Sorta Like A Rock Star Part 28

"A boy with a beard, he came to my house and told me that you would appreciate it if I came tonight. So I came. Why didn't you tell me about this?"

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 b.o.o.b crack.

I smile, and then carry BBB backstage.

There are a c.r.a.pload 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-s.h.i.+rts-so that they look like they have just stepped out of the '50s-and the other half are wearing black pants, purple b.u.t.ton-down s.h.i.+rts, 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 a.s.sume are The Hard-Working Brothers, since they are the only brothers backstage besides Ty-those guys are dressed in black suits and wearing white s.h.i.+rts, black skinny ties, and old-school sungla.s.ses 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 sweats.h.i.+rt. 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 cla.s.smate 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 G.o.d."

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 b.u.t.t 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 *h.e.l.l yeah!' "

"h.e.l.l yeah!"

"I can't hear you!"

"h.e.l.l 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, d.a.m.n, 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.

"G.o.d 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 cla.s.sic *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 cla.s.smates sing and play instruments, some do dance routines, the kid in the medieval jester costume actually juggles knives and flaming tennis b.a.l.l.s, 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 a.s.sure you this will not be necessary."

"Yes," Ricky says, standing center stage in his tuxedo.