“Mick, would you sit down already? You’re makin’ me dizzy,” Mike said, his voice tinged with stress-induced irritation as he watched the curly-haired drummer move back and forth in an endless path.
Micky stopped his restless pacing and twirled his drumsticks nervously. “I can’t help it, Mike! What’s taking them so long?”
“I don’t know,” Mike said.
They sat—or in Micky’s case, paced—in the small backstage area of the high school auditorium, waiting pensively for the verdict from the panel of stern-faced judges who occupied the first row of seats. Mike always found it ironic that contests involving such a teenage medium as rock and roll were invariably decided by people whose idea of popular music was clearly more along the lines of Benny Goodman.
Across the stage, lurking behind the curtain, Mike could see Will Fredricks and the other four sullen youths who made up the Rebels. The Battle of the Bands contest had gone on for two hours, whittling the bands down one by one until two were left—The Monkees and the Rebels. Though Mike respected the Rebels’ energy and drive, he couldn’t help but selfishly hope that the Monkees would win. It meant not only five hundred dollars cash but also a two month stint at the Vincent Van. It was money that they sorely needed, as usual—they were several months behind on the rent and Babbitt was quickly losing what little patience he had.
Mike’s heart leaped slightly as the emcee walked back out on stage. “The judges have made their decision—would the Monkees and the Rebels please make their way to the stage?”
Mike placed a reassuring hand on Peter’s shoulder as they walked back out on stage. The wait had been particularly hard on Peter, who was only too aware how important the contest was. “Hey, it’ll be okay, Peter.”
Peter smiled slightly. “If you say so, Mike.”
“Well, I do, shotgun.” Mike let his hand slip back down to his side as they took their place at the center of the stage. The Rebels approached from the other side. Their faces were unreadable masks but their eyes—particularly Will’s—glowed with animosity. Mike knew why—several times the Monkees been chosen over the Rebels because some club owners preferred the happier, more upbeat music that the Monkees offered over the more . . . well . . . rebellious sound of the Rebels.
“You’d better hope we win, Nesmith,” Will growled quietly.
“And just why is that?” Mike asked, not looking at his rival.
Will was about to respond when the head judge stood, adjusting his glasses. “We have reached a decision,” he said simply. “The winners of this year’s Battle of the Bands are . . . the Monkees!”
Micky let out a whoop that echoed around the room as the assembled crowd cheered. Peter joined Davy and Micky in excited leaping while Mike closed his eyes and muttered a silent ‘thank you.’ When he opened his eyes he noticed that the Rebels were gone.
~*~
“We’re in the money! We’re in the money!” Micky sang loudly, running the five crisp hundred dollar bills endlessly through his fingers.
Mike gently tucked his guitar case into the trunk. “Not quite, Micky. Most of that is going to Mr. Babbitt so we can get some peace.” He almost hated to burst Micky’s bubble, but the drummer’s loud singing was starting to get on his nerves.
“I know, Mike,” Micky said. “But still . . . five hundred bucks!”
“Five hundred bucks that should have been ours,” said a voice. Mike turned and saw Will standing by the door, leaned casually against the wall, his thumbs hooked into his belt loops in a twisted parody of Mike’s own stance. “Cryin’ shame, shotgun,” he drawled exaggeratedly.
“Go away, Will,” Mike said tiredly. After managing to contain his friends’ elation enough to get them to help pack up their instruments and load up the car, Mike didn’t have the energy to be angry.
“Yeah, go pick a fight somewhere else,” Davy muttered.
“Watch your mouth, shorty,” Will snarled.
“Hey!” Micky snapped. “I’m the only one allowed to call him that!” His almond eyes glowed with anger as he came chest to chest with Will, each of them trying to stare down the other.
“Hey, both of y’all quit it!” Mike commanded, forcing his way between the two. “Fightin’ isn’t gonna do any good! Look, Will, if you’re mad about us winnin’ then go take it up with the judges—they’re the ones who made the decision, not us. Micky, get in the car and cool off.”
Micky backed down and hopped into the back seat of the Monkeemobile next to Peter, who watched the exchange with wide, frightened eyes.
“Go home, Will,” Mike said as he pulled the car keys from his pocket. “We don’t have any quarrel with you.” He slid behind the driver’s seat and started up the engine, then pulled the dragster out of the parking lot and steered it towards the Pad.
“That’s what you think,” Will rumbled. “Shotgun.”
On to Chapter Two
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