Have Mercy (Have a Life #1) by Maddy Wells Read Free Book Online Page A

me but I don’t remember who my last friend was.  I didn’t want the scrutiny that a friend would subject my life to.  Like: Why’s your daddy never around?  Why’s your mommy dressed like that anyway?  When the questions start, I pick up the Fender and turn on the amps.  Captain Kirby was acting like a friend is supposed to, though, and she didn’t pry.
                  “You might be waiting for a long time,” I told her.  “Really, you don’t have to stay.”
                  “Do you mind if I stay?”
                  “No.  No, I don’t.  I just thought you might have other things to do.  Your mom might want you to do something.”
                  “No.”
                    Three Goth girls came down the street looking at all the houses when one of them spotted our number on the mailbox and nodded to the other two.  They kept walking, more quickly now, mighty interested in their shoes, pretending not to see Captain Kirby and me on the stoop. 
                  “And so it begins,” I said.
                  “Groupies?”
                  “Probably.”
                  “You psyched?” Captain Kirby asked.
                  “As a daughter or as a musician?”
                  “Either one.  Both.”
                  The Griffin came by on Christmas Eve last time.  He didn’t give us any advance warning and I thought my heart would jump out of my body I was so happy to see him.  He put on his full regalia—eagle head, lion’s tail—before he opened the bus door and I thought Jane was going to expire on the spot she was so excited.  “Come in, Griffin,” she begged.  “I won’t talk about anything you don’t want to.  I promise.”  But the thing about The Griffin, he never came in anymore.  He stayed in his bus and we came to him and he doled out his presents as if he were some sort of black magic Santa, the low watt lighting in the bus softening our edges, making us agreeable and happy to accept his presents in lieu of him.  A Fender for me “’cause I know you got the blood, I smell it!” and a Kia for Jane because her old heap of a Honda Civic was running on will power, even though I don’t think she ever complained about her car, but that was The Griffin.  He just knew what you needed.    
                  “I listened to his stuff last night on-line,” Captain Kirby said.  “He’s good.”
                  “Think you want to jam with him?”
                  “Isn’t that what you want to do?”
                  I shrugged.  I wanted to blow him away with my songs.  I wanted to play something so freakin’ awesome he would tilt back in his orange Barca Lounger that was anchored to the bus floor and tip his eagle head to me.  I wanted to see that involuntary nod of appreciation that wasn’t fake dad stuff cooked up to make you feel good about yourself.  Anyway, what does anyone want from their father, especially one that came with a mythology?  To vanquish him?   He had never said anything to me that indicated he really thought I had talent.  But then why did he give me the Fender and the Pink Fade drum set?  And wasn’t I part of him?  Something of him had to have rubbed off on me somewhere.                                                        
                  It was only four o’clock but couples and three and foursomes strolled—trying to seem casual—back and forth in front of our house then went and stood across the street or on the corner waiting for the cry to go up on Twitter that The Griffin’s chariot had pulled into town. 
                  “I find it very hard to imagine that The Griffin is even my father,” I told Captain Kirby, which is more than I had ever told