Giles / Vanasse No Returns

1. Auflage 2014
ISBN: 978-1-940320-08-3
Verlag: Distributed via Smashwords
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 237 Seiten

Gail Giles (Shattering Glass, What Happened to Cass McBride, Girls Like Us) joins with Deb Vanasse (Out of the Wilderness, Cold Spell) for another winner to entrance readers young and old, an adventure that pits three boys in a band against a strange little demon. Pod does card tricks to prove he's in control. Flaco is rich and loyal beyond words to his abuelo. Manny is desperate to get out of his Bar Mitzvah. Together, what these misfits want most is for their fledgling band to get noticed. When their made-up song conjures a strange man in Pod's ancient barn, fame follows so fast it's scary. How much is talent and how much is from something they don't understand? They want to think they've called up anything but the devil, but as strange things pour from the sound hole of Pod's guitar, they have to face the fact that they may have accidently inked a deal with the devil. Success, family, friends-even their lives are at risk unless they can find a way out. 'A powerful story told in an equally powerful voice, with characters you love and root for from the very first pages. A novel of friendship, love and guts about three kids who refuse to surrender-brilliant and strikingly new!' - Terry Trueman, Printz Honor Author of Stuck in Neutral 'The first movement in an ambitious song cycle of a tale' - Kirkus Reviews 'Turn this book up to eleven! It puts the buzz in Beelzebub and the power in power chords. A musical, lyrical tale that must be read.' - Arthur Slade, author of The Hunchback Assignments

Autoren/Hrsg.

Giles, Gail

Vanasse, Deb

Leseproben

CHAPTER TWO THE MAGIC BREATH When the Rodriguez-mobile pulled up to the barn, I was gathering the last of my deck out of the weeds, or what was left of my deck now that my red-backed jack had gone missing and the crow had made off with the ace of spades that had somehow appeared in its place. I stood up fast as Flaco swung out from the backseat of the shiny black Cadillac. I wiped my hands on my pants, leaving dark streaks that made me feel even more anxious, and crammed what was left of my deck in my pocket. “You’re late.” Flaco swung his arm across my shoulder. “You’re paler than pale. You see that rat again, Pod Man?” “Don’t call me Pod Man.” I shrugged out from under his arm. “Or I call you Jesus.” Flaco’s real name is Jesus Rodriquez, but everyone calls him Flaco because he’s so skinny. He says Jews and White Breads don’t have the cred to have street names, but no one calls me Philip Owen Dean unless it’s a teacher who’s gaming for a laugh. “Flaco’s practicing his cool.” Manny loped from the car. For sheer size and bulk, he was the closest this farm had seen to a horse since Grandpa liquidated the livestock. Flaco waved off the driver, another new one. Flaco’s family is rich past counting. “Gotta nail the image,” he said. “For the Battle.” That was the gig—Battleband—a competition to find the nation’s best band of kids under sixteen. At thirteen, we were on the young side, but you’ve got to start somewhere. That’s what we told ourselves. Still, ever since we decided to enter, I’d woken up wondering who we thought we were kidding. You can want something without ever actually going after it. It’s a lot safer that way. We paused at the door to the barn. We did this every time before we went in, like the way you pause at the end of a diving board that’s a little too high, looking down at water that’s a little too deep. Then Manny grabbed the wooden handle and heaved. The door creaked on its rusty hinges, casting a rectangle of light over the floor of packed dirt and straw. “Phew.” Flaco scrunched up his nose. It was the barn at its worst, smelling like a pack of wet dogs crammed in an outhouse. You’d think with the windows knocked out, the place would air out after a rain, but unlike hot air, stinkiness sinks. Smelly on top of creeped-out and anxious did nothing good for my stomach. The door made its usual complaints as Manny tugged it shut. Leaving it open would help with the stink, but Dad would come all unglued from the noise. I flicked on the lights. Three bulbs lit, then one fizzled and snapped and went out. “Gonna need night-vision goggles if your dad doesn’t get out here and change some bulbs,” Manny said. “Goggles,” said Flaco. “I like it. Might give us an edge in the Battle. Goggles. Fly. Get it?” “Stupid,” said Manny. He still wasn’t that happy with Fly, the name we’d picked for our band. After three years of fooling around with our music and not calling ourselves anything, coming up with a name was harder than you’d think, and names in general were a sore point with Manny. Flaco settled at the drums while I set up the mike and Manny tuned his guitar. When we first started playing, Manny couldn’t tune a car horn, but even then he still made all the proper faces while he twisted and ground the pegs, faces that made him look either constipated or like he was trying to divide a little number by a big number in his head. “I need an E,” he said. Ba da clang! Flaco tapped his drum with a two beat and clashed the cymbal. “Clever, Flaco,” Manny said. “Really clever.” “Need a G?” Flaco asked. Ba da clang! “Hear the difference?” He flipped his hair out of his eyes. “Be serious,” Manny said. “How can we get famous if you can’t be serious for two seconds?” “Serious is hard on the image, Man Boy.” Manny’s face darkened. “I told you never to call me that.” “I see you’re going with the mad glower look.” Flaco pointed a drumstick at Manny. “Guys, I’ve been thinking.” I hadn’t, actually. Not in my usual way, with charts and lists and lying awake in the dark. But all at once it felt like a lot of bad hoodoo, with the crow and the cards. “Don’t get me wrong. I want this and everything. And we’re good.” “Damned good.” Flaco flipped his bangs from his eyes. “Still. Battleband might be too much for our first gig.” “We’ve been through this.” Manny strummed a chord that echoed from the rafters to the floor. “A hundred times.” “Hundred and one.” Flaco twirled his drumsticks. “Pod, I know you’re nervous. We’re all nervous. But you’ve gotta quit second guessing.” “Flaco’s right,” Manny said. “We won’t know till we try.” “The first battle’s a week from tonight,” I said. “And you haven’t even finished our song.” Battle songs had to be original. No covers. Manny was writing one he called “Deal,” inspired by the card games Flaco’s abuelo used to play in this very same barn, back in the day. Manny was good with lyrics, but you couldn’t rush him. “I just need the refrain,” Manny said. “I’ve got the rest.” He strummed the opening chord. Deal, he sang. You’ve gotta deal, What you’ve got, what you’re given. Hold your cards. Show your cards. Deal. “Come on, Pod.” He ran a riff up and down the strings. “It sounds way better when you sing it.” No one was hearing me about the Battle. I leaned into the mike. It’s not what you hoped for,” I wailed. Not what you asked. Not what you pleaded. So you’ve gotta deal. I had to admit, my crooning with Flaco’s beat and Manny’s fingers running all over his guitar was a little like magic, especially when the barn went into glow-mode and my voice came back at me from all the dark corners. Flaco pounded the drums. “Come on, Manny. Feel it. The inspiration. It’s all around. Breathe it in.” The crap-on-wet-dog smell had faded somewhat, so breathing in was an actual option. But Manny’s face tightened and he turned kind of pale, and I knew he was searching for words. I hung at the mike, ready to belt out whatever lyrics he sang. Manny worked best when the words kind of snuck up on him. But his strumming fell off, and Flaco’s drumbeat slowed and faded. I stepped back from the mike. “Sorry,” said Manny. “It’s like the words are right there, and then they’re not.” “It’s okay, man.” Flaco tucked his sticks under his arm, and I thumped Manny’s back. Snap! A crunch like matchsticks, and the thunk of metal on metal. Manny startled like a horse out of the gate. “What was that?” “D minor, I’m pretty certain,” Flaco said. “Your dad finally got him, Pod.” Then came the squealing and scratching. Fascinated and repelled in equal amounts, I followed Flaco and Manny into the shadows, where at the edge of an arc of light, we found it. The rat wasn’t quite dead. The trap had snapped across its back and it bled from its little rodent ears and mouth. Its front legs scratched frantically while its back legs paddled in feeble circles. “Geesh,” Flaco said. “He’s as big as a kitten.” “Get a load of those teeth.” Manny nudged the rat with the toe of his army boot. “And the blood.” “Shed so we might practice in peace,” Flaco said. “Hey, we should offer him up. Blood sacrifice. Make a deal. Rat for fame.” “Like that would work.” I’m no fan of rats, but I couldn’t keep staring at the dying thing. “Let’s get back to our song.” “Rest in peace, Prince of Gnaws,” Flaco said. “Flaco, you might be onto something.” Manny nudged the rat again. We retreated to our instruments. I hit a hot lick on my guitar. “Prince of Gnaws,” Manny said, more or less to himself. I strummed a few chords, waiting for him to do what I knew he could. It didn’t take long. Blood and suffering, Manny sang, eyes squeezed tight. Flaco struck a roll on the snares. “Season and refine.” I moved my fingers up and down the strings, following Manny’s lead as he sang. “Take our gift and make us shine. The richest, the most righteous…” Thump, thump, thump from Flaco’s bass drum. “Go for it.” “… stars of our time. Manny’s eyes opened like he’d been startled out from a dream. “Dude.” Flaco rolled on the snares and thumped on the bass. “That gave me goose bumps.” It gave me goose bumps, too. “Hit it, Pod,” Flaco said. “From the beginning.” I leaned into the mike. Manny pumped the bass guitar and Flaco rattled the drums while I sang loud and full and sweet, tagging in after Manny. Blood and...