Here I go again
about typos. Sue me, all right? I’m a journalist even if I never went to school for it. But maybe that’s why it gets my goat so much, you know what I’m saying here, people? If Chelle LaFleur can find a way to spell right, so can you.

Yes, it’s that simple. No, don’t you dare come whining to me about how busy you are and how something like spelling shouldn’t matter. It does and it should. If I can hustle to make my own bills and still take the time to spell right, so can you.

Besides, we live in a world that’s more and more about our computer screens. We don’t see faces no more; we see pictures and while y’all might have some pretty darn interesting body parts, that’s something else you gotta consider.

Here’s the deal: The Trumpet here is looking to hire some freelance writers, now that they’ve gone and put me on staff full-time with a salary and everything. We all know they did this so I’ll stop writing for every news outfit in town and so they can keep me for themselves, but that ain’t the issue, here. What it’s all about are these applications we’ve been gettin’ in at the office.

“I wanna be a righter.”

I kid you not, that’s what one application said. You wanna be a lefter, too? You wanna get an interview? Work with real people and not monkeys or your greased-up right hand? Learn how to spell.

One kid came into the reception area wearing a dirty red hoodie, pulled up and looking like it hadn’t been washed in a year or two. Alls we could see was his nose, and that didn’t look too clean, neither. I kid you not. And this small voice comes out, “I can write music reviews.”

Well, people, lookie here. That’s Chelle’s job. No one said nothing about writing music reviews.

Look. I meet folk like you daily. You all wanna have a glamour job like ole Chelle’s. But to get where I am, and to get to the point where you can write a column like I do and use slang like I do — but you’ll notice it’s all spelled right slang — you gotta impress. You gotta make people believe that you can do the job from the first second they lay eyes on you.

You can’t do that if you can’t spell. Take two seconds and look up those words in the dictionary. You just might learn something along the way, and learnin’s always a good thing. Use that word you just learned and make someone think you’re smart.

I remember a day when being smart was sexy. Well, in this corner of the world, that hasn’t changed. Smart is sexy. Good spelling is hotter than hot. And being professional from the get-go is what’ll get you where Chelle is.

You heard it first and you heard it here. You may not get to where ole Chelle is, but if not, it’s only you that’s holding you back.

Shit, shit, shit.

Molly and I are supposed to go hang out at Decade tonight. ShapeShifter’s playing, and I’ve got to make them notice me already. Mitchell’s so hot. I’d look so good with him. We can be in the papers together. Pam and Mitchell. Riverview’s power couple.

Pam Derbish. The only woman on the planet with abs better than Mitchell’s. And do I know how to use them, too.

But no… won’t be happening tonight. Can’t be happening tonight. I’ve got to call Molly and tell her I’m not going anywhere near Decade tonight. Shit. Shit shit shit.

Pam and Daniel… he’d throw over that bitch for me, I know it. I’d get a spiral perm so we’d have matching curls. Maybe even let my natural color grow out so I don’t look too blonde next to him, his hair’s so dark.

I’m not even going to leave the house. Maybe I’ll even cancel classes tomorrow, too. Or however long it takes for this to clear up and go away. And then I can get back to work.

I’ve got to make that band notice me already. I’ve got to be part of their inner world. I need to be important to them, just like they’re important to me. It needs to be a shared thing. They need to know.

I can picture me and Eric. I’d buy dresses that hit my knees so I could go to his dad’s church with him. I could wear those little pillbox hats like Jackie O, and I’d have to get certified in a few more dance-like classes and do less weights. You don’t want to look too cut when you’re with a minister’s son, but you do need to look good. You’ve got the eyes of the congregation on you. Even more than the other ShapeShifter fans, the congregation’s got to be won over.

I’m not going to be able to do it looking like this, that’s for sure. And I’m sure as hell not leaving the house. I hope Molly doesn’t hate me for life. I deserve it if she does.

This is what happens when you exercise; it’s the one thing that no one warns you about. Oh, you can have abs to die for, Pam. No problem there. A gorgeous ass, sculpted arms. Just… forget about having clear skin on your back. Forget about having beautiful, flawless skin on the one night you know you’ll be able to get close enough to ShapeShifter to get them to notice you.

To make matters worse, the problem’s right by my mouth. It looks like a cold sore, except it’s already formed a bit of a white head. And besides, I don’t get cold sores. I know it may not seem like it, the way I go on about ShapeShifter, but I am careful about who I sleep with. I do, after all, have standards. Especially about something like sex.

I was hoping that tonight, I’d be showing those standards to one of the ShapeShifter boys. The night’s perfect. I don’t have a class tomorrow. No roommates around tonight. And brand new candles.

And this zit.

Shit shit shit.

Tonight was perfect. ShapeShifter’s getting hard to get near. They’re popular now. They’re putting out another album, and rumor has it that they’ll be touring in a real bus this time, too. People outside of Riverview are starting to hear about them. Lots of people.

I need to make my move soon, if I’m going to be able to do it at all.

Maybe I’ll get my period tonight. That would be the only way I’ll ever forgive this zit. Especially if Molly calls me in the morning and says that the band noticed her instead of me.

Despite his weed-induced mellow and years of personal experience, Trevor was still proud of the destruction they’d just wreaked on the dressing room. Beer bottles on every surface. Foil wrappers wherever they’d been tossed. Towels draped over the beer bottles, under the bottles, in one case even wrapped around the base of a bottle, anchoring it upright. Potato chip crumbs — among other things — ground into the carpet. Food everywhere. The couch washed down with shaken-up soda and beer, and people still dumb enough to try to sit on it. Garbage cans overturned; at one point, Mitchell had been wearing it instead of a lampshade, the wanker.

One rather enthused and satisfied girl had taken the squeeze mustard and written ShapeShifter on the wall behind the disaster that the catering table had become. All the food had either been knocked over, pushed aside, rescued by a frantic local roadie or two — Trevor hadn’t bothered to watch — or relocated; it didn’t matter. It wasn’t the lovely little display of tempting usualness it’d been when they’d arrived.

Two girls had decided to see if sliced salami would stick to the wall if they threw it just right. Intriguingly, a couple actually had. A bunch had made contact but then slid down the wall, leaving a lovely grease trail in their wake. The rest made a path — like stepping stones, Trev thought with a snicker — across the room. One or two had been trampled on; a brunette had slipped and fallen on her ass, then limped out. She’d looked more in pain than upset that her party with ShapeShifter had ended so soon.

Trevor didn’t doubt that he’d been the only one who’d noticed her leaving. He also didn’t doubt that he’d laughed the hardest at her fall. Her arms had flailed, her eyes had gone huge, but she’d let out this kittenish, barely audible scream. It hadn’t fit the picture. Pretty fucking cool.

“Come on,” Charlie, their tour manager said, tugging on Trevor’s arm as if he was the one who’d be able to get everyone to leave. “Party’s over. We need to get out of here.”

Trevor pulled his arm free. The guy wasn’t entirely sober, himself. Settlement must not have taken long — although who the hell knew what would happen once the disaster of the dressing room was noticed.

Charlie burped a beery-reeking gasball, giving Trev the feeling that he was the only sober one in the room. For a change. If it weren’t for weed this good, he’d have hated the fact that he was afraid to drink.

“The party’s not over,” he told Charlie.

“The party’s not over?”

Trevor gave him a blessedly stoned, placid look. He stopped himself from folding his hands over his belly. “The party can’t be over until the fat lady sings and if you look around, all the fatties showed sense and left already. No fat girl sings, no party ends.” He nodded. It really was pretty simple.

“We’ve got to clear out,” the tour manager whined.

Trevor curled his lip at the guy. “So clear the fuck out. But in the meantime, we have a party to finish up.” He nodded at the rest of the band. “They’re still standing. There’s still a few girls here. Party’s not over.”

“Move it back to the hotel,” Charlie called, raising his voice to be heard over the drunken slurring that passed for chatter. Even if most of it was directions about what felt good and the slurping of deep kisses.

When no one gave any sign of hearing, he turned the radio off. “Move it back to the hotel,” Charlie repeated.

The guys looked around their girls at each other and shrugged. One spot was as good as another. So long as there was beer, they’d be happy. Besides, there were beds in hotels. That meant less complaints about sore knees and backs and other body parts.

Maybe.

Trevor wondered if there’d be any fat chicks at the hotel they could pick up. And if there were, what would it take to get them to sing?

So far, it had all lived up to its promise: the island was beautiful, the house and beach secluded, the staff discreet, and the bed big and comfortable. So big and comfortable that despite its white sheets, it had been a shame to leave it.

But Mitchell had wanted to go snorkeling, and that meant Kerri’d had to go into town to buy a bathing suit, something she hadn’t owned in years. Mitchell had warned her to choose a basic suit instead of a sexy one; when the band was touring, hotel pools were his favorite place to spend down time. A sexy suit would interfere with swimming.

While she’d been out shopping, she’d stopped and picked up a few sundresses, another thing she hadn’t owned in who-knew-how-long. They were coming in handy, though, because when Mitchell’s manager had given them use of the house for a two-week honeymoon, he’d added the condition that they visit his favorite restaurants. If she had to wear clothes at all on this dream vacation, Kerri thought, she was going to wear something skimpy and beautiful.

She and Mitchell were seated on a patio along the beach at one of the restaurants on the list, their dinner orders just placed, when Mitchell got up, left his Vans by the patio’s edge, and wandered down the beach. Kerri cocked her head as she watched him, not sure what he was doing and itching for a sketch book. There seemed to always be a light wind near the shore and it blew his silvery-white hair across the shoulders of his loose black tank in a tantalizing way. Add in his camoflage cargo shorts and he was a hell of a vision as he bent to play in the sand near the surf. Nothing at all like a powerful rock star; just a regular guy.

She sat there, savoring, still wishing she had the means to draw him, until he turned and waved at her. It was, she could tell, an invitation to come see what he’d done, so she kicked off her sandals beside his black slip-ons and followed.

“What did you do?” she laughed as she got close enough to see.

“What’s it look like?” he laughed, holding his arms out to show off his masterpieces.

“It looks like a bunch of hearts.”

“Well, then,” he said with a definitive nod. “Guess this is what happens when there’s no guitar handy and I hear music.”

“Looks to me like you hear hearts.” she said, smiling as he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. He brushed her hair away from her forehead and kissed her temple.

“It’s your damn fault, woman,” he breathed into her ear, making her shiver.

“I think I’ll take it.”

check out more stories of love at Scribbit‘s cool site. Click here for the contest itself. And for more, visit Write Stuff around the 17th.

This is for Erica, who’s home sick with the flu. But while I have you here, let me point out that author Conor Corderoy stopped by to leave a comment here. If you haven’t picked a book to read yet for the Debut a Debut contest, why not his Dark Rain? A dystopia AND murder mystery; how can you refuse?I can’t!

And now… the outtake, just for Erica!

Daniel and Mitchell had gathered around Eric, who stared up at them from Trevor’s couch on the tour bus, his eyes glassy.

“Freaky,” Mitchell said with a nod. He pulled a potato chip out of the bag he’d bought at the rest stop half an hour ago.

“I think it’s a hangover,” Daniel insisted, holding out his hand for a chip.

Mitchell ignored him. “We weren’t drinking that much last night. And you don’t blow your nose as much as he’s been doing when you’re hungover. It makes your brain pound too hard.”

“Good point,” Daniel said. He tried to take the bag of chips, but Mitchell pulled it out of danger and tossed it toward the bus’ kitchen area.

Daniel took a wary step back, but Mitchell was fast and pinned the drummer to the couch opposite Eric. “You can fucking share,” the drummer snarled.

“No I can’t,” Mitchell growled back. “And let’s hope Eric doesn’t. He’s got the flu, you dumb fuck. All of us can get it.”

“We have a show tomorrow,” Eric moaned. “We can’t cancel.”

“True. ShapeShifter doesn’t cancel.”

“What do we do?” Eric’s moan turned sniveling. “I can’t fucking move. Do you know I spent the entire stop trying to get out of my bunk and up here?”

“Well, I wish you’d gotten here sooner,” Mitchell told him, diving for the potato chips before Daniel could grab them again. “’cause if we’d known, we could have picked up supplies.”

“Supplies?” Daniel asked, sucking on the thumb that Mitchell had bent backwards in his rush for the chips.

“Yeah,” Mitchell said, popping another chip into his mouth. “Soup, Jell-o.” He grinned. “We could have some real fun with the Jell-o that sick boy there doesn’t eat.”

“What girl’s gonna want to get on a bus that’s got a guy with the flu on it?” Daniel asked.

Mitchell winked. “Who said we’d tell them before we’re rolling?”

“Show tomorrow,” Eric said and pulled another tissue out of the box he’d propped on his chest. “Me. Gotta play,” he said and blew his nose. Hard.

Mitchell shuddered. Charlie, the band’s tour manager, jumped for the used tissue and put it into a plastic bag.

“What do we do since we don’t have any soup?” Daniel asked.

Mitchell shook his head uselessly and eyed his potato chips. There was something unappetizing about eating after listening to the goop that had come pouring out of Eric’s nose. He crumpled the top of the bag closed and offered it to Daniel, who winkled his nose and shook his head.

“You fuck heads,” Trevor said, getting up from his usual spot on the couch, at Eric’s feet. “There’s only one cure for the flu.” He pushed past Mitchell, who gave him a quick slap to the back of the head, and opened the fridge. He pulled out a beer and grabbed the opener. “You get him so drunk, he forgets he’s sick.”

“We might pickle him before that happens,” Mitchell said with a frown. He opened the potato chips and, without looking, fished one out of the bag and ate it.

“Pickle me!” Eric begged. “Just … make me better.”

Trevor handed over the beer. Daniel helped himself to a potato chip and shrugged at Mitchell.

It was worth a try.

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!

As part of the Debut a Debut contest that Erica at Writing Aspirations and I are throwing, I thought that I’d start featuring some of our debut authors, too. First is Lila Shaara, whose Every Secret Thing is one of the debuts you can win copies of — an autographed hardcover or an audiobook on CD!

Now, on to Chelle and what she’s got to say today.

Now someone had better explain to me just what’s goin’ on here. Okay? I’m listening, so you all had better start speaking.

Now see here. I know I’ve encouraged letters and feedback from you all. And for the most part, what you people have to say rocks. I like that you don’t hold back in your letters, and I like even more that you show me some respect when we meet up face to face. Not a lot; just enough.

What I don’t like is this recent bombardment from you all about my horn-tooting of those little bands out there. Why? What’s your issue here? Don’t you know how big bands get made? They start out as little bands and they slug it out and they find a way to make sure they stand out. If they stand out enough to catch my cynical old ears, so much the better, don’t you think? Have you ever known me to go nuts for a band that was so terrible, you changed the radio station every time they came on?

Well, you gotta account for taste in there, too. But my track record speaks for itself: every single bitty band I’ve told you about has found their way to success of some size, and all of it’s been deserved. Sure, some of ’em broke up before they made it as big as they could have, but that’s the nature of bands, boys and girls. They’re made up of people. People don’t always get along.

Sort of like you all and me, right now. ‘Cause sure as I know my name’s Chelle LaFleur, I know that you ain’t feeling this bitty band love the way I am. And I don’t know why, unless you’re just perfectly happy to keep on doing the same-old, same-old.

If that’s the case, then you shouldn’t be taking up the air I’m tryin’ to breathe, you know what I’m saying here, boys and girls? I’m here to find good music and not care about how big their arenas are or how gigantic their heads are or how humongous their staffs are, pushing their great big news down my fat throat. It’s about the quality of the music, and damn if I care who’s making it.

Okay, unless it’s those ShapeShifter boys, but they’re another story. They’re one of those bands who earn your respect, just because they’re so damn cute, and so damn into what they’re doing and we all know they won’t be a bitty band for much longer.

So quit’cher bellyaching at me already. If no one looks for the next ShapeShifter, how’s anyone gonna find them?

You heard it first, and you heard it here: Bitty bands rock. C’mon out with Chelle and give ’em your support.

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?”

Trevor crossed his legs at the ankle, loving the way his motorcycle boots thunked. He took a minute to light a cigarette; his audience would still be there. Right then, he had them hanging on his every word.

“Don’t you idiots know when you’ve been fucked with,” he drawled, inspecting the tip of his cigarette to see if any ash had formed yet. “Someone that camera shy just isn’t going to let you see her face so fast.”

Now, why aren’t other cities’ local scenes smart enough to do somethin’ like this? I’m talkin’ about what my favorite band’s got going on in the city of Riverview this time. Don’t be sad if you missed the news; they almost snuck this one past yours truly, herself. Almost.

Ready for this? It’s brilliant. It’s worth copying. They threw a musical Hanukkah party for the members of the local music scene. Anyone involved — roadies, musicians, promoters, journalists — could get in for a ten buck ticket that they had to get in advance and buy through KRVR, the radio station that’s so high on the Riverview scene that Bobby Bands, himself, is trying to horn in on their turf. (I hear they had the balls to turn his ten bucks away, too.)

For fifty bucks more, you could jam onstage. With the sponsors of the night: ShapeShifter. And since everything from the food to the club to the labor was donated, all the money went to one of those “keep music in our schools” charities that are so hot right now.

Took me two days, but I got hold of ShapeShifter’s Mitchell Voss. “It was Eric’s idea, really,” he said, and handed the phone over. For someone who usually lets his guitar talk for him, ShapeShifter’s Eric Wallace had a lot to say. Here’s some of it.

“Monday is the quietest day in the entertainment industry, so we picked it, figuring that no one would be committed elsewhere. And since Hanukkah runs for eight days, there’s always a Monday during Hanukkah. We can do this for years to come, and I hope we will.

“Why Hanukkah if no one in the band’s Jewish? Well, my dad and I were talking about this, wondering if the Jewish kids ever feel bad that Santa doesn’t come to their houses–“

He got interrupted here by my favorite blabbermouth. “Look, Chelle. We have Christmas parties out the wazoo. New Year’s Eve parties. You can’t turn on a fucking radio without hearing Christmas carols until you’re blue in the face and stuffing a CD in the player so fast, you break the fucking thing. It’s all about Christmas around here.”

“So we figured,” Eric said. “That we’d honor the religion that was around before Christianity but gets drowned out this time of year. We’d have a Hanukkah party and celebrate our music scene at the same time. After all, Hanukkah’s a holiday of rededication. It just seemed to fit with the idea of reminding everyone that we’re still into the local scene. It doesn’t matter how big we get; it all starts at the local level. Just like the rededication of the Jews’ temple.”

“And we managed to talk the cook into making potato pancakes for everyone, too,” Mitchell laughed in my ear. Ooh, baby. Laugh away.

Focus, Chelle. This was a good thing. Over three hundred people turned out, and they filled the fifty spaces for that big old jam with the superstars themselves. That was an extra fifty bucks for that honor, remember. Once you do the math, you get a pretty nice $5500 for charity.

And then those ShapeShifter boys topped that. They matched the take, making a cool $11,000.

Eric said his father’s church was also going to make a donation in the name of the Riverview Musician’s Hanukkah Celebration, and is going to work throughout the year toward getting more of the city’s religious folk of all denominations and faiths involved for next year. The funds won’t stay in Riverview, either, but are going to Music Lives, a foundation that spreads the wealth and the message across the country. This is important, Mitchell told me, “because without music in the schools, some of us won’t get to sing in the choir and find out that we can do more than croak. That’s what I got out of choir. That and the chance to be around all those girls in their concert best. Man, that alone made being in the choir worth it.”

So, c’mon. This is one bandwagon worth jumping on, and go figure that it’s ShapeShifter leading the way. Again. Y’all laugh at my face, tellin’ me I’m nothin’ but a ShapeShifter groupie, but if they’re doin’ stuff that’s this good, why aren’t you one, too?

You heard it first and you heard it here: Musical Hanukkah Celebrations are going to be sweeping the country. Get involved now.

(a note from Susan: While Chelle LaFleur, our slightly single-minded journalist, and ShapeShifter are as fake as the Musical Hanukkah Celebration, the Music Lives Foundation isn’t. Endorsed by Paul McCartney and Fidelity Investments, they’re helping keep music in our community’s schools. Check out their website; read the stats about how music helps our children. And if you’ve got an extra $50, for the price of a jam with ShapeShifter, you can make a positive impact on the world. If you can’t do fifty, do what you can; their minimum is five. Go on. Skip that latte and donate instead. And be sure to tell them you heard about them here.)

Another note from Susan: Music Lives seems to have folded. If you’d like to make a difference, check out the 2008 Musical Hanukkah recipient, the Mr. Holland’s Opus Foundation. You’ll be glad you did.

“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."