When Kerri woke, Mitchell was still busy with his Midnight Blue ESP. She wasn’t sure what time he’d brought it up to their bedroom; she only remembered that it had been after three when she’d last looked at the clock, and the room had only held one guitar: the acoustic that was always there for middle-of-the-night inspirations.

In fact when Kerri had made that last time check, Mitchell had been as exhausted as she was, not bothering to pull the sheets back into place and barely noticing when she’d accidentally kneed him as she’d tried to get comfortable.

It was ten now, she saw when she lifted her head out of the pillows she’d had to use when he’d taken his shoulder back. Late for her, and she had a million things yet to do. Even though Michelle had started coming daily to clean, Kerri believed there was no reason to ask her to deal with the empty beer bottles in the TV room. Likewise, Kerri herself would strip the bed — once Mitchell got his ass off it.

“Have you slept at all?” she asked him, sitting up and kissing his right shoulder.

He shook his head no, his mouth counting beats or mouthing chord changes or lyrics; Kerri wasn’t sure which. Experience had taught her it was one of the three and until the notebook on his nightstand was full with a million scratch-outs and then a final, impossible-to-read song, he wasn’t moving, saying, or possibly even thinking.

Such was life with a musician.

Kerri planted another kiss on his shoulder and brushed at the ends of his hair, laying so temptingly right above her lips, and got up to face the day.

Hope you’re inspired by the Debut a Debut contest and are getting ready; we’ll open for entries next week, February 12!

Mitchell tossed his head, trying to get the sweat to change course. Of course, it didn’t work. At the end of the show like this, the sweat had a mind of its own.

“So,” he said in a conversational way, putting his left foot forward more, almost straddling the mic stand. His guitar got in the way, so he used his right hand to move it away. “Those lousy fuckers in this half-ass town wouldn’t let us stay up here tonight until midnight so we could do this all proper, like.”

The crowd booed. Mitchell nodded approvingly, looking around at them and then at the band. Trevor and Eric looked suitably impressed and they nodded along with Mitchell.

“But,” he said, holding up one finger and cocking his head. More sweat dripped into his eyes; he blinked it out. “They wouldn’t budge even when we offered them lots of money. And I mean lots,” he said, wondering if the fans could possibly comprehend the negotiations they’d tried. Beside him, Eric nodded agreement. Trevor just laughed.

“So. Here we are, and you fucks are probably gonna bolt outta here and head off to another party. When you get there, be sure you show off your special New Year’s T-shirts and then laugh your asses off ’cause none of us got ’em.”

The crowd roared again, like that was the funniest joke they’d ever heard. As if it was true, Mitchell thought. Shit, he had the original drawing that Kerri had made somewhere in all his papers. As if ShapeShifter would make something as exclusive as a commemorative New Year’s tee and not hold out a few for themselves.

“Before we go, let’s have ourselves a little celebration. Ready? Dans’ll help you count down from ten, and we’ll have some fireworks and shit.”

He paused as Eric signalled to Daniel before approaching. “Invite the crew out,” the guitarist reminded him. Good thing; he’d forgotten. As if he’d wanted to do this without Kerri.

“Whoa,” Mitchell said, holding both hands up to quiet the fans. “We gotta do this right. Bring the crew on out. Ker, techs, everyone back there. C’mon out.”

Once Kerri had nestled under his left arm, his guitar touching her hip and his sweat drenching her, he waited for the rest of the crew to stumble out. Even though he’d warned them he’d be doing this, they were still wary, as if they were expecting some sort of joke.

On any other day, they’d have gotten one, that was for sure. Ordinarily, crew belonged in the background. But this was New Year’s Eve, and while they hadn’t gotten permission to bust through the arena’s curfew, they had gotten permission for some indoor fireworks and an early celebration.

Then, band and crew would party backstage until they were all too soused to stand.

Bobby, Mitchell’s tech, offered to take his guitar. But Mitchell shook his head. “You’re off duty for a few,” he said, leaning away from the mic so it wouldn’t pick up his voice. The guitar wasn’t heavy; he could carry it a few more minutes.

Daniel provided the bass drum beat that the crowd used to count down, and then the pyro guys back at the sound board set off the fireworks.

As he and Kerri watched, smiling, Trevor came up behind them. “So, tonight the night you’re gonna wise up and dump Rusty’s ass? That girl in the third row sure looks like she’d be willing to ease the parting.”

Mitchell cuffed the back of Trevor’s head and grinned. “You don’t stop, do you, asshole?”

Trevor grinned happily. “Who, me?”

“A shower cap? You want me to wear a fucking shower cap?”

Amy glanced around, wondering if the walls were shaking. For a little brother, Mitchell sure could thunder. “It beats corned beef,” she pointed out.

“At least we could laugh about that!”

“Are you leaving this room?” she asked him, hands on hips. “I’m right here if anyone knocks. I won’t let them see you,” she promised even though under normal circumstances, if someone did knock, she’d shove him out into the hall and lock the door behind him.

This wasn’t a normal circumstance, and they both knew it. Not if Mitchell had actually coughed up the cash to fly her down here to fix it.

At some point, she’d make sure that he paid for this with more than his wallet. But right now, Amy needed to restore his hair. The band could only ban photographers for so long, and they all knew that fans always managed, somehow, to sneak cameras in. Word would get out, if it hadn’t already.

This could become legend.

Mitchell thrust the shower cap at her. “You fucking wear it. I’m sick of looking like a freak.”

“You should see yourself right now,” Amy told him. His hair was piled on top of his head like a turban, drips of mayonnaise-colored conditioner had spattered his bare arms and chest, and for some reason known only to him, he’d tucked a towel into the waistband of his jeans, as if to keep them clean. “You know, Mom wanted me to take pictures.”

“You told her?”

Amy wanted to laugh at his scared look. Mitchell, ever the little boy who was terrified of being caught — even when he’d been bad on purpose. “Of course I told Mom about it,” she said. “I needed a ride to the airport, remember?”

He covered his face with his hands and stomped in a circle, moaning “no” over and over again. Amy actually felt a little sorry for him.

“C’mere and let’s get this on you,” she said, taking the clear plastic cap from him. “At least it’s not pink.”

He let her sit him down in a chair and put the shower cap on. “Let the warmth of your head penetrate the conditioner,” she sing-songed, moving her hands over his head in what felt like a mystical way.

“I’m not sure if you’re telling me I have a hot head or you’re making some sex joke,” he said, reburying his face in his hands, his elbows propped on his thighs.

Amy stopped, considering. “Both, probably. Speaking of sex, are any of you guys having trouble peeing yet? I picked up supplies just in case…”

Mitchell growled. Amy grinned at her little brother. He’d always been the one who’d made people smile, no matter what he’d done and how angry he’d made them. He’d always been the one people had been drawn to.

And now, Amy told herself, he was paying the price for it. A few less excited girls, toting beer and pizza money into the hotel’s pool, slipping twenties to hotel management to keep them looking the other way… When she’d gotten to the hotel and rescued Mitchell from the room he shared with Trevor, the bass player had told her they hadn’t spent a dime of their own money over the entire three days. In fact, Trevor had bragged, they’d come out a hundred bucks on top.

Yeah, Amy thought, sometimes it sucked being such a people magnet.

“Hey, Aim?” Mitchell said, his voice muffled by his hands.

“What’s up, Pipsqueak?”

“Thanks.”

The last person Mitchell wanted to talk to about this was Trevor. But Trevor was his roommate, and Daniel and Eric were off in their room, probably with girls. Which meant Mitchell couldn’t just go knocking. Even if the interruption would be welcome — which there was no way in Hell it would be — Mitchell didn’t want anyone outside the band to see the green too closely. Not that he wanted the guys to see the green, but he was stuck on that one.

“What else can we try?” he asked Trevor morosely.

Trevor held up the slice of pizza he was chowing on. “Anchovies? I’m still hungry.”

“You hate anchovies, asshole,” Mitchell said and flopped on his back on his bed. “And why the fuck would they work if nothing else has?”

“I still think you ought to cut it,” Trevor said around a mouthful of the meatball pizza he’d special ordered, shamelessly using the ShapeShifter name to get what he wanted. For free, too, that fucker.

“Just shave it all,” Trevor said. Mitchell could imagine his usual I’m-up-to-no-good expression. “It’s hardly a chick magnet all green, but I hear chicks dig stubble. That could work for you for awhile.”

Mitchell didn’t even bother to snort. Trevor could shave his own damn head if he wanted to know about girls and stubble. But he was Mitchell Voss. He had an image to maintain as a long-haired rock god.

Which meant he had to get the blonde back.

Groaning, he reached for the phone. “Name your price,” he said to the person who answered. “But you’ve got to get your ass over here and get the green out of my hair.”

“What did you do now?” she asked.

“Are you gonna come, or not?”

“Are you going to pay for this?”

“Repeatedly,” he sighed. But yeah, he’d pay for her flight down. There was no way she could get there if he didn’t.

“I’ll call you back when I book the flight.”

Mitchell hung up and covered his face with his hands for a long minute, than sat up and lit a cigarette. Trevor was finishing the last piece of pizza. He’d eaten the whole thing by himself.

“Drastic measures?” Trevor asked, smacking his lips and flicking some leftover sauce off his fingers. It splattered on the wall.

“As drastic as it gets.”

“Good.” Trevor stood up and burped. He looked over at Mitchell. “I’m tired of your mopey ass. It’s too big a world to spend it hiding in a hotel.”

“We could go swimming,” Mitchell told him.

Trevor laughed. “There’s hope for you yet, asshole.”

“Cut my hair off while I’m sleeping tonight and there won’t be any hope for you,” Mitchell tossed back. Knowing that help was on the way made him feel that much better.

Mitchell was still waking up on the bus, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and scratching it off his chest, when he staggered into to the front lounge.

Trevor took one look at him and screeched, dropping his cigarette into the ashtray.

“What the fuck?” Mitchell asked, squinting at his band. He was, like it was any surprise, the last one up. Even Charlie the tour manager was sitting in the front lounge, pretending to read a magazine.

“Your head,” Daniel said.

Mitchell scrubbed at his beard. He’d been too lazy after the show the night before to shave; he figured that blanket fuzz or feathers were stuck in it. Again.

Eric said. “It … how’d it get worse overnight?”

“It didn’t,” Daniel said, starting to smirk.

Trevor choked on his laughter. “Hey, dumb fuck,” he said to Mitchell, who lifted his chin but still couldn’t get his eyes the whole way open.

<"Get out of the sun," Trevor said. "Man, I know plenty of girls who wouldn't stand on a street corner with hair that color."

"What are we going to do about it?" Eric asked.

"Bleach it?" Daniel suggested.

"Cut it off!" Trevor crowed.

"Same thing," the tour manager said, not looking up from his magazine. "I'll make some calls, see if we can find some beauty shop who'll fix you up."

Trevor snickered. "I want to see M in curlers!"

Mitchell growled at him and sunk into the bench seat behind the table. "If word about this gets out…"

Daniel played with one of his curls. "That's a good point. Maybe we should see if we can fix this, ourselves, first."

"How?" Eric asked.

Daniel opened the mini-fridge and looked inside. "I'm sure we can find something."

Mitchell glared at the crowd. “What’s the matter with you pussies?” he sneered.

He could feel the band holding its breath behind him. Like they hadn’t expected him to do this.

“You guys are acting like my head’s green or something.”

Trevor cracked up, laughing so hard, he doubled over, his unbuttoned shirt brushing against the strings of his bass so that it, too, had a comment to make.

The crowd, though, was stunned almost into silence. After a long pause, they roared.

“That’s been taken care of,” Mitchell told Eric and hit the opening chord for the next song.

No one noticed it until just before showtime. “Uhh… Mitchell?” Eric asked, standing over the band leader and peering down at his head.

“What?” Mitchell growled. His hangover was proving more stubborn than he’d anticipated and he’d already chugged the four quarts of orange juice that the band’s tour rider specified — and sent out a runner for two more. That meant, he was sure, he’d get halfway through the half-hour set and have to piss. Hopefully, there’d be a bathroom nearby. If not, he’d be decorating the venue.

Not that he’d never done that before.

Eric was touching his head, picking at his hair. Angrily, he swatted the lead guitarist away. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Your hair.” Eric swallowed audibly. Mitchell, through the throbbing head and now the heartburn from all that orange juice, decided to let him say whatever it was that he was scared to. Then he’d kill him.

“It’s … green.”

Mitchell turned away and grabbed the nearest lock of past-his-shoulders hair. As he held it up, he could see it — and it wasn’t as faint as he’d hoped. “Fuck,” he groaned, drawing the word out so that it was more a sound than an actual word.

“Three days in a pool, blondie,” Trevor giggled, coming over for a look.

Mitchell very deliberately placed a fist in Trevor’s gut and shoved him away. “Lemon juice,” he ordered, looking around. They had lemon juice, he was sure of it, because Daniel put it in his tea.

The drummer hustled to hand over the little plastic lemon. Mitchell grabbed it and leaned over one of the sinks in the dressing room’s bathroom, squirting the juice straight on his head and working it through his hair, trying to get it to bleach back to almost-white. Fucking stupid color for hair, he thought as he squirted and rubbed, squirted and rubbed.

Eric followed and helped. “Dans, send for more when you see a runner!” he called.

“Just steal some from the crew,” Trevor said. He was leaning against the doorframe, watching as if this was better than anything he’d ever seen.

Then again, this being Trevor, it probably was. At least until the next greatest thing came along.

“Is it working?” Mitchell asked, the fumes making his eyes water. “My neck can’t take much more.”

“Uhh… no,” Eric said. “And M, I hate to tell you this, but …”

“Spit it out.”

“It’s really green.”

“Holy shit!” Daniel said, coming in the bathroom and poking at Mitchell’s head. “How’d you make it worse?”

Mitchell jerked up so fast, he cracked his head on the faucet. He let out a wordless yowl and jumped up and down, a hand clapped to his wet hair, until the first jolt of pain faded.

Daniel clapped him on the shoulder as he left the bathroom, hopefully on the trail of more lemon juice. “Better fix it fast,” the drummer said.

Mitchell stared at his reflection. He didn’t need to get close to the mirror to see it. Green. His hair was green. He looked like a fucking polar bear at the height of summer, except even polar bears had some white left to them. He couldn’t say the same. Not really. Not without exaggerating wildly.

Trevor, bent over at the waist and holding his gut, broke into peals of laughter.

“Trev, shut the fuck up. You’re not helping,” Mitchell told him, fighting a wave of panic. They had a show to do…

“FUCK!” Daniel roared, storming into the bathroom. “Charlie just came in. Dudes, we’re on!”

They froze, giving each other terrified looks. They were about to take the stage, and their frontman, the one person everyone looked at, had very wet, very green long hair.

And the hot stage lights would probably only help one of those two problems.

The show was over for the night; they’d kicked ass — for a change, so Mitchell hadn’t worried much when their tour manager had asked him to be fast about showering so they could have a few quick words. He’d been expecting to hear that JR, the band’s manager, had set up a headlining tour. Instead, he came back to the dressing room with the next-best news he could think of.

“Guys, get this,” he said with one of those grins that should have told them trouble was ahead. “Charlie just told me that Jim Shields changed the schedule.”

“Again?” Eric groaned. He was bent over, tying his Doc Martens; his voice was muffled.

“Yeah, but this is good. He wants to take three days off after the Phoenix gig so he can go explore some of the power centers and shit in Sedona. As his opening act, we get three days off!”

“Power centers?” Eric arched an eyebrow.

“I heard his dick could use some energy,” Trevor said. He was laying on his back on the couch the promoter had brought in, one foot on the floor, the other flung over the back of the couch. Mitchell wasn’t entirely certain what he was doing with his hands — or why there weren’t any girls around. They were ShapeShifter; there were always girls around.

“Three days off,” Mitchell said again. “Hello? Three days.”

Daniel grinned at him. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

It still seemed too good to be true. “A place that’s warm enough for an outdoor pool and three days with nothing to do but have us some fun? Fuck yeah, I’m thinking what you are!”

“Outdoor pool?” Trevor asked. He propped himself up on his elbows and gave Mitchell one of those looks that meant he was plotting something.

Mitchell didn’t know his grin could get any bigger, but somehow, it did. “I told Charlie to make sure the hotel has all-night lighting out there and they know where to direct the pizza delivery guys. I, for one, am not leaving unless the cops make me. And even then, I’ll be back!”

Daniel laughed. “I’m right there with you, bro.”

“Eric? Trev?” Mitchell looked at them. As if they’d miss this.

The bigger question was who’d remember it.

Patterson sent Sonya home with the car. “I’ll wait for the boys.”

“Will there be room?” she asked. She was tired, Patterson could tell; the night had drained her. If what he had to say to his son wasn’t so important, he wouldn’t be doing this, asking her to drive herself home without him. But catching Mitchell before he’d had a chance to sleep on the night’s show was essential. It was entirely possible that he’d wake up in the morning, the entire disaster behind him and no replacement for the guitar forthcoming. It’d be as far behind him as baseball was. And while Patterson hadn’t minded when baseball had gone away, privately he thought that his son had a future in music.

At the very least, the boy had invested enough into it: piano lessons, guitar lessons, voice lessons, lessons in music theory and music composition. Some of it he’d taught himself, some he’d learned from books, some he’d mowed lawns to be able to afford. Mitchell had shown that sort of work ethic with the baseball thing, but he’d been ten and so shy, working hard had been the perfect way to hide that. Now, though, Patterson was watching this band bring his son out of that shell. What was emerging was quite the young man: smart, loyal, driven, a planner, a businessman, and just plain good to be around.

The show tonight had been a disaster, there was no sugar-coating it. From the lead singer who fell off the stage and broke his guitar to the drummer putting a stick through the head of his snare and not having a backup handy to the lighting and the sound, there was only one good thing that could be said: not many people had been there. Patterson had counted about twenty, including himself and Sonya.

Trevor was, of course, grinning like the night had gone perfectly. For all that boy had been through, Trevor never stopped seeking the joy in life; it was that quality that Patterson had noticed the first time Amy had brought him home. It was that unfailing optimism that had led Patterson to take custody rather than let him face jail time.

Mitchell, though, was the opposite. Head down, shoulders slumped. It wasn’t unreasonable to think that there’d be no more band come morning. Maybe it wasn’t unreasonable to think there was currently mo more band.

“Son,” Patterson said, trying to be gentle and not startle the boy.

It didn’t work. Mitchell’s head shot up and his eyes widened. “Oh, hi, Dad,” he said when he recovered. He grimaced. “You going to rub it in?”

“No,” Patterson said slowly, tilting his head at the empty spot on the bumper of his Bronco. As Mitchell sat, Patterson noticed Trevor hovering, just within earshot.

Well, Patterson figured, this would be good for Trevor to hear, too. “Even if I could make it sound good, I wouldn’t. You needed a night like this,” he said. “You needed to know what it feels like to fall on your face.”

“What?” Mitchell half-rose to his feet, then caught himself, as if he was suddenly aware of who he was speaking to.

“You can’t succeed without tasting failure,” Patterson said. “If you never fail, you never get to find out what you’re made of. So. What are you made of, Mitchell?”

Mitchell shook his head, his hair shaking and dancing, somehow as dejected as the boy.

Trevor tossed his own hair over his shoulder and lit a cigarette as he watched.

“Are you tough enough to suck tonight up, learn what you can, and move forward? Or is the band over now that you broke your guitar?”

“What am I supposed to play? You can’t be a guitar player without a guitar.”

“True,” Patterson said. “Is that the only problem?”

Mitchell cocked his head as he thought. Patterson waited him out. “Yeah,” the boy finally said. “I think so.” He grimaced. “I’ve been trying to save up for another one, but it’s not doing so well. I had to dig into it to pay for the latest run of t-shirts.”

“Not taking your investment back out?”

Mitchell shook his head. “I figured it was worth it. Didn’t think this sort of thing would happen.”

“But it did, so where do you go from here?”

The boy grimaced. “I figure out how to get a new guitar.”

“We’ll steal you one if we need to,” Trevor said with a shrug. “Sorry, Dad. You didn’t hear that.”

“That’s true. I didn’t.” Patterson paused, noticing that Trevor had started to fade into the shadows. He wondered if Trevor was smoking something more than a cigarette; it wouldn’t be the first time he’d tempted fate — and the local cops.

Mitchell turned to Patterson. “I want this.”

“This?”

“The band. A new guitar. Hell, a better guitar.”

“Fame, fortune, and all the rest?”

Mitchell grinned at his father. “You betcha.”

“Then, son,” Patterson said, turning to him. “You know what it’s going to take to get there.”

“Yeah,” Mitchell said, wiping a hand over his face. “A shitload of work.” He stood up and fumbled in his pocket. “I’d better get busy. Trev, you ready?”

“To do what?” Trevor eyed Mitchell and looked ready to bolt. Patterson bit back a smile. Getting that particular boy to do anything he didn’t want to was impossible; Patterson knew this first-hand.

“Go home and get some sleep,” Mitchell said, possibly the only thing that Trevor wouldn’t rebel against just for the sake of rebelling. “We need to find me a new guitar.”

Patterson held out his hand, palm up. “I’ll drive. You two can start plotting.”

With a grin that said it all, Mitchell handed over the keys.

A note from Susan: This is a particularly good outtake for the day, as it seems I’ve been nominated for A Top Ten Writer’s Blog! Talk about a good time to post an outtake that makes a statement; believe me, it wasn’t planned this way. Karma’s funny sometimes.

Any support you guys can throw my way will be most appreciated!

(with apologies to Cheesy)

Mitchell kicked the pizza box out of the way and, with a burp that shook the room, stretched out his legs on the coffee table. It bowed under his weight.

“M, man,” Daniel said wonderingly. He picked up a drum stick and scratched his back with it. “You just ate the whole thing. I thought you weren’t going to do that anymore.”

“I wasn’t,” Mitchell slurred. He laid his head back on the grimy dressing-room couch. “But I wasn’t gonna drink this much anymore, either.” He burped again.

Trevor held up a hand, all five fingers splayed. Slowly, he dropped each finger in turn, starting with the index finger. Just as he tucked his thumb in, Mitchell sprinted for the bathroom.

“Death by cheese,” Eric laughed.

“Should we save the box as a reminder for next time?” Daniel asked.

“Dumb fuck,” Trevor said, shaking his head and, for a few minutes there, feeling in tune with Daniel and Eric.

Trevor cradled his head in his arms and stared at the clouds. It was one of those days that was warm and the sun felt so good that he swore he could feel it reaching inside him and working on all those old broken bones, the ones the doctors said had healed but that hurt every now and then, anyway.

If he closed his eyes, he could imagine his body trying to repair itself. Eighteen was way too fucking young to be stuck with the scars from broken ribs, arms, and legs. Not to mention his nose; good thing Mitchell’s dad knew someone who’d been able to save it from looking and acting like a mashed potato. So fucking what if it had a hook and looked like a bird’s beak? It worked, it didn’t hurt, and hopefully no one would break it again.

The only thing he needed to make this scene down by the river even better was a girl, soothing other parts of him. Maybe even more than one. Maybe one part per girl. Trevor had a lot of parts.

When the shadow fell over him, he knew better than to hope some higher being had agreed with his plan. It had to be Mitchell, and not just because the big idiot was probably the only other person who knew about this spot. Trevor had been waiting for Mitchell to get the news and show up. Mitchell was dependable like that.

“Why’d you do it?” Mitchell asked with a sigh before Trevor even opened his eyes.

For a second, Trevor thought about pretending to be asleep, letting Mitchell rant until he got so frustrated with Trevor’s lack of response that he left. But it wouldn’t be out of the blue if Mitchell tried to kick him awake, either, and wasn’t he feeling some healing going on?

“I had a point to make,” he finally said.

“Which was?” Mitchell sat down beside him. Trevor could picture him stretching out his legs and crossing them at the ankle, leaning back on his elbows and turning his face to the sun.

“That if people don’t wake up and fucking think for themselves, they’ll never get anywhere in life.”

“Maybe they’re right. That you can’t get anywhere without a high school diploma.”

“Dude,” Trevor said, opening his eyes and turning his head so he could look at Mitchell — who was, predictably, stretched out just like Trevor had imagined. “We’re in a band. We’ve got tour dates booked. We’re going places. What do we need the lies they feed us in that joint for?”

“Just in case.”

Trevor snorted, making Mitchell open his left eye, the one that was now looking right at Trev. “If things are broke, you ought to fix them,” he insisted.

“So fix it,” Mitchell said. “Don’t go running off in a huff and expect everyone to fucking get it just ’cause you tell them to.”

“If you don’t shake things up, no one fixes shit. You know that as well as I do.”

“Maybe they don’t see a problem.”

Trevor shook his head. Of course he didn’t expect Mitchell to get it. People liked Mitchell. And he was a Voss. If he came to school with a fresh black eye every week, no one would sit his ass down and tell him that he should take lots of shop classes because that was going to be the best he would do for himself in life.

“I don’t need a fucking piece of paper to prove I’m worth something,” Trevor insisted.

“So shut up and just go and be something already.”

Trevor jumped to his feet. “I’m fucking trying!” he screamed. “I’m the one getting out there and lining up gigs for us! I’m the one kissing ass and trying to figure out the fucking contracts and all that other happy shit that goes along with this! The way you three pussies act, I’m the only one who cares about this band!”

“That’s because you’re the only one of us without a fall-back plan,” Mitchell said mildly.

“That’s because I’m the only smart one around here,” Trevor shot back. “I’m the one with all the faith Eric’s always preaching about. Where’s his? Where’s yours? If I weren’t up all your asses, you’d all be perfectly happy to sit around in your mom’s basement and make music all day.”

“Nothing wrong with that.”

“There will be,” Trevor said, jumping up and searching his pockets for a cigarette. “When she shakes things up and throws you out of her house and on your ass. Admit it. You won’t do shit until she does.”

Mitchell shrugged. “Maybe.”

Trevor stomped a foot and dropped his lighter. “And that’s my point!” He stabbed the air with his cigarette. “People don’t do shit unless they’re forced to. I’m not sitting around, waiting for you three to stop being scared of leaving town. I’m not wasting any more time in that fucking school. And I’m not putting up with any more shit! I want to fucking live already! Do shit I can tell my kids about one day! Live, motherfucker. I know I’m not the only one here who wants to.”

Mitchell handed his lighter back. “Making another scene, or is this the one you didn’t get to make in the office at school?”

“Fuck you, M,” Trevor snarled and turned his back on his best friend. He’d known Mitchell wouldn’t get it. Coddled little brothers like him didn’t know how to scrap for shit. Well, he’d show him, Trevor would. He’d make their stupid little band into the biggest thing to come out of Riverview, or he’d die trying.

It was one of those autumn days that made everyone love being in Riverview, even Trevor. The air was so clear, it seemed every vein in every leaf stood out and could be seen from miles away. It was the sort of day when you believed that nothing bad could happen and when you spent the day laying down by the river with your best friend and daydreaming, nothing bad could happen.

“A flag,” Trevor said, his head nestled comfortably in his hands, his feet crossed at the ankle. A cigarette clung to his lip, comfortably, like being with the idiot felt.

“What the fuck?” Mitchell asked, pulling his one ankle underneath his opposite leg. Fucker could sit like that for hours, all knotted up, especially if he had a guitar with him. Which he didn’t; too afraid of dropping it in the river and watching it get swept to God-knew-where.

“A flag,” he repeated. “A ShapeShifter flag. For our fans to pledge their love and shit to. You know… one nation, all for one, buy even our shitty records and defend them to the fans who can think… a flag.”

Mitchell eyed him. Trevor shrugged and uncrossed one arm, peeling his cigarette off his lip. “A flag?” the big idiot repeated. “Why not something easier, like t-shirts? I bet they cost less to make and we’d sell more.”

At that, Trevor had to sit up. “I’m not talking of something for them. This is about us.”

“It’s all about us,” Mitchell reminded him, reaching for Trevor’s cigarette.

Trevor pulled it away. “Get your own, fucker.”

“I’m out.”

Trev grinned. “What? Spend all your allowance money again?”

“No,” Mitchell answered in the same taunting voice that Trevor had just used. “That girl last night ripped my last pack off and I haven’t had time to get more.”

Trevor nodded. “You have lousy taste in girls.”

“I bet she’d stand naked under that flag of yours.”

“Okay, not so lousy.” He handed the cigarette over. “But a flag.” He let his eyes unfocus. “United Fans of ShapeShifter. I like it.”

“You’re a dork,” Mitchell said.

Trevor glanced at him, unsurprised to see the wheels in the idiot’s own brain turning.

“Dude, the grill’s ready.”

“Aww, come on. Your wife won’t mind.”

Mitchell watched from the couch, half-amused, as Amy pleaded her case on the other side of the family room. So far, she wasn’t doing so hot.

“Mom, it’s just a movie!”

“Not with a boy we haven’t met yet, Amy,” their mother said placidly. Mitchell watched her more than Amy, actually, fascinated by the way that she got calmer the more Amy yelled and whined. He wanted to shut Amy up somehow; she was getting as bad as Beth. Boys, boys, boys.

He shook his head and tossed his baseball into the air, catching it so easily, he didn’t even have to think about it. There was more to life than boys.

Baseball, for example.

And, he thought, trying not to grin too bright in case Ma or Amy saw it and flew off the handle, thinking he was smiling at them, girls.

“Well, if you drive me there, you can meet him then,” Amy tried.

“How’s he getting there?”

Amy looked down at the carpet and twisted her shoulders back and forth. Mitchell’s grin grew; this was going to be good. “He just said he’d meet me there, out front, and if he wasn’t there five minutes before, it wasn’t his fault and we’d try another time.”

Mitchell sat up and leaned forward, elbows on his knees as he kept playing with the baseball. Ma was going to hate that excuse. She didn’t go in for situations that involved if, unless they were science experiments.

Sure enough, Ma was frowning. “That doesn’t sound like a dependable young man,” she said. She gave Amy one of those long looks down her nose, the kind that made all of them squirm. Amy folded her arms behind her back and kept staring at the carpet, her shoulders still twisting as she fidgeted.

“Amy, are you sure this is the sort of boy you want to be with?” The question was gentle, which surprised Mitchell. He’d thought Ma was ready for some strong action. The fact that she wasn’t was almost a let-down.

Amy crossed her arms over her chest and scowled as she nodded. Mitchell tossed his baseball again and kept quiet. Things were about to get good. Getting kicked out now would not be smart.

“Why?” Ma asked and folded her hands over her knees, like she did when she really wanted to listen.

Amy shrugged. “‘Cause he’s neat. He’s different from the other boys. He’s not a loser like Pipsqueak.” She jerked her chin at him.

“Hey!” he said, his brain already in hyperdrive, thinking of ways to get back at her for what was sure to be his imminent eviction from the room.

“Leave your brother out of this,” Ma said in that same calm voice, but Mitchell could tell, as he shot her a grateful look, that she was losing patience. “I will not drive you to the movies to meet this young man who may or may not be there,” she said and stood up. What she said next was going to be the judge’s verdict. Mitchell bit back another smile, thinking that social studies had been good for something more than a place to sit and daydream.

“If you want to go, find your own way there,” Ma said.

She left the room and Mitchell tossed the baseball again, fighting the temptation to torment Amy somehow. It’d be fun to throw the baseball at her and leave a bruise for this movie date that might not happen, but Ma would kill him for that. Not worth it. Besides, he’d feel bad every time he had to look at the bruise, and bruises took a couple of days to fade.

“Any ideas?” Amy asked him glumly.

He shrugged. “What do I know? I’m just a pipsqueak.”

She flounced out of the room and slammed her bedroom door behind her. Ma stuck her head out of the kitchen and frowned at the noise; Mitchell shrugged and sprawled on his back on the couch, still tossing the ball. It was sort of a bummer that Amy’s new dude wasn’t going to show up at the house. She’d been chasing around some pretty interesting guys lately.

That meant the sort that Dad and Ma hated.

Which meant that maybe Mitchell ought to be trying harder to get Golden Girl to that movie theater. Anything that got Amy in trouble was worth the effort, especially when he could conveniently get himself off the hook at the same time.

There wasn’t much a thirteen-year-old kid could do to help out, though, and before Mitchell could come up with even a bad plan, Beth was coming out of the girls’ bedroom and talking softly to Ma.

“I’ll be right there with her, Mom. Nothing will happen. I’ll… I’ll take Pipsqueak and we’ll sit in the back row and keep an eye on them.”

Mitchell covered his face with his baseball glove. The last thing he wanted to do was sit through some movie Amy was sure to have picked. She went for that sappy romantic shit.

“Maybe letting her get stood up by this boy isn’t such a bad idea,” Ma said thoughtfully. br /br /Mitchell tossed his baseball and wondered why.br /br /An hour later, he and Beth were standing near the popcorn counter, watching Amy talk to her guy. Mitchell recognized him, sort of. He was in Mitchell’s grade, but that didn’t mean much. So were five hundred other kids.

This kid stood out, though, because he wore a jean jacket all the time, and had long brown hair. Like… below his shoulders long. Mitchell, who’d recently convinced Dad to let him grow out the brush cut he hated, couldn’t see letting his own get like that. He wasn’t going to start skipping classes, either.

Beth leaned over to him. “Looks like Perfect Amy’s doing some rebelling,” she said.

Mitchell shrugged.

“This could be fun,” Beth continued in a taunting voice, like she was challenging Mitchell to something. He wasn’t sure what, though, and again, he shrugged. Ma always said it was rude to not answer at all and that even a gesture was enough, so Mitchell spent a lot of time shrugging and not a lot of time actually speaking. No one seemed to mind.

“Beth, Pi– Mitchell, this is Trevor,” Amy said, leading him inside.

The other kid stared at Mitchell. “I know you.” He nodded like it all made sense. “You saved my ass that one time at lunch.”

Mitchell shrugged. So he’d seen Asshole Jerry sticking his foot out, ready to trip Trevor and send him flying. It hadn’t been hard to ruin Asshole Jerry’s plans with a quick gesture at Trevor. After all, that had to be the oldest trick in the book, the one that everyone was on to. Mitchell couldn’t respect someone who took that route.

“Thanks for that,” Trevor said, giving Mitchell a companionable chuck to the shoulder. “I’d have probably gotten expelled again if he’d dumped me.”

Mitchell looked over his shoulder, frowning. The guy had touched him.

“That didn’t hurt, you wuss,” Amy said to him. She fidgeted some more, wringing her hands. Trevor made a point of separating them and holding onto one.

“Do you guys really have to watch the movie, too?” Amy asked, biting back a smile as she stared at her hand in Trevor’s.

“Well, here’s the thing,” Trevor said, a smile playing at his lips. “If you think I’m gonna sit through some lovey shit like I said I would, you’ve got another thing coming. No, babe, we’re gonna see the thriller. See if we can throw popcorn at the bad guys.” He nodded like it was all settled.

“But…” Amy said.

“But nothing,” Trevor said with a definitive nod. “We can make that sappy shit happen ourselves. But how often do you get to take on the bad guys and save the world?”

Mitchell nodded. He liked the way this guy thought. Well, other than being romantic with Amy. That thought made his skin crawl.

Beth was grinning. “So you mean,” she drawled and tossed her long whitish-blonde hair over her shoulder, “you’re teaching our little Amy that it’s okay to fib a bit to our parents?”

Trevor looked her over for a long minute. Mitchell half-expected Beth to fidget like Amy was, but she didn’t. “Got a problem with that?” he asked, sticking his tongue into his cheek. Mitchell wondered if he was trying to challenge Beth — and if he had any idea how fast she’d put him in his place if he tried.

“Only that it took her this long to find you,” Beth said, her voice warming like she liked this guy. Mitchell knew he did; he wondered what it would take for Trevor to dump Amy and be his friend instead.

“Stick with me,” Trevor said, nodding firmly. “I’ve got lots to teach the three of you.”

Mitchell shrugged and hoped that he’d get to learn some of it.

It’s been awhile since we had an outtake!

In the end, Trevor couldn’t complain. He was riding shotgun as usual in Mitchell’s truck and Rusty fit between them with just enough room for Trev to move aside to show his dislike of her — but she was still close enough that Trev could smell her. Strawberries. Very faint, as if that, like her, was nothing more than a tease.

“Can someone please explain to me just why it is that we’ve got to stop and pick up food if we’re on our way to dinner?” Trevor half-whined as Mitchell pulled the Bronco into the parking lot behind the grocery where the lovebirds had met.

“Ma needs us to pick up extra chicken,” Mitchell said. “Sounds like the guest list grew by my sister and her dork husband.” He grimaced as he parked and turned off the ignition. “Man, that’s a way to ruin a night. Making the three of us be nice to him.”

Trev glanced out the corner of his eye, half-expecting Rusty to tell Mitchell that it wouldn’t be so bad. “Amy’s at least fun to be with,” she said.

“For you two,” Mitchell grumped as he opened the door to the truck. “I’m the one who always gets the short end of whatever you guys cook up.”

“Us?” Rusty asked, fluttering her eyes in an innocent act that Trev didn’t buy but probably left Mitchell drooling.

“Are you two gonna do some sick sappy shit in front of the tomatoes?” Trev asked as he hopped out and looked to make sure Rusty had gotten out of Mitchell’s side. He gave the door a satisfied slam, half wishing she’d stuck something in his way. A hand, a foot; didn’t really matter. Just something so Mitchell would get all pissed and work him over good for being so fucking careless with the princess.

Like Rusty was some prize or something.

Like Trevor would have hurt her on purpose.

“We could get sappy,” Mitchell said. He winked at Rusty as he slipped an arm around her shoulders. “We could buy us some tomatoes, grill ’em up…”

She shook her head at him, all business now. “Your mother was quite specific that we not show up with anything but the chicken.”

Mitchell waved her off. “Yeah, like washing the dishes before we split won’t shut her up. Remember that, Ker. If you do the dishes, she forgives all.”

Even Trevor had to agree with that. Mama V was as devoted to mothering as a woman could get, but there was nothing she despised more than cleaning up after dinner. It had probably been the only chore Trevor had done on a regular basis, plastering a smile on his face and telling himself repeatedly that if he did a good job, she’d forgive whatever he’d done that day to piss her off.

Inside the grocery, he beelined for the tomatoes as the other two trailed behind, probably absorbed in some lovers’ babytalk that needed to be stopped. Two of the biggest and freshest tomatoes got stuffed up his charcoal grey t-shirt. “So this is what was really going on when you invaded my life, huh? Tomatoes are round like tits — especially yours, Rusty. You thought M here was all about the fruit, but really, he was thinking how much it looked like your nice round boobies.” He leaned toward her, leering.

Before she could do anything but look a bit shocked, Mitchell cuffed the back of his head, making him bobble one of the tomatoes. He breathed out hard as he settled it.

Rusty just laughed, the way you do when you’re looking at something pathetic.

Trevor looked down and then gave her a death glare, wishing it really worked. One hand was still at tit-height, the other down by the waist of his jeans. He wasn’t coming off as a clown, just a fool. A pathetic fool. No wonder she looked like that.

He put the tomatoes back, trusting that if Rusty wouldn’t conveniently forget he’d done this, Mitchell would shut her up. M was good like that, always looking out for Trev’s pride. As if it was too precious to be abused.

Trevor wished it was that simple. It was more that his pride had been the first to get beaten away but like a loyal, stupid puppy, it kept coming back. And back. And back.

Maybe it was a good thing it had, Trev thought as they tromped through the rest of the grocery, toward the meat case in back. If it hadn’t been for pride — okay, and fear for Eliza, too — he never would have gotten the balls to get his hands on that gun. He’d probably be dead now instead of being the most constant viewer of the Mitchell and Rusty show.

“Hey,” he said, “why don’t we go out and hear some bands after dinner’s over?”

“If anyone good’s playing, sure,” Mitchell said. “Ker?”

“You guys can go,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “Remember I told you I wanted to swing by that opening tonight?”

“We can do both,” Mitchell said.

Trevor wanted to smack him for sounding so fucking desperate.

“We need some chicken,” Rusty told the guy behind the meat case. “How much again, M?”

“Whaddya need?” the guy asked.

“Umm… five double breasts,” Mitchell said. “Wait. No. Make it four. Four singles, so I guess that’s two doubles…”

“Breasts?” the meat guy asked.

Trevor leaned close. “No,” he drawled. “Tits. We need chicken tits; that’s what’s on the menu tonight.”

Rusty covered her face with her hands.

“Aww, come on, Rusty,” he laughed. “Like that’s not what you fancy artists call ’em.”

“No, Trev, we don’t. We call them chicken breasts. Save the tits for the women, okay?”

He gave her a wolfish grin. “You know that’s the best part of you girls.”

Mitchell leaned over and whispered to him, “Only because you haven’t met a woman like Kerri.”

Trevor fought the impulse to spit, puke, and shudder. “Who the fuck wants a woman like her? Oh, yeah. You/, you big loser.”

Mitchell rewarded him with another cuff to the back of his head, hard enough to make his ears ring.

“Just take the bird tits and let’s get out of here,” he said, licking his lips and savoring the hit Mitchell had given him. On days like these, when Mitchell handed it out just right, life was good.

Patterson had called to say he was due home sooner than originally expected, so Sonya was absorbed in getting dinner together when it all began. She felt rushed; she’d spent the day helping a friend try to make sense of a temporary bookkeeper’s disaster, and Sonya and her friend had quit for the day still wondering if they were seeing the numbers correctly. She had brought some of the paperwork home for Patterson to look over; while he wasn’t a figures sort of man, he was sure to know some at the office who were.

With all of that on her mind, it wasn’t surprising that she barely paid attention when Mitchell and Trevor slunk through the kitchen, an unfamiliar girl between them. And she was too focused on defrosting the ground beef to dwell on the fact that Trevor was alone when he returned to the kitchen and asked, with his fake innocent air, if he could help.

Sonya handed Trevor a knife and the onion she’d been trying to chop while she rummaged in the vegetable bin for the broccoli. The boy went to work without complaining, but again, she was too wrapped up in the idea of dinner to think much about that anomaly, either. It was just a relief to have the extra set of willing hands.

When Amy screeched, she jumped three feet, taking the skillet with her. Mostly defrosted ground beef and unevenly chopped onion splattered her arms; Sonya banged the pan back on its burner. “Amy Christina, this had better be life-or-death!”

“Mom! You have got to see what Mitchell’s doing now!” Amy rushed into the kitchen, her face as pale as her hair. She chewed worriedly on her lower lip and gestured over her shoulder with an unusual urgency.

Trevor’s snicker stuck in Sonya’s brain and she turned to him, considering.

“Let me go see,” she said calmly, reaching for a kitchen towel to wipe her hands and arms off with. “You tend the meat,” she told Amy and crossed the family room and up the three stairs to the sleeping wing of the house, her daughter’s protests about cooking falling on uncaring ears.

Carefully, quietly, she opened the door to the boys’ room, and peeked inside. Mitchell and the girl were wrapped around each other, mostly covered by the bedsheets, his hair hiding both their faces.

She cleared her throat.

Mitchell’s head jerked around, his eyes wide and scared, his mouth open in surprise. The girl bit back a guilty and panicked sound as Mitchell said, “Ma!” He started to scrabble at the sheets, pulling them up closer around himself and his girl, trying to soothe her at the same time.

Sonya couldn’t stop the smile at the sight of her son’s swollen lips — and devotion to someone he’d probably never met before, knowing Trevor. “If your friend would like to stay for dinner, just let me know and I’ll set an extra place,” she said and closed the door again.

She didn’t need to press her ear to the door to hear their sighs of relief. But she did need a minute to lean against the wall and laugh. That little scene was something she knew Trevor had been working on for a few weeks now and while she supposed that as a mother, she ought to be yelling at her youngest for having sex under her roof, she and Patterson were liberal enough to know their home was the best choice. Lord only knew the sort of places Trevor would drag Mitchell to next time if she made a fuss now.

Trevor, on the other hand… Amy, too.

Sonya pushed herself away from the wall beside Mitchell’s door, gritting her teeth. Trevor had set Amy up for that intrusion; of that, she had no doubt. It was probably the only reason why Trevor had brought Mitchell and his friend back to the house.

Regardless of whether or not she’d been set up, Amy knew better than to go into the boys’ room without knocking first. A closed door meant something in the Voss household, regardless of what lies Trevor had told her. Just as other families had inviolable rules about who did what chore on what day, the Voss family had rules about what a closed door meant.

Amy and Trevor were arguing in the kitchen, probably about what had just transpired. And something was starting to smell overcooked.

That needed to be dealt with before Patterson got home. Time was running short and now Sonya wasn’t exactly certain how many she’d be cooking for. While she doubted the girl would stay, Mitchell could very well want some time to himself. A boy didn’t lose his virginity every day, and a boy as sensitive as Mitchell was bound to need the time to make sense of what he’d just done.

Amy and Trevor, on the other hand… Yes, Sonya told herself as she straightened the hem of her shirt. Something was starting to smell overcooked in that kitchen of hers, all right.