Heart Shaped Rock (27 page)

Everyone from outside has now made it into the club, and the place is packed, everywhere, not just in front of the stage, and most everyone here is sporting some sort of RCR gear.

Tiffany waves to someone and I follow her gaze to a large group of kids from school. One of the girls makes eye contact with me. She waves. I recognize her from Art History, so I wave back. She smiles.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” a voice on the overhead speaker shouts, “put your hands together for Paco and the Pacific Northwest!”

There’s barely a singular clap from the audience for poor Paco and his grungy band as they take the stage. Clearly, no one’s here to see them.

Apparently, the audience’s lack of interest in Paco is mutual, because, as Paco and his bandmates launch into a loud, screaming, crashing song about... I have no idea what... Paco literally turns his back on the audience for almost the entire song. It’s totally, thoroughly and completely bizarre. I guess it’s his
thing.
The crowd returns the favor and reacts as if he’s not onstage.

As much as I want to pay my fellow musician the attention and respect he deserves for merely being onstage and expressing his art, I’m utterly disinterested. Of course, I’m not the best tester-audience-member for any opening band, anyway; the only band I care about seeing tonight is Red Card Riot. And, actually, even that’s not completely true. I just want to see Dean.

“There you are,” Delaney shouts, almost bumping into me. She’s got Juliette in tow. She looks up at the stage. “Paco’s kinda hot, huh?”

I glance up at the stage and scrutinize the back of Paco’s knit-cap-covered head. I shrug. I really don’t have sufficient information to render an opinion on the subject of Paco’s hotness, but, judging by the back of his head, and the fact that he’s literally screaming, “Fool’s gold, it was fool’s gold,” into his microphone at the moment, I’d probably go with, “Not so much.”

After about twenty minutes of bone-crushing, face-melting sonic waves from Paco, he mutters, “Thanks,” into his microphone and quickly retreats from the stage. Upon Paco’s departure, a solid
two
people clap for him. But, hey, I really shouldn’t be snarky about it. That’s a hefty one-hundred-percent spike in Paco’s approval rating since his initial introduction.

A crew of men dressed in black emerges onstage to ready the gear for the next band.

“Are you okay?” Tiffany shouts into my ear.

I nod. But I’m a nervous wreck. The anticipation of seeing Dean, finally, and telling him everything I feel, is killing me. With each passing moment, I’m becoming more and more tightly wound.

“You look great,” Tiffany assures me, touching my shoulder. “He’s going to fall onto his knees when he sees you and thank God for sending him an angel.”

Clearly, this is a gross exaggeration in every way, not the least of which is that no one, least of all Dean, would ever confuse me with an angel. I know Tiffany means well, but her pep talk is having the exact opposite effect she desires. I’m beginning to feel like the walls are closing in.

Tiffany leans into my ear again. “Just breathe.” She squeezes my hand.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the Sons of Diego to the stage,” the announcer says, and a smattering of applause and cheers wells up from the crowd. Obviously these guys have more fans in San Diego than poor Paco and the Pacific Northwest. Three young skater-type guys in board shorts and Vans take the stage and begin playing a surf-punk-reggae-inspired set that’s actually super cool and really catchy. They’re singing about girls, of course, but also about peace, and then about surfing. Toward the end of their set, they throw in some “rise up to become what you see, no matter who anyone tells you to be”—and it’s all done to a bouncing, melodic beat. I’ve never heard anything quite like it. I look over at Tiffany, and she’s dancing enthusiastically, along with the entire crowd.

“Okay,
these guys
are definitely hot,” Delaney shouts into my ear, her body bouncing to the beat of the music.

Again, I shrug. They’re cute, of course. Even I can see that. But I’m beginning to realize nobody but Dean’s going to set my pulse racing ever again. Hopefully, he’s thinking the same thing about me. Or else, I’m going to be lonely for a very, very long time.

At the end of this band’s set, the men in black come out again to transition the stage for the next band. Even though I actually liked Sons of Diego a lot, I’m thrilled to get them the hell off the stage. All I want to do is see Dean.

Alas, when the announcer’s voice returns, it’s only to grace us with Smitten Kitten, a band populated by four young women, all of whom look like they could lure you into their litter box and bite your head clean off. I’m instantly prepared to hate these girls, simply because they’re the only four people on earth standing in the way of me seeing Dean again as soon as possible. But, dang, try as I might, it’s impossible to even dislike them. In fact, the moment they start playing, I am head-over-heels in love with them. Each girl plays her instrument with a careless determination, a thumping abandon, like they didn’t get the memo they’re
girls
and should act accordingly. They’re totally uninhibited up there—a different breed of girl than I’ve ever seen—a powerful, take-no-crap, I-was-born-to-do-this kind of girl. The guitarist is in a trance, her long locks covering her beautiful (and increasingly sweaty) face as she jerks back and forth and rocks it like no one’s watching. Meanwhile, the singer jumps around like she’s leading a Zumba class, and her raspy voice cuts through the music like a warm knife through butter.

Holy moly, I’m in lurve.

The more I watch them, the more I figure out what I like the most. They’re just passionate musicians up there, not resorting to humiliating gimmicks to make their mark. Despite their band name, these girls wouldn’t be caught dead in kitten ears or skin-tight cat suits or push-up bras, and yet, they’re sexy as hell. They’re raw and talented, showing the world what real girls can do when they trust in themselves, rather than worrying about who everyone else tells them they’re supposed to be.

I want to be a Smitten Kitten when I grow up, I decide, even though I’d guess these girls are only maybe three or four years older than me. I make a mental note to download their songs when I get home, if for nothing else to thank them for providing me with a glimpse of what a butt-kicking girl looks like nowadays. But also, and maybe even more importantly, for momentarily distracting me from my virtually obsessive yearning to see Dean.

By the time Smitten Kitten leaves the stage after forty-five minutes (to a tidal wave of cheers and applause), my feet are killing me; my head is throbbing; and my chest feels constricted. I’m pretty sure I’ve been standing here waiting for Red Card Riot for half my life.

The men in black emerge yet again to prepare the stage for the next band, and the crowd starts chanting for Red Card Riot. The place is going bananas. If Red Card Riot isn’t the next band, then I pity whoever is.

I look at my watch. It’s getting late. Red Card Riot’s got to be next. How long can this show possibly go on? The noise in the club is becoming overwhelming. Kids are chanting and stomping and clapping and screaming, and the place feels like it’s gonna explode. As I scan the crowd, I recognize even more kids from my school, and all of them are shouting “Red Card Riot!” right along with everyone else, whether or not they’d even heard of the band before tonight. Finally, just when I think the place couldn’t possibly get any louder without blowing the roof off, the announcer comes back on the sound system and says, “And now, ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to the stage... Red Card Riot!”

Chapter 28

At the announcer’s introduction of Red Card Riot, a deafening roar wells up inside the club. I fix my eyes onto the empty stage and hold my breath. Time has slowed and warped. My heartbeat pounds in my ears. Suddenly, like a crack of lightning splitting a stormy sky, there he is, striding purposefully onto the stage, glorious and beautiful, wearing jeans and combat boots and a tight-fitting T-shirt.
Dean.

Everyone around me is screaming, shrieking, cheering, and stomping in a frenzy of excited anticipation, and yet, amid all the fury around me, I am stock-still and silent, trying to process what I’m seeing. Dean swaggers to front and center without a moment’s hesitation and, as the other members of his band take their respective positions around him, he gruffly throws the strap of his electric guitar over his neck and shoulder.

Since I’ve last laid eyes on Dean, he’s taken on almost mythical proportions in my mind, thanks to my tortured obsessing and fantasizing about him. But now, seeing him onstage with an electric guitar strapped to his chest and an entire club full of fans chanting and cheering for him, the stage lights bouncing off his cheekbones, he’s even grander and more stunning than I could have imagined him to be. I can’t believe it’s true, but in the time we’ve been apart, I’d actually forgotten how breathtaking he really is. I glance around quickly, and it’s quite clear that everyone in the crowd agrees with my impression of him. They’re going nuts for him, and he hasn’t even played his first note.

“Hey, everybody,” Dean shouts to the crowd. “Thanks for coming out.”

The audience replies with even louder screams and cheers.

Dean peels off an opening guitar riff that makes the audience jump up and down, and the band proceeds to unleash its first song. The music is frantic, verging on punk, with crashing drums and heavy bass and crunchy guitar chords.

Dean leans into the microphone, and his distinctive voice fills the room. He sings lyrics about standing up for what’s right and protesting oppression wherever you might find it.

Oh, that voice. It melts me. It paralyzes me. It slays me. It fills me with a deep-seated ache, a pulsing urge to claim him and make him mine.

Tonight, Dean’s voice is raw and ragged, yet it cuts a surprisingly melodic swath through the hard-hitting instrumentals. And he’s not just singing words to a song, either. No, that boy’s preaching the truth up there. This is not the smiling, crooning Dean I saw at Wang Palace; this is an animalistic version of Dean that makes me breathless in an entirely new way. His body twists and gyrates as he sings, like he can’t contain the raw emotion bursting forth from inside him. By the end of the first song, Dean’s been transported to another world—a sweaty, urgent, primal world, a place where he’s able to reveal himself in his truest form.

The enraptured crowd sways and bounces along with Dean, eager to journey to his magical world alongside him. When Dean’s voice soars into a chorus, everyone in the audience sings along. When he claps his hands in time above his head, everyone follows suit. He jumps up and down, his lean muscles tensing and straining and pulsing; and everyone in the audience jumps up and down, too. “Ooh eeeeeeh ooooooh!” Dean sings. He holds out the microphone to the audience and the entire crowd mimics him in reply. “Ooh eeeeeeh ooooooh!”

There’s no doubt about it:
Dean’s a fucking rock star.

A euphoric and exhausting hour passes, until, finally, Dean leans into his microphone and says, “Thanks again for coming out.” His shirt is drenched with sweat. His cheeks glisten under the lights. “For our last song, we’re gonna play you a brand new one.” His eyes blaze under the hot lights.

The crowd whoops and screams.

“We’ve never played it before. I wrote it a couple days ago.”

I inhale sharply.

Tiffany touches my arm, and I glance at her. She mouths, “Oh my God,” and I nod, my eyes bugging out.
Oh my God
.

I look back at Dean. He takes a step back from his microphone, collecting himself. He tilts his head back and closes his eyes.

The room goes still.

My stomach twists into knots.

Dean rests his fingers on his guitar for a brief moment, and then he coaxes a pained wail from his guitar that leaves no room for doubt—this is going to be a song about heartbreak.

My heart aches in anticipation of what’s to come.

Dean leans into his microphone, right up close like he’s going to kiss it, and he literally groans out the first lines of his song.

“You were my fate

You were my fantasy... ”

I’m frozen.

“Was in a dream

Now bleak reality... ”

I can feel Tiffany looking at me, but I can’t peel my eyes off Dean.

“Is this for real?

My own dark tragedy

Is this a test

Of my humility?”

Dean’s groan picks up intensity and his body begins to twist and gyrate:

“Oh yeah, you cut me to the bone

And now I’m screaming out your name.”

Suddenly, Dean is wailing, shouting in mortal agony:

“Shaynee!

You have slayed me

I was yours and now the pain

The pain is just too deep.”

I gasp.

Tiffany forcefully shakes my arm, clearly wanting me to look at her, but my eyes are locked onto Dean.

“Shaynee!

I’m going crazy

I wanna rip my heart right out

And lay it at your feet.”

He’s a wounded animal up there, a wild beast caught in a steel trap.

“Shaynee!

No one can save me

You were my fate, you were my destiny,

But now the pain is much too deep.”

Dean’s at full volume now, his voice straining and breaking:

“Shayneeeee!

“Shayneeeee!

The pain

The pain

The pain