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.

All right, all right. Leave me alone already.

Over the past few days and don’t ask my fat ass to count them, people, I’ve gotten more e-mail from you readers than I have in the past six months combined. And you’re all whining about two stupid mistakes.

I’ll own up to one of them. I forgot to add the letter S on the end of the magazine title the other day. But can you blame a girl? I was all caught up in that picture — it is still, at this moment, making me fan myself with a funeral fan I found in the bottom of my desk. Thank God for funerals, boys and girls! And so what if I decided that this issue of guitar gods ought to be about one and only?

As for the capital letters, don’t be blaming me for that. I read guitar gods magazine every quarter. I know darn well they have this thing for lower case letters.

No. If you want to blame that on someone, you go blame it on my copy editor, who now has about three back issues featuring guys I never liked anyway, like that tribute to Jim Shields once he finally gave in to the AIDS, sitting on her desk, teaching her that screwing up like she did just makes old Chelle even nastier than usual.

Speaking of nasty, who’s the smarty-artie who sent me that nasty t-shirt last week?

You heard it first, you heard it here, and this time, you heard it right. guitar god magazine featuring the very godlike Mitchell Voss. On sale in two more days.

Can you stand it?

Any you girls ready for a drool-fest? I’ve got a picture here that’ll be on the cover of the November Guitar Gods magazine featuring the one and only, totally drool-icious Mitchell Voss.

And girls, this ain’t no posed picture. This is the Handsome Man himself, outside, playing in the autumn leaves. I’ve never been sorry I don’t live somewhere where the leaves change colors until I saw this picture, let me tell you. I’m ready to up and move my fat ass to Vermont, or wherever they had to go to get leaves this color so early in the season. I’m not just ready. Oh, no. This puppy’s got me packed and on the road. It’s that hot.

My friend Mitchell is wearing a hoody that’s a pumpkin-orange, and he’s actually — can you believe this? Write this one down for posterity — laughing. That’s right. You read that right. The man can laugh. I know that’s been widely speculated about and even I had doubts about it, but apparently, even if they had to stick an ice cube down the front of those delicously tight jeans, the man can at least act like he’s doing it long enough for the camera to snap.

I hear from a reliable source that there’s plenty more inside, including pictures of Mrs. Mitchell herself, the low-key but very famous Kerri Voss, and — don’t pass out on me now, girls — their boys. I haven’t been priveleged enough to see the rest of the spread yet, but I hear it’s a doozy.

Boys, I don’t know what to tell you ’cause I don’t have an inkling of what’s inside, or why they’re running this now, during a quiet period for the band. It doesn’t matter. It’s ShapeShifter, and we’re all missing that thunder they call music.

Start saving your pennies now. Flood the newstands; I’m told the on-sale date is November 1. Let’s make this be the next in a long series of Guitar God magazines that sell out their print run. Funny, but a little bit of research tells me that of their top-ten best-selling covers, four of them have included ShapeShifter’s god-like frontman. The #2 seller, Terry Fantillo, only has two in that same top ten. Seven wives, but only two covers.

Remember the on-sale date and check out that picture. I told you here, and I told you first.

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.

Trevor usually walks into a meet-and-greet to hear something along the lines of, “Oh my God, it’s Trevor Wolff! He came!”

To which he always smiles lazily, licks his lips, and wishes he could smoke here, just so he could dramatically put it out. And then he says, “Wouldn’t you rather if we came together?”

New Orleans club fixtures Jock La Feet played The Ninth Street Dive tonight to a packed house. Nothing new there; Jock La Feet is a band that, with a better name, oughta be out there on a bigger scale, sorta like Rat Catcher. I may have only been around this scene for a few short months and may have spent zero time on the far side of the levees, but I gotta tell you, if you don’t think that Jock La Feet can compete nationally, you haven’t heard Jock La Feet. Which makes me wonder if you’re realy dumb enough to think you can read this review and feel like you were there.

After a write-up like that, what I got to say next will make you wonder. And that’s ’cause at their record release party last night, Jock La Feet got showed up by this little band from somewhere West of the Mississippi, four dudes who rolled into town in their lead singer’s dad’s Ford Bronco, with the equally bad name of ShapeShifter and an even worse gimmick, where each band member identifies with an animal.

It’s their music that makes these four guys — two who seem to like their leather pants a little bit too much (was that dinner on them?), and two who seem even more bland than that — stand out. Nothing could have made New Orleans ready for this band, and as you know, this is a city that’s seen and weathered an awful lot.

Opening with “Take the Stage,” ShapeShifter erupts with speed and sound, sort of like a meteor if it was racing toward the planet, bound and determined to make contact. And like flying space junk, you can’t get away. Believe me, there were a few in the packed club who were dumb enough to try.

From that — again, horribly titled — song, ShapeShifter delivered a half-hour’s worth of music, almost ten songs in all, and all available on the band’s first record. Which, no surprise, they were selling out of the back of Daddy’s Ford Bronco until the cops tried to arrest them for not having a permit. (They escaped by skipping town.)

I’m telling you here and now, this is a band you’re gonna wanna watch. They got a lot of growing to do before they’re half the band that Jock La Feet is, which means they have a ways yet before they’re ready to tour like this again. Doesn’t matter, though, ’cause they blew Jock and the boys two parishes over.

Remember the name: Chelle La Fleur. I told you here, and I told you first.

Trevor almost ran smack into Val when she stopped in the doorway. “But … it’s raining,” she pouted.

Trevor sighed and itched for the smoke they were heading outside for. Val was always pouting anymore. He wondered how Daniel could put up with her. He wanted to know why Daniel put up with her.

“So?” he asked, raising his eyebrows like he was expecting the back of her head to see his imitation of her own perfect bored-by-the-drama-queen airs. “You’re hardly about to melt,” he sneered, shaking his head and itching even harder for that cigarette.

“Says you,” she shot back, not looking at him. That didn’t surprise Trevor in the least. He knew he was an ugly motherfucker. He didn’t blame Val for not looking. Shit, he went for days without looking. Good thing his beard grew in so fucking slow, or he’d have to do it more often. Look that was, not blame Val. Trevor Wolff did not blame others for his own issues. Not that being ugly was an issue; issues, you could fix somehow. Ugly, you were just stuck with.

“Yeah, well, look at it this way,” he said, changing his stance to a more comfortable once since he had the feeling they wouldn’t be going anywhere so fast. “The Wicked Witch of the West is the only person we’ve ever known who’s melted, right?”

“Right,” Val said warily, turning her entire body sideways, but letting her head turn to look at him.

Trevor was half-surprised that she didn’t shudder. But then again, this was Val. She’d been around with Daniel since the drummer had joined the band. That meant she’d had a whole year now to get used to his face.

“And you’re in that snobby-assed chef’s school,” he continued as conversationally as he could. The itch for the smoke gnawed at him; he told it to take a hike.

“So?” She arched her perfectly-plucked eyebrows at him.

“Wicked Witches can’t cook. It’s part of the job description.” He took a deep breath and plowed on. Anything if it’d get her out the door so he could get his fucking smoke already… “I mean, they can cook gruel and brussels sprouts and beets and shit like that that nobody likes. But anything that’d get them into snobby-assed chef’s schools?” He shook his head as slowly and dramatically as he could, making himself count to five as his head moved from one end of its arc to the other.

“You’re not going to melt,” he told her again, wishing she’d listen and go outside already. He needed that smoke and here was Val, plugging up the door and stopping him from getting his nicotine high. Bitch.

Yeah, I guess you’re right,” she said and took that first step into the drizzle.

Behind him, Mitchell came up and gave him a companionable slap to the back of the head.

“What was that for?” Trevor asked, giving him a reproachful look. He hadn’t needed it. Hadn’t particularly wanted it, either.

“One good deed deserves another,” Mitchell said with a shrug, reaching for his own cigarettes as he followed Val outside and left Trevor standing there, gaping.

Don’t forget about the Buy a Friend a Book Week contest! View it here or the extended version here!

“Dude, I never watched the news until I heard you did. And it was like someone was showing me this whole great big fucking world that I never knew was out there. I mean, yeah, I’d heard of terrorism and all that shit, but all of a sudden, I get why it’s such a big deal. I know this sounds cheesy as hell, but thanks, man.”

Two things:

1. The inevitable return of her mother to her life
2. Retirement

To sell one of her paintings for a million or more.

“Him? He’s nothing but a loser.”

“YES!”

(choose your context; most of them work)

“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.