Broken Birdie Chirpin by Adam Tarsitano Read Free Book Online Page A

groove.
Lincoln frequently barked words of encouragement when he was amped about a
solo. His voice suddenly burst through the clatter: “Let her rip, Churchill.”
    We
were the heirs apparent to the jewel encrusted throne reserved for the rajas of
our craft, but we’d been unable to conjure a band name worthy of such promise
and position. Lincoln had just unwittingly christened us with a befitting
title. I informed the others as soon as we returned from Zion. Blessings. Our
collective identity had been established. We’d conquer the stage now and
forever as Rip Churchill.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
    It
seemed much narrower than the stage in the auditorium. I guessed a modest 12'
by 12'. The dim lighting and worn mahogany floorboards made it feel even
tighter. Its intimacy conveyed the false impression that it was our refuge from
the gathering storm. The truth was much more horrifying, however: A ruffled
velvet curtain provided our only real cover, and it would spread wide open in
less than five minutes.
    We
were tuned up, warmed up, and dug in. My ticker beat horribly fast and I felt
like chucking up. Skeffington wasn’t fairing much better. His hands were
trembling as he adjusted the height of his microphone stand for the fifteenth
time. Lincoln and Frisby found our jitters highly amusing and ribbed us
brutally. Their barbs and intermittent laughter were the only sounds coming
from our side of the spectacle. The noise from the other side, however, had
grown exponentially louder. Distinct voices or conversations that could be
heard moments before were now part of a collective and indecipherable chatter.
    Suddenly,
I heard walrus footsteps directly outside the curtain. Unpleasant feedback
followed loud tapping on a microphone. The chatter trailed off and for a blink
there was mostly silence. “Good evening.” The voice belonged to Headmaster
Moobs. “I just want to take this opportunity to welcome all of you to the
annual spring dance. It’s glorious to see such a large group of my students
gathered together for some boogie woogie and jive. Wonderful. I’d also briefly
like to thank the staff for turning the gymnasium into the Rivoli. Job well
done. Let’s give them a hand…Alright. Alright. Without further ado…” We were
seconds away from launch and I was about to spark out or else leg it for the
exit. “I present to you Skeffington and his Disciples…”
    Bloody
hell! Our plan to introduce ourselves as Rip Churchill after gashing through
the first number had been shattered. We hadn’t even discussed the possibility
of Headmaster Moobs introducing us prematurely. Moreover, his replacement of
“the” in favor of “his” made it sound like we were Skeffington’s fluffers. The
sudden jolt of anger shocked the shakes flat out of me. I’d show these
frontrunners whose bloody band this was.
    The
curtain squeaked open. We were like exotic sea creatures floundering in an
enormous aquarium for the amusement of our mostly curious contemporaries. I
glanced at the puffer fish to my right and then at the two clownfish behind me.
Clownfish number one winked and spun his drumsticks in the air before coolly
counting us off. I was the ravenous barracuda ready to devour the opening lick
of “The Sophisticate’s Flat.”
    Three
minutes later the gymnasium was aflame. Slags were ditching their dates in
droves to get closer to the stage. Confused lads were hatching makeshift plan
bs to cope with becoming obsolete. Even the wallflowers and dorks were peeling
themselves from obscurity to join the fray. The spring dance had become a
blooming concert. Skeffington did something awe inspiring amidst the mayhem
that I’d never forget. He grabbed his microphone and bursting with adrenaline
shouted four simple words: “We are Rip Churchill.” Shivers. Cheers to
Skeffington. It was time to unleash “Brooklyn from Bawtry.”
    I
spotted her during the first chorus. It was like looking through the tubular
insert of a roll of paper towels.