Breakout by Kevin Emerson Read Free Book Online Page B

I’m not sure. Sadie’s the singer for the Random Sample too.” He’s talking about theseventh grade band. “I was thinking maybe both bands could learn cover songs and Eric from the Bespin Mining Guild could sing”—that’s the sixth grade band—“but I think that might be too much to put on his plate.”
    He smiles sadly at us. “We may just need to plan ahead for the spring show. I mean, we have a good start on the tune. And more time is never a bad thing.”
    “This sucks!” mutters Keenan. He’s staring at the ground with his hands shoved in his pockets like he does when he’s mad.
    “Why did Sadie have to be such an idiot?” I add.
    “Well, I’m sure she didn’t mean to sabotage the band,” says Mr. Darren. “But in rock and roll, it’s all about timing, and there is this weird correlation between big shows and the craziest things happening.” Mr. Darren laughs a little when he says this, but it’s weary, like he’s been through it.
    The afternoon bell sounds and Mr. Darren writes us a pass to LA. Keenan and I are silent as we walk there. There’s no use saying anything. It feels like when you’re standing near a mine blast in
LF
and for a few seconds you stagger and the sound gets distant and everything is hidden by clouds of smoke. And then you look down and see that half your leg is gone, and the screen goes red. Game over.
The Last Place in the World I Want to Be
    When we walk into LA, Ms. Rosaz has already started the lesson. I throw my junk on my table and drop into my chair. I know it’s a distraction but right now I don’t even care.
    “Anthony and Keenan, you should have your books and writer’s notebooks out on your desks,” says Ms. Rosaz, annoyed by our disruption but of course not bothering to ask what we might be upset about. “The rest of the class has already started.”
    I huff and dig into my bag for the paperback book and drop it on my desk, then slap open my binder and pull out my writer’s notebook. Every movement I make is loud and Ms. Rosaz is probably going to snap any second. Whatever.
    There’s no way I can focus right now. I can’t believe we’re not going to get to play Arts Night! And April is forever from now. Everything we’ve been dreaming of for the entire fall just got snatched away from us.
    I stare out the window thinking about this, thinking about what’s
not
going to happen: being onstage with our amps and our guitars and rocking the new tune with my new part and feeling that feeling of playing for everyone again. It was so awesome last year.
    So when Ms. Rosaz taps me on the shoulder I can’t even begin to answer her question mainly because I didn’t hear it. “What?” I say, glancing quickly at the board and trying to read the assignment on the projector screen.
    I’m not that good at hearing assignments the first time anyway, because I’m usually just thinking about other stuff. There was talk, back in like fourth grade, of putting me on one of those Learning Plans, where the psychologist tests you and you get pulled out to the resource room for whatever torture goes on there, but it never happened. I guess I started doing just well enough to not be considered
that
dumb. And by this point in school, I’ve figured out how to catch up with what’s going on really quick.
    “Please, get started,” says Ms. Rosaz.
    “I don’t feel like it,” I tell her, partly because it’s the truth, not that she cares what I’m really going through, but also because I don’t know what we’re doing yet.
    “Anthony,” she says in
that tone
. “This is something you could do well on. I’d like to see you at least give it a shot.” She pats me on the shoulder and walks away. It usually takes her about five minutes to circle the room, and so by the time she gets back and I tell her that I can’t think of anything, I should probably at least figure out what we’re supposed to be thinking about.
    My table-mate is Clara. She’s one of those