Bernie and The Deadbeats

By JP Mackey

It's tough starting over at a new school and Bernard Mullens has really gotten things off to a bad start. First he humiliates himself in front of his homeroom class, then he manages to get on the bad side of the seniors. Now he's kept up every night by the world's worst neighbors. You'd think it'd be a dream come true living in the same house as a rock and roll group, but Bernard's life is about to become a nightmare.
When The Deadbeats find themselves without a piano player less than a month before a battle of the bands, Bernard seems like their only choice. Sure, he's always wanted to be a musician, but this group is a little different than what he was thinking of. Halloween is fast approaching and he's about to discover that fame isn't all it's cracked up to be.

• Language: English
• Publisher: JP Mackey
• Release date: Feb 18, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311741479

JP Mackey

JP Mackey is an author and artist hailing from the Midwest. In 2007, his first illustrated book was published, the young reader ‘Ava the Angelfish’. Since then, he has written and illustrated many books for readers of all ages. JP has been an active painter since 2009, with his works being featured in many shows. JP is a proud father and when he’s not busy with his sons, he enjoys reading and obsessing over cats. His artwork can be found at www.jpmackey.com.

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Bernie and The Deadbeats

Copyright 2012 JP Mackey

Published by JP Mackey at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Epilogue

About the Author

Other Books by the Author

Acknowledgements

Thanks to Jamie M. for your advice on high school science subject matter

And I’d also like to thank Colleen S. and Terri M. for their feedback, without whom I probably would have given up on writing altogether

And, of course, this new edition couldn’t have been done without the help of Mel T. and her valuable proofreading skills.

For Mom and Dad, from whom I gained my love of music, even if I didn’t inherit their talent for it.

CHAPTER I

Bernard kicked moodily at a rusty can in his way. It hadn’t done anything in particular to incur the high school sophomore’s wrath, but it went flying down the deserted street just the same. The can echoed in a forlorn manner down the cracked gutter, singing with the chorus of crows chattering on the power lines. They cackled merrily at Bernard’s poor mood, or at least he imagined that they were. It seemed like everyone had been laughing at him today, so the ugly black birds might as well join in.

The day had begun well enough. Despite being woken up several times in the night by noisy neighbors, he had felt well-rested and ready to start the first day at his new school. It was nearly the middle of October, an odd time to make a transfer, but his dad’s layoff at the newspaper had necessitated many unpleasant changes in their lives.

They had lost their house for one thing; Mom’s medical and funeral bills had drained their finances to the point that when Dad lost his job, there was little choice but to pack up and find cheaper accommodations.

We’re moving into Grandpa’s old house, his father had told him simply. It was a dilapidated Victorian on the other side of the tracks, hailing from better times and better fortunes. The late Reverend Bernard Mullens had left them the place and it had been on the market since the crotchety old fart had kicked off. The house had sat empty mostly, converted to apartments long ago in an attempt to keep it from being a financial millstone. It didn’t seem to have been occupied for long, though. The only sign of any other inhabitants had been loud music playing throughout the night.

Despite the situation, and despite his music-disturbed sleep, Bernard was determined to make the best of things and get a fresh start.

His troubles started at the beginning of homeroom period. The teacher had asked Bernard to introduce himself to everyone by writing his name on the blackboard.

Along with the old house, the other thing Bernard had inherited from his grandfather was his name. He had never cared for it, people always made dog jokes about him. He hated Bernie almost as much. So in an attempt to avoid using his name, he thought on a whim to simply go by his initials. Bernard did not recognize the peril of writing ‘B.M.’ on the board until he found himself surrounded by barely stifled chuckles from his classmates. The homeroom teacher read the initials and said automatically, Bowel Movement?

Bernard turned beet-red when he realized his mistake. The teacher spluttered an apology and tried to cover for his gaffe, but the damage had been done. Laughter rang in Bernard’s ears, and by lunch period he had gained nicknames that made him long for ‘Bernie’.

Lunch was a more subtle embarrassment – he had arrived late, so most of the tables were full. The few remaining were primarily inhabited by giggling teenagers, prompting Bernard to find a mostly empty table to one side of the cafeteria. The only occupants were three girls in goth makeup who did not giggle at his approach. Neither did they smile, nor did they encourage him to sit with them in any fashion. Desperation for human contact, however, drove him to initiate conversation.

Hi, my name is- he began.

Bowel Movement, they said as one, not looking up from their salads.

Bernard didn’t say another word for the rest of the lunch period.

The remainder of the day fared little better. Only looking forward to his favorite subject at the end of the day kept him going.

At Bernard’s old high school, the music teacher had been an aged metal head who had forgone the standard music class fare for the classic rock and jazz greats. He maintained a collection of LPs at school and was enthusiastic to teach Bernard the piano techniques of Duke Ellington and Ray Manzerek. It was an excellent outlet for Bernard, especially during his mother’s illness. He’d had years of piano lessons that had, until that point, left him bored. For the first time in his life, Bernard felt a true passion for something. Ecstatic that his son had found something constructive to do with his time, Bernard’s father had bought him a piano at an auction.

Then Mom died, Dad lost his job and they had to move. Bernard understood on some level that he couldn’t expect his new school to be the same, but it was nevertheless jarring to find his first music class singing ‘Softly Sings the Donkey’. The teacher, instead of a grizzled old stoner, was a bored forty-ish placeholder who spent the majority of the lesson reading magazines at her desk while the class warbled off-key. Disheartened, Bernard sat back and let the drivel wash over him.

He wasn’t the only one not participating; a group of boys in the rows in front of him were talking amongst themselves, making no pretense at singing.

So where are we practicing tonight? one boy asked another. He was weedy and unkempt, with a mocking leer plastered on his face.

It’s gotta be at your place, Mickey, a boy with a pink mohawk replied. The station wagon needs a new transmission and we don’t have any other way to move your drums.

Too bad Bob moved, another chimed in. He had sandy hair and a pleasant face. His truck didn’t give us half the problems that stupid wagon has.

Bernard was soon caught up with the conversation. He had always wanted to be in a band and this seemed like a decent chance to maybe make some friends.

Hey, you guys have a group? he asked too eagerly, immediately regretting it. He blushed in embarrassment. Why did he always have to blush?

The weedy boy eyed him for a moment, his leer broadening as he recognized him. "Sure do, Wiz-Kid," he said with a cackle.

Bernard’s blush deepened. The sandy-haired boy took mercy on him and said amidst the laughter of his friends, We’re called ‘Heart Attack’. I’m Sean, this is Curly (he indicated the pink mohawk) and jerkweed over here is Mickey. Do you play?

For a moment, Bernard couldn’t believe his luck. Someone was speaking to him without making a crack. Then, trepidation returned. Um, the piano, he mumbled self-consciously.

"The- PIANO?! Mickey snorted loudly. The teacher glared at them over her magazine but otherwise did nothing about the disturbance. What, you gonna rock some Bach, Turd-Bird?"

The bell mercifully rang then, giving Bernard the opportunity to escape with what was left of his dignity.

Which was where Bernard found himself that dreary October afternoon, wandering the deserted streets of what had once been the industrial center of town. It was an old boom neighborhood, rows of boarded-up tract houses decaying quietly amidst increasingly out-of-control foliage.

Bernard’s new home was at the end of the street, next to a set of iron gates that protected a defunct factory. The house of the late Reverend Bernard Mullens, Sr. was a decrepit mansion, its painted veneer long-ago faded to dull grays and browns. Bernard passed through a rusty gate into the overgrown yard, up a set of stairs and to a pair of massive double doors decorated with stained glass. They were so dusty and grimy that it was impossible to make out what color the panes had once been, much less what was inside. Bernard knew what was within, of course. More of the same, grime and dust.

Beyond was an expansive front hall. A wide set of open stairs led up to the suite that Bernard’s father had cleaned up for them, an attempt to create an apartment in the ancient halls. Bernard had explored briefly and found the rest of the house similarly divided up. No other tenants had been apparent, however, and during the daylight hours the place appeared deserted. Bernard stumped up the steps to his room, hoping for nothing more than some sleep to drive the unpleasant day from his mind.

He was especially tired because the music that started every night began at exactly the same time, twelve o’clock, going strong until three in the morning. He’d been unable to get any sleep in the din. So he passed out almost as soon as his head hit the pillow…

…and woke up precisely at midnight to a harsh guitar riff. Bernard sighed in resignation; it had been the same drill since they had moved in on Saturday. It sounded like a rock band practicing. They weren’t bad, he reflected, but every half-hour or so…

"Will you choose a tempo and STICK WITH IT?!" shrieked a woman’s voice. The band sounded like they were practicing several floors away, but for some reason that one voice carried as clearly as if it had been in the next room. And just as predictably, a deeper voice would boom in response. Bernard couldn’t make it out as clearly but it sound like it always came from the same person. Whoever they were, they seemed to have serious issues with each other. Bernard groaned as a staccato beat broke the argument and the band ground back into it. He put a pillow over his head; it was going to be a long night.

***

The next morning found Bernard with as low a level of enthusiasm as he’d ever had going to school. In the kitchenette, he half-heartedly grabbed a piece of toast from a plate next to his father, who was reading the paper.

You okay, son? he asked, not really looking up. Dad was young for a father of a high school student, but he didn’t look it. His dirty blonde hair, the same as Bernard’s, was quickly graying and he had