Power Chord Read Free Page A

with how good I am. Instead I say, “We could have waited till tomorrow. My mom could’ve given us a ride.”
    â€œRock and roll doesn’t wait, Ace.” Denny snaps his cell shut. “And Pig’s mom wanted the stuff out.”
    â€œIt was only until tomorrow,” I say.
    â€œWho cares?” Denny says. “It’s cool. Anyway, it’s like free advertising for the band. People will remember us: I used to see them carrying their drums down the street. ”
    This could be true. We’re hard to miss. The drums take up a lot of sidewalk. I’ve got the bass drum, pedal and a cymbal stand. Denny’s got the toms, the snare and stand. Sticks are poking out of his back pocket. Pig, the biggest of us, has the cymbals, a stand, the hi-hat stand and another set of sticks. How did he end up carrying so little?
    â€œWhat we really need,” Denny goes on, “are band T-shirts. If we were wearing them, everybody would know who we are and remember when they hear us.”
    â€œThe T-shirts would be blank, Den,” I say. “We don’t have a name.”
    â€œ Oh yeahhhhh ,” Denny says. “Okay, I think we should be Corruption.”
    â€œIncoming,” says Pig.
    â€œWhat kind of name is that?” I ask.
    Pig jerks his head. I see he means that the bus is coming.
    As we pick up all of the drum parts, Denny says, “Remember, slip in the back door. Nobody will notice.”
    This time it’s nearly rush hour. Getting on by the back doors is like swimming upstream to Niagara Falls. With a drum set. Tired-looking adults glare at us, especially when Denny backs into someone with his drum sticks.
    â€œHey!” the guy says.
    The driver’s voice comes on over the intercom. “Boys with the drums, come to the front.”
    Have you ever tried squeezing down a bus aisle with a bass drum? It’s hard to do. I feel like a human bowling ball, but this is not Rock ’N Bowl. I get stuck between a sweaty fat guy with grocery bags and a tall skinny lady who looks away. This is not what being up close and personal with your fans is supposed to mean.
    The bus rumbles. I stare at the top of the drum. As we slow for the first stop, Denny squeezes back to me. “We gotta get off,” he says. “She says we’re creating a disturbance. Besides, I don’t have money for a ticket.”
    I have to back out when the bus stops. I keep my eyes on the drum, but I feel the staring and hear the grumbles. At least we’re going with the flow. I make it to the sidewalk before I have to put the drum down. My arms are killing me.
    â€œI bet they’ll remember us—even without T-shirts,” Denny says.
    â€œIncoming,” says Pig.
    â€œWe just did that,” I say. My back is killing me too.
    â€œFor a name,” Pig says. He doesn’t seem tired.
    Den is busy tweeting. “I kind of like that,” he says. “What about…” Then he forgets to say anything.
    We have to walk the rest of the way to my house. At every rest stop, Denny tweets how far we’ve gone in case any girls want to rush on down to help us. Nobody does.
    â€œGee, Den,” I say, “Maybe you gave the wrong directions.”
    â€œAw, Ace. You watch,” Denny says. “Give it one month, and we’ll be chick magnets.”
    â€œThat’s how long it’s going to take to get to my house,” I say.
    Denny changes the subject. “I think we should call ourselves The Spank. We could play in jock straps, like the Chili Peppers.”
    â€œSpitfires,” says Pig.
    Denny shakes his head. “That would be like a Kiss cover band. You know, spitting fire? This drum is heavy.”
    Now Pig shakes his head, but he doesn’t say anything. We walk, talking names. Then we stagger, talking names. At least, Denny and I stagger. Pig doesn’t even break a sweat.
    Pig suggests Surface to Air and Wing Commander or