruments—whom I assume are The Hard-Working Brothers, since they are the only brothers backstage besides Ty—those guys are dressed in black suits and wearing white shirts, black skinny ties, and old-school sunglasses with green lenses. Whenever I look at one of The Hard-Working Brothers, they all nod at me as if they are a unit—connected or something.

Ty is at a table just offstage, punching away at a laptop that controls the mics and lights and curtain and sound system. He’s dressed like every other day in jeans and a red hoodie sweatshirt. I smile at him because he got Private Jackson out tonight, but Ty’s too busy with the laptop and doesn’t notice me.

There are cheerleaders dressed in their uniforms.

Two hippie-looking kids with acoustic guitars.

A pimply kid in a medieval jester costume with a hat that looks like a red and yellow palm tree.

And then I see two old men in red sports jackets standing off to the side all alone, one with an oxygen bottle, so I run up to Old Man Linder and Thompson and say, “You guys are singing tonight?”

“We’re opening up the show!” Old Man Thompson says.

“You know it,” Old Man Linder says, and then pinches my cheek.

“I thought no one wanted to hear old men sing?”

“You said that?” Old Man Thompson says.

“That bearded classmate of yours over there convinced me otherwise,” Old Man Linder says, and when I look back at Ty, I smile. He looks so serious at his laptop—so loyal, so dedicated, so like a good friend should.

“You have to make power circle!” Sueng Hee of The KDFCs says to me, and then pulls me and BBB toward the middle of everyone.

“You got something to say before we take the stage?” Door Woman Lucy says.

I look around at all of the faces, some of which I love, some of which I do not even know—all of which I can plainly see need me to say something hopeful so that they will be able to rock Childress High School.

“I want to thank everyone for coming out tonight,” I say. “It means a lot to me and Bobby Big Boy, who is cancer free, thank God.”

I pause, because I know that the night requires more of me.

I have to be more than a teenage girl.

I have to move people—get them pumped up.

I have to be a rock star.

So I say, “Everyone form a big old circle. Arms around your neighbors’ shoulders. Feel the love, people! Feel the love! Ty, you too. Get your butt over here!”

Ty looks up from the computer and then takes his place in the power circle.

Maybe more than fifty people are surrounding BBB and me—all with arms around each other, all watching me.

“Bow those heads,” I say. “If you don’t believe in JC, well then feel free to sub in whatever deity you dig! If you are an atheist like Ricky, then just humor me, okay?”

Everybody except Ricky bows his or her head.

I close my eyes and say, “JC, you got some good people gathered together down here for a good cause. Please be with all of these good people tonight. Help them be whoever they need to be. Please let us rock. Please let us move some people—so they don’t ask for their money back. Be with us tonight, JC. Amen.”

“Amen!” most of my people say, and then start to unlink their arms from their neighbors’ shoulders.

“Get those arms back around those shoulders!” I yell.

Everyone does what I say.

I start stomping my left foot.

Stomp! Stomp! Stomp!

Everyone catches on.

Fifty-some feet are stomping now.

The floor below us seems to be moving.

“If the people in the house are feeling all right tonight, say ‘Yeah!’ ”

“Yeah!”

“If the people in the house are feeling all right tonight, say ‘Hell yeah!’ ”

“Hell yeah!”

“I can’t hear you!”

“HELL YEAH!”

Stomp, stomp, stomp, stomp!

“If you’re ready to rock Childress Public High School tonight say, ‘Woo! Woo!’”

“Woo! Woo!”

Stomp, stomp, stomp.

I can’t think of any other cool empowering jazz to say, so I end with, “Bring it in for some love! Everyone put a hand in the middle of the circle.”

I quickly see that Das Boot is going to mess up the unity, so I say, “Scratch that. Everyone put a hand on Chad’s head!”

We all circle Das Boot.

We all put a hand on Chad’s head—well, most of us do, and the rest put hands on the shoulders of people who have their hands on Chad’s head.

“Watch the hair, people,” Chad says.

“Thank you for helping me pay my vet bill,” I say. “I love you people. All of you. On three, we say, ‘Go time.’ One, two, three!”

“Go time!” everyone yells.

And when they back away from Das Boot, they look pretty pumped up.

Suddenly, on the other side of the front curtain, the crowd is chanting, “Amber! Amber! Amber!”

And I think,
Damn, I really am a rock star
.

“You look good in that dress,” Ty says.

“Thanks, I made it myself,” I say, and then he returns to his laptop.

“How was the prayer?” I ask Father Chee.

“God was very pleased,” FC says.

“How do you know?” I ask.

“He told me!” FC says.

“Did He tell you if tonight was going to work out?”

“Yes, He told me that too.”

“What did He say?” I ask.

“He says it’s time for you to take the stage,” FC says, and then points to Franks, who is standing by the edge of the curtain waving me over. “Better hurry.”

I carry BBB over to Franks, who says, “Okay, Amber. Before each act, I give you a note card. You read the info on the card, and then you announce the act any way you see fit. Cool?”

“Cool,” I say.

Franks hands me a card, and then I walk out onto the stage with BBB in my arms.

A spotlight hits me.

The house lights dim.

I step up to the microphone stand.

The crowd hushes.

I see PJ and Donna smiling up at me.

I hold BBB up over my head.

“Cancer-free!”

People cheer.

“Now we have to pay the vet bill.”

The crowd laughs, but I’m not sure why.

“Thanks for coming out tonight.”

I scan the crowd. Packed house.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I have a special treat for you this evening. Backed by tonight’s house band—The Hard-Working Brothers—singing the old-time classic ‘Makin’ Whoopee,’ the best two men the Methodist Home has to offer—let’s give it up for Albert Linder and Eddie Thompson, better known as The Red Coats!”

The curtain rises, and The Red Coats start snapping their old fingers.

The Hard-Working Brothers start playing the old-time song, and Old Man Thompson starts to sing “Makin’ Whoopee” in this good but corny old-time singing voice.

With his oxygen bottle and all, Old Man Linder doesn’t really sing, but in a speaking voice sorta echoes Old Man Thompson—and it works.

The Hard-Working Brothers are a pretty good band too.

From offstage, I look out into the audience and I see some old people singing along.

Cool
, I think.

After The Red Coats finish their number, the crowd claps, and I announce various other acts—some fellow classmates sing and play instruments, some do dance routines, the kid in the medieval jester costume actually juggles knives and flaming tennis balls, which gets Prince Tony out of his seat. PT tries to stop the juggling act, but gets booed so badly that he eventually allows the kid to finish.

When I announce the Mackin’ Mathematician, Ricky takes the stage and Franks throws a couple dozen or so cheap calculators into the audience. “Ladies and gentlemen, I have a genius here with me tonight,” Franks says.

“Yes,” Ricky says into his microphone.

“Anyone who caught a calculator can ask Ricky to multiply any number and he will do it in his head in less than five seconds—providing you with the correct answer. You are welcome to check his math using the calculators, although I assure you this will not be necessary.”

“Yes,” Ricky says, standing center stage in his tuxedo.

Franks hops off the stage and walks the cordless microphone into the audience. “Who’s first?”

Some regular-looking dude raises his hand and says something to Franks.

“Ricky, this gentleman wants to know what is one-hundred fifty-seven times five-hundred twenty-one.”

“Eighty-one thousand, seven hundred and ninety-seven. Yes.”

“Is he right, sir?” Franks asks.

The man punches the numbers into his calculator, and then nods, looking amazed.

Fifty hands go up in the air.

“One thousand, two hundred sixty-eight times one-two-nine-six-oh, Ricky.”

“Sixteen million, four hundred and thirty-three thousand, two hundred and eighty.”

“Five times nine,” some little kid wants to know.

“Forty-five,” Ricky says. “Forty-five.”

“Sixty-five times three-hundred thirteen thousand, one-hundred thirty-one.”

“Twenty million, three-hundred and fifty-three thousand, five-hundred and fifteen.”

“Five hundred and sixty-eight point thirteen times five-hundred sixty-seven point seventy-seven,” some wise guy wants to know, throwing decimals at Ricky.

“Three hundred and twenty-two thousand, five hundred and sixty-seven point seventeen.”

Ricky does several more math problems in his head—each time the difficulty is raised—and he answers all of the questions correctly, before he says, “Ricky Roberts is hungry,” and then walks offstage.

The crowd claps for Ricky, and Donna looks so proud in the first row.

There are a few more singing and dancing acts before I make this announcement: “People, it is my pleasure to introduce my good friends Chad and Jared Fox, performing The Spinners classic ‘Working My Way Back to You’ accompanied by The Hard-Working Brothers and the Childress High School cheerleaders!”

Chad, Das Boot, Jared, and The Hard-Working Brothers take the stage.

My boys look good in their tuxedos, although Jared looks like he is about to crap his pants.

The Hard-Working Brothers’ drummer starts the song and the bassist plays some funky notes.

In this really affected put-on voice, from Das Boot, Chad starts singing about how hard he’s working to get back his woman.

When his brother begins to sing, Jared starts clapping and sorta moves his weight from one foot to another.

Suddenly, the cheerleading team comes flying across the stage doing cartwheels—their skirts flying up and down.

It is the strangest thing I have ever seen.

As Jared and Chad sing, the cheerleaders do all sorts of acrobatics—throwing girls up into the air, building human pyramids, and doing spirited jumping jacks with pompoms.

People in the audience actually start to get up and dance.

My boys are a hit!

Chad is doing circles around the cheerleaders with Das Boot, singing to them.

Jared is still moving his weight from one foot to the other, backing up his more confident brother—looking sorta like he is about to have a heart attack.

And I can’t help but laugh.

When the song ends, the crowd goes wild, and Franks hands me the next note card.

I take the stage and say, “And now performing selected scenes from
West Side Story
, ladies and gentlemen, I give you
the Childress High School football team?
”

Lex and a bunch of his teammates walk onto the stage wearing purple shirts and pointy dress shoes—snapping their fingers in a crouched sneaky position.

The rest of the team enters from the other side of the stage wearing the leather jackets and jeans—also snapping their fingers while in a sneaky crouched position.

What ensues is a street war orchestrated through fabulous dance moves, and set to heart-racing jazzy recorded music.

And as I watch the football team perform selected scenes from
West Side Story
, I am amazed by how good they are. They are frickin’ pros.

As the quicksilver of fake knives flashes, people in the audience are on the edges of their seats!

These boys were born to do musical theater!

Suddenly I understand why our football team never wins any games.

The Jets and the Sharks get a thunderous round of applause as they link arms and take a bow center stage, and I have to say, I’m impressed.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” I say, “we’ve come to the headliner, which combines two very talented groups of people—people I know well and love very much. I give you The Korean Divas for Christ, Sister Lucy, and The Hard-Working Brothers!”

People clap as the curtain rises.

The strings and brass are set up stage right, the drums are deep center, The KDFCs are lined up on risers, tiered in all their golden glory stage left, and Sister Lucy is front and center holding a microphone.