PART 1

Chap 1:

"That’s fucking bullshit, man," Brian (aka Ham) insisted. His fingers slid over the fretboard. "It sounds like this." The notes slid under his chubby fingers as he struggled to sound as vibrant and fast as Ted Nugent. Sometimes he stumbled on the notes—hitting them at the fret—and only crinkled his eyebrow and struggled on. When he had finished, he grinned at a nodding Fieldy.

"Whatever. I know I’m right. It sounds like this," Fieldy argued as Ham handed him the cord to plug in his guitar. They shared, between them, a mini amp.

"Nuh-uh. Like this…"

"NO! Seriously, like this…"

The two sat like a duo from hell, bickering as they played their instruments. They were in Ham’s kitchen, and the light seeping through cracks in the curtains set lines across their cheap six-string guitars. Ham was the luckier of the two; he had two guitars, although one wasn’t exactly noteworthy…it looked like a damned wisdom tooth. Fieldy had had the same guitar since he was two, given to him by his father. Back in those days Ham and Fieldy were both short and chubby, friends who picked out tunes on the radio and played them in a friendly competition. What they were doing this afternoon was the same they’d been doing every Saturday for years. Fieldy had long, brown hair, and Ham sported his trademark sloping forehead. He had a short crew cut; he did not yet wear braids.

That would come much later. Much, much later.

"Dammit, Fieldy!" Ham said, laughing. "I’m telling you that’s wrong! You’re so fucking—"

"Excuse me, young man?" Ham’s mother had been a ghost under the flittering notes of the amplifier, but his profanity had risen above even the highest ones and with the omnipotence of a mother did she make her presence known. Ham’s mother was a good woman: she was old-fashioned, believed in raising one’s children right. She had long tolerated her son’s love of the guitar. No matter what, it was undoubtedly quieter than the god-forsaken drum set he had begged for until his father convinced him otherwise.

Besides, rock music was poison. The less she heard of it, the easier it was to convince herself she was being a good parent. It never occurred to her that he had a natural flair for the instrument. Even when he bought the decent black guitar he held now with his own money she never thought anything of it. But this swearing? Well, she would have none of that, to say the least. And it was all that rock music’s fault. She was sure of it.

"Now, young man, I will have none of this—"

As if on cue, the doorbell rang. Fieldy sprang from his spot, his guitar flying under his grip like an out-of-control appendage. "Well, see ya, Brian! Bye, Mrs. Welch! I—that’s my mom—" He was gone. And Ham was forced to forfeit his guitar for a week. If his mother ever heard anything like that coming from his mouth again, it would be permanently taken away. Blah blah blah.

Taking away his guitars was the worst thing his mother could do to punish him, and she did it often, because she knew it. She could take away television, food, drink, his bed. As long as he had his guitar, he would survive. There was nothing better than what the notes beneath his fingers whispered to him. He could tell he was getting better everyday; with every morning it got a little easier to hit that solo, he got that much better at the ones he had mastered.

That guitar promised him everything, and he knew it. He was chubby and fat, ugly. Fieldy was his only friend. He slumped up the stairs as his mother stood awkwardly at the bottom holding his beloved guitar by the neck. He opened the door to his room and threw himself upon the mattress. As he laid there, he looked at his blank walls. His mother would never let him put up any posters of any rock stars. To her rock was satanic, and inside him he knew it was why she didn’t like him.

To be honest, he didn’t really like her either. If she didn’t like his music, then…

But that was as awful a thought as having his guitar taken away.

He wondered what Ted was doing right then. Maybe he was signing autographs, maybe he was playing a show in front of a million screaming fans. If Ham could have one wish, it would be to know that. To know people screaming his name and not caring that he was fat or ugly or that he had a big head—

As he turned on the radio he looked at his stubby fingers. And into the mirror. He avoided looking into the mirror; he hated who he was. He wished he could be loved, could be some big star everyone begged to know. He wanted to be in a band. And he wanted to be good at the guitar…

For a moment he realized within him the days he had left to live. The days of practicing, the days of playing, the days of growing and changing. And it gave him enough strength to ignore the itching under his fingers—lusting for the coarseness of guitar strings beneath them—to fall asleep at two in the afternoon on the day before his 13^th birthday.