The Next Great Rock Star!

By Ann Herrick

When Jason and his friends form a garage band, they call it "No Frills" because they want to keep it real—even when they enter a band contest and pressures to alter their image mount. Then one day, due to a close encounter with lightning, Jason's life changes in a big way—but is he magically cooler or is it just his perception?

As he goes from blah to cool, his head swells as he takes his fifteen minutes of fame too seriously. His too-busy mother and fortune-telling grandmother don't get through to him. Even maybe-more-than-a-friend Layla is ready to give up on Jason, especially when he starts flirting with much-older Mindy. Only a rescued kitten keeps him even remotely grounded. It isn't until he loses the friendships with the band mates he once counted on that he realizes he has a major problem, and he worries it might be too late to fix it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BWL Publishing Inc.
• Release date: Oct 17, 2015
• ISBN: 9781771457859

Ann Herrick

Ann Herrick grew up in Connecticut, where she graduated from The Morgan School and Quinnipiac University. She now lives in Oregon with her husband, who was her high-school sweetheart. Their wonderful daughter is grown, married and gainfully employed, and has given Ann her only grand-dog, Puff, a bloodhound-rottweiller-beagle mix. While she misses the East Coast, especially houses built before 1900, she enjoys the green valleys, fresh air and low humidity in the Willamette Valley of Oregon. Ann loves cats, walking, the Oregon Ducks and working in her back yard. In addition to stories and books for children and young adults, Ann also writes copy for humorous and conventional greeting cards. She loves to hear from her readers and can be contacted through her web site.

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The Next Great Rock Star!

By Ann Herrick

Digital ISBNs

EPUB 978-1-77362-499-0

Kindle 978-1-77145-785-9

WEB 978-1-77362-500-3

Amazon Print 978-1-77362-501-0

Copyright 2015 by Ann Herrick

Cover art by Michelle Lee

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

* * *

Dedication

To everyone who ever played in a rock band—or wanted to.

Chapter One

It all started when I was struck by lightning. Well, almost.

I was standing in front of my dresser mirror in my underwear, rehearsing. First, I imitated an announcer. Presenting … the next great rock star! Let’s hear it for Jason Blair! I acknowledged the cheers from the fans, then launched into my first song.

I didn’t worry much about strumming my air guitar or silently lip-synching the words to the latest song I’d written. Instead, I focused on my facial expression. I didn’t have one. At least that’s what Kyle Cabrera, the lead singer of our band, No Frills, said. Layla and Mac said not to worry about it, but I took constructive criticism seriously. Though my last name is Blair, I thought of myself as Blah.

Jason! Gramma yelled through my closed door. Layla’s here.

It’s only ten-thirty, I yelled back. Practice isn’t until one.

It’s something about a cat. Gramma continued to yell. I don’t remember exactly. I’ll send her up. She can explain.

I heard Gramma start to clomp downstairs. No! Wait! I’ll be right down.

Sometimes Gramma forgot that Layla and I are fourteen, not four. Even though it was only Layla, I was old enough now to get embarrassed at how messy my room was. Other guys’ mothers clean their rooms for them, but when I hit twelve Mom totally turned it over to me. She said I was old enough to hang up clothes and operate a vacuum cleaner. As long as I kept my door closed, she and Gramma didn’t worry about my room, so of course I always kept my door closed.

I pulled on my jeans and a T-shirt, ignored a zit on my nose, and ran a comb through my hair. Even with all that, I passed Gramma on my way down the stairs. With her arthritis she just slowly creaked along in her purple flowing mu-mu. She had mu-mus in all kinds of colors.

Oh, here he is, Gramma said to Layla.

Hey, Jason. Layla unfurled three fingers to greet me. She was kind of skinny, so in her green shorts and T-shirt, with her puffy yellow hair, she looked sort of like a dandelion. I could see her eyes focus on the zit on my nose.

What’s up? I pushed at my hair. I wanted it to stick up, all cool, but it always fell back on my forehead.

A cat.

Layla was a girl of few words, but I knew what she meant. She and her Dad ran a cat-rescue home on their property. They captured feral cats, then Layla and her Dad domesticated them enough to be adopted. Whenever Layla’s Dad couldn’t do a rescue for some reason, Layla took over—as long as it was an easy rescue. Of course, Layla decided they were all easy. She simply left out a few details when reporting to her dad if they weren’t.

Where?

Tree in back of Funky Furniture.

Wait a sec. Climbing a tree before breakfast? No way. I’d need nourishment. I went to the kitchen and scarfed down a banana. I then snuck a few sips of juice from the carton. When I finished, I grabbed the old leather work gloves. They were about all I had of my Dad. He’d died in a logging accident when I was three, so Mom was not too thrilled whenever I climbed trees. So mostly I just didn’t tell her.

When I was little I used to crawl out my window and climb down the trellis. I thought it was a great shortcut to the back yard. But when Mom realized what I was doing, she grounded me for a week.

As I went back to the front hall, I heard Mom’s piano playing drift in from the back room. If she were giving a lesson, the music would float up from the studio in the fixed-over basement, so I knew she was composing or recording or rehearsing for when she plays at The Lakeside Lounge, where she also sings. I wasn’t supposed to disturb her for anything less than life or death.

That was good, because it meant I could just tell Gramma we were going out. Otherwise, Mom would give me the third degree, then grief for rescuing cats. Besides the tree business, I think she just plain didn’t like animals. Every time I asked about getting a dog, she’d say no before I could even finish my pitch.

I’m ready, I said to Layla, and to Gramma, I’m going out.

All right. Gramma was polishing her crystal ball. She told fortunes in the parlor, using the name Madam Zsusanna. She says our house may be old, but it has proper rooms. Gramma moved in after Dad died to help take care of the house and me.

I thought the fortune-telling was kind of weird, but Gramma had a lot of customers, and they kept coming back. Mom said that the money Gramma brought in sure helped too.

Jason! Gramma called after me. The Crystal Ball says you’re going to have an exciting day!

That’s nice, I yelled over my shoulder. I already know it’s going to be exciting, I said to Layla. A cat rescue always is!

Layla and I crossed Fifth Avenue, zigged over to Lincoln and zagged to the back of Funky Furniture. There was one big old maple tree spreading its shade over four parking spaces and a dumpster. I didn’t have to look up. I heard the cat yowl as soon as I approached the tree.

You got The Stuff? I asked.

Of course. Layla handed me the sealed plastic bag filled with balls of The Stuff. It was something her father cooked up. He used cheese, fish, cereal and who knows what. It stunk, which was why it was wrapped up. But even the toughest feral cats couldn’t resist it once they got a sniff. Be careful.

Layla was not afraid of much, but she was afraid of heights. Otherwise, she’d have been right up there with me. She stood right next to the tree, holding a burlap bag. We found that was the best way to transport feral cats, who really did not want to cooperate.

I put on my gloves, tucked the bag of The Stuff in my belt, grabbed a low branch and started climbing the tree. I should have looked up before I started to climb. The long-haired creature I was about to rescue was the size of a raccoon! Here, uh, kitty. Come here.

The cat turned up the volume on his yowls, and threw in a couple of nasty-sounding hisses. As I got closer, I could see the glare in his yellow eyes, and the sharp fangs.

I stopped, opened the plastic bag and pulled out a ball of The Stuff. I held it out for the cat to see and smell. The yowling stopped. The nostrils twitched.

Then, in one swift move, the cat zipped down the branch, snatched the ball of Stuff with his jaws and leaped back to his perch. Three balls later and the cat was still on his perch, only now I swear he was grinning at me. Busted.

Keep trying, Layla called to me.

I thought for a minute as I studied the smug look on his face. Then it hit me.

Instead of holding out one ball, I placed a line of balls on the branch in front of me, kind of smooshing them so they wouldn’t fall. Then I waited, hoping the cat was as greedy as he was fast.

For a moment the cat didn’t move. Then, flash! He sprang down the branch, ate the first ball, then ate the second ball. Just as he was reeling in the third with his tongue, I grabbed him.

He hissed. He spat. He twisted. He turned. He scratched my chin.

Yee-ouch! The bag of The Stuff fell to the ground, but I held on to the cat, grateful for the leather gloves that kept his claws from shredding my hands.

As soon as I dropped to the ground I stuffed the cat into the open burlap bag. Quick as a sneeze Layla lashed the bag shut. The cat howled and squirmed, but it was no use. We had him.

Thanks, Jason. Layla broke into a wide, open smile. Good job.

Thanks. I basked in the light of her approval. I’d known Layla since we were two years old and I knew she didn’t give it lightly. I touched the scratch on my chin. It stung.

A wound? Layla clasped her hands to her chest and faked a swoon. My hero is wounded!

I kind of wished she was serious. I mean, who doesn’t want to be a hero, especially to a cool girl like Layla? But I figured she was joking, so I just laughed.

* * *

That afternoon, I rode my bike to Layla’s on the way to band practice. I had my guitar slung across my back. Layla was waiting with her tambourine, ready to go, when I got there. We headed right off to Mac’s. He kept his drums in his garage, so that’s where we practiced.

"How’s