Born to Rock by Gordon Korman Read Free Book Online Page A

usual gang of loudmouths at our school. But not from me.
    On the other hand, if I’d had the guts to offend her a couple of months ago, I might still be going to Harvard.
    So why did I feel even worse than before?
    That Saturday, Owen Stevenson dropped by to see me just before seven A.M . His 180 IQ may have been a thing of the past, but he was still gifted in the field of bothering people.
    I blinked bleary eyes at him, struggling to find focus. “Don’t you sleep?”
    â€œI just got off the train from New York,” he replied. “Mel and I stayed up all night waiting in line for passes to the Concussed kickoff press conference.”
    â€œCongratulations,” I mumbled. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve heard all day. Of course, it’s early yet. Plenty of time for you to say something even dumber.”
    In spite of the fact that I was blocking the doorway, he pushed past me and established himself in a living room chair. “Mel was going to get a ticket for you too, as a surprise. You know— before. ”
    â€œI’m glad she didn’t bother. I wouldn’t be caught dead in that place.”
    Another funny thing about Owen. If you don’t tell him what he expects to hear, he continues as if you hadn’t spoken. “You were really nasty to her. What did she do to deserve that?”
    â€œFor starters, she saddled me with you.” I gave him my most inhospitable glare. “Now, are you here just to bug me, or do you have something to say?”
    â€œYou don’t know how good a friend Mel is to you,” Owen informed me. “When people make fun of you and your Young Republicans, she doesn’t let them get away with it. When people are sick of hearing about your Harvard scholarship, she sticks up for you. When people call you a snob—”
    â€œWhat people?” I growled. “It’s you, isn’t it?”
    â€œIt’s lots of people,” he insisted. “And you should hear Mel—‘Leo’s a good guy; I’ve known him my whole life; he’s just a little misguided.’ What do you say to that?”
    â€œSince when is ‘misguided’ a compliment?”
    â€œYou owe her an apology.”
    Here’s the thing: I’d been mentally formulating an apology to Melinda for the past two days. But I wasn’t going to admit it to Owen.
    I said, “Go home.”
    He stood up. “I told her not to get you a ticket, but she got you one anyway. You’re going to see Purge.”
    â€œI’ve got better things to do with my time than to waste it on a bunch of middle-aged punks who were nobody in their prime, and are even less now.”
    He faced me with haughty dignity. “Twenty-five million CDs—what do you say to that?”
    â€œI don’t know,” I told him. “What the hell are you talking about?”
    â€œTwenty-five million CDs and vinyl records—that’s what those nobodies sold in their prime.”
    â€œReally?” I stared at him, stunned. A lapsed Einstein, sure. But he had just pointed out something I’d never thought of before.
    Rock stars weren’t just notorious bad boys and gossip column fodder. The music business paid ! Twenty-five million CDs—that was a lot of money. And that didn’t even include concerts, T-shirts, posters, and radio and TV royalties!
    Here I was, completely undone by losing a forty-thousand-dollar scholarship, when…
    I had a rich father!

[8]
    I SAT ON THE PACKED TRAIN, WEDGED in between Melinda and Owen, on my way to the press conference and an uncertain future.
    Good old Melinda had forgiven me readily. God only knew why. Just like I couldn’t stay mad at her, she apparently couldn’t stay mad at me. Maybe it was our shared history, which stretched clear back to toddlerhood. Maybe she wasn’t as punk as she liked everybody to believe. Or maybe she was just so psyched about the