Chapter 1

Zach Bowie backed away from the microphone stand after singing the last lines of the Pink Floyd tune that he and the band were rehearsing. He plunked down a thumping bass line as he stepped over the cables and gadgets that surrounded him. Guitarist Joe Fauquier was in his own world as he played an extended lead that showed no signs of ending. Zach glared in Fauquier’s direction after two minutes of squealing guitar licks but Fauquier was oblivious. Bo Herndon, whose duties alternated between rhythm guitar and keyboards, shrugged and smiled without lifting his fingers the banks of electronic instruments in front of him.

“Packing up early, again?” Fauquier asked when Zach snapped his amplifier off and began unstrapping his bass guitar after the song finally ended.

“Don’t start, Joe. I can’t stay late tonight,” Zach said.

“Dude, don’t bail on us. We need a little more work before Friday,” Fauquier said. “You screwed up the words on the new ones.”

“It’s just a stupid teen dance,” Zach replied as he laid the bass guitar in its case. “We could play it in our sleep.”

Fauquier froze when he caught his own reflection in one of the many mirrors in his rented Westville bungalow. He tucked a stray wisp of black hair under the bandana and flipped the rest over his shoulder, where it splashed down his back just the way he knew it would. “That’s not the point,” he said. “We have to be perfect, no matter what. Besides, who knows who else might show up? I don’t want to spend the rest of my life humping sheetrock.”

“Yeah,” said Herndon. “I’ll bet most of the record companies will have talent scouts there. Besides us, they can scope out the fourteen-year-old chicks.” As he laughed he looked over at drummer Toby Dumphries, who joined in halfheartedly.

“How do you think bands get discovered, wise guy?” Fauquier said. “It’s usually an accident. Somebody sees them when they didn’t expect it.”

Dumphries removed his shirt and used it to wipe the sweat from his lanky body. “Joe, we’ve put in two hours for what, five nights straight?” he said. “Lighten up.”

“That’s loser talk,” Fauquier snapped. “We’ll never get anywhere with an attitude like that.”

“If Zach’s leaving, then I guess I am too,” Dumphries said. “Do we need to pack up?”

“No,” Fauquier said. “Just leave it. I want to practice tomorrow. Whatever.”

“He’s been all over me lately,” Zach said a few minutes later as they drove in Dumphries’ car towards Zach’s home in Chapel Forge Township.

“Well, you’ve been ducking out on us,” Dumphries replied. “At least you have been since you got on this wrestling kick.”

“It’s not just a kick, Toby,” Zach said. “You just don’t understand what it feels like. It’s a lot like being on stage. And you wouldn’t believe the feeling when the match is over and I’m out there by myself, especially if it’s my arm that gets raised by the ref. I know I had the guts to walk onto the mat even if the other guy trashed me. It’s like a natural high.”

“You should try explaining it to Joe,” Dumphries said. “He lives for the band, and you’re not into it the way you used to be.”

“Yeah I am,” Zach insisted. “It just isn’t the only thing I have going on.”

“Exactly,” Dumphries answered. “For the rest of us, it is all we have going on.”

Zach nodded. “Especially Joe,” he said. “He’s twenty years old and he still thinks it’s going to happen. I love the band but I don’t want to end up like him, sitting around waiting to be discovered.”

“Or me, right?” Dumphries asked.

“No,” Zach said. “We’re just high school guys, not like Joe. We’re supposed to be clueless.” He paused. “I just can’t see spending every waking hour getting ready for this dance. We’re just another band in South Jersey, what’s the difference?”

“Joe doesn’t see it that way,” Dumphries said. “And he loves the way you sing. You’re his ticket. At least that’s what he thinks.”

“I’m not even that good,” Zach said.

“But you sound different,” Dumphries said. It isn’t always about talent. No offense.”

“I know,” Zach said. “He likes me because I sound like the guy from KISS.”

“Could be worse,” Dumphries said. “At least you don’t sing like Tiny Tim.”

“Why’s this battery here, anyway?” Zach asked as he kicked at the car battery between his feet. “I keep meaning to ask.”

“This crud car died on me a few weeks ago, remember?” Dumphries said. “The guy at the shop said I needed a new alternator and some other thing, and maybe a starter. It was like five hundred bucks. Or, he said I could try just replacing the battery every time it happens. So I just make sure I have a spare ready to pop in.”

“How many times has it happened?” asked Zach.

“Never, since then,” Dumphries said. “But I bet it will.”

A few minutes later the car slowed to a halt in front of a rancher with a rusting chain-link fence around a tiny front yard. “Alright, Toby, good practice,” Zach said. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Right on, brother. It’ll work out,” Dumphries said. “Don’t forget your axe.”

“Speak English, goofball,” Zach said. “See ya.” He opened the rear door of the Dodge Swinger and pulled out his bass. Dumphries slammed his foot on the accelerator and sped away with wheels squealing. He always tried to leave some rubber in front of Zach’s house. It gave Mrs. Bowie something to talk about the next time she saw him.

“Hey Mom,” Zach said as he went inside, where his mother was in an easy chair sipping tea and pretending to read a magazine.

“How was practice?” she asked.

“We just went through all three sets that we’re playing next week,” Zach replied.

“Where are you playing, again?” she asked.

“Teen Club dance. It’s next Friday night.” Zach said.

“Oh yeah. You told me that. Mind if I come for some of it?” She and Zach’s father had split up when Zach was an infant. Money was tight even though she worked six and sometimes seven days a week as a manager in a Shipley’s restaurant. With such a brutal schedule she didn’t have much of a social life so she tried to get out whenever she could, even if it just meant an hour of conversation with a paunchy math teacher chaperone.

“Sure Mom,” Zach said, knowing she would be too tired to come. “Are you staying up?” Zach asked.

“No, it’s almost ten,” she said. “Did you find time to get your homework done?”

“Yeah,” he said as he crossed the room and kissed her on the cheek. “I did it when I got home from school. I have to run through a few songs. I’ll see you in the morning.”

He picked up his bass and disappeared down the hall. The corners of her mouth turned up slightly as she watched. Faint lines crinkled around her eyes. She knew he wouldn’t be working on his music.

After another minute she pulled herself out of the chair and carried her teacup into the kitchen where she rinsed it out and left it in the sink. Before she reached her bedroom she heard the familiar clanking of metal accompanied by her son’s grunts and gasps. Thirty minutes later she heard footsteps in the hallway just before the front door closed with a thud. She smiled as she moved the drapes aside to look out the window. Dressed in gray sweats, with his long blond hair pulled into raggedy ponytail, Zach was stretching his legs on the sidewalk. She watched as he finished loosening up. He studied his wristwatch and then took off running towards the adult bookstore that fronted the pike at the end of the street. She knew he’d be back in less than an hour, breathing hard but trying not to make a sound as he staggered inside.

~~~

Mark Easton eased the huge Ford Excursion SUV down the ramp and onto I-295 on the cold November morning. He and Kevin Salisbury were senior co-captains of the Chapel Forge Township High School wrestling team. That morning they were on their way to participate in one last pre-season tournament in upstate New York. Both boys held a hand up to the dashboard vents, which were just beginning to throw some heat. It was just past dawn and neither looked like they wanted to be there. The frost on the windows that was slowly melting made the morning feel colder and darker.

“Hard to believe that only two of us are going,” Easton said. “In June we had ten or fifteen guys every time we did anything.”

“They aren’t as dedicated as you thought they were,” Salisbury said. “They’ll be back on board when the season starts. Everybody’s not like you. Not year-round, anyway.”

“It burns me up,” Easton said. “Do you think Wenonah has only two guys working out this weekend? If you asked me last spring I would have told you we could finally beat them this year. Now, I’d say ‘no chance’. Not with this bunch of slackers.”

“We have too many holes in our lineup to beat them anyway,” Salisbury said. That spawned yet another version of the conversation they’d been having for months. One by one they discussed each weight class, guessing what wrestlers would be there and trying to predict who would win the wrestle-offs for first string.

“You know who I saw the other day?” Salisbury asked. “Zach Bowie. Do you think he’ll be back this season?”

“You mean that long-haired doofus who wore gym shorts over his sweats?” Easton asked. “I hope not. I got sick every practice from his cigarette-breath.”

“He did a good job filling in when Aberdeen got hurt,” Salisbury said.

“He won ten and lost twelve, big deal,” Easton replied.

“At 171? He was only a sophomore, wrestling juniors and seniors. That’s pretty good, especially for a JV guy,” said Salisbury.

“We don’t need a pot-smoking dead-head on the team. He can’t wrestle more than two minutes without an oxygen tank,” Easton said.

“He wasn’t in very good shape,” Salisbury agreed. “My dad remembers him. He was always standing outside the Seven-Eleven trying to get somebody to buy him cigarettes when we were thirteen.”

“Yeah. If he didn’t have to wrestle all three periods he’d be undefeated,” Easton said.

“Well, I hope he comes back,” Salisbury said. ‘I don’t care how he looked. Ten wins are ten wins.”

“If he’s so good,” Easton said. “I hope he comes to practice. Whatever.”