Red Dirt Rocker (2 page)

S
even o'clock sharp and the shrill alarm of my Superman clock can’t be ignored. I whack the top of the Man of Steel's head to silence the dreaded beeping and reach blindly for my cell phone. Yep, I’m a typical teen—my BlackBerry is my lifeline.

I type in my first text of the day with bat-like precision, not even looking at the keys. The message:
Hey u guys awake?
ya
need a ride?
I send it to my girlfriend, Heather, and my best bud, Kyle. Their responses:
Yes Babe, I'll
b
ready in an hour, sent from Heather, and No,
thanx
man…dads
runnin
' me in…My
truck’ll
b out of the shop tomorrow. See
ya
at school!

"Okay,” I tell myself, “If Heather and Kyle can rise and shine, so can I.”

My two fellow night owls had stayed up with me until after midnight, chatting online about the latest YouTube videos. If I was this tired, they had to be dragging as well. I groan and stretch, feeling a dull soreness all through my body. Football practice had been grueling yesterday. I feel like I’m bruised all over—like the muscles in my shoulders and thighs are connected by short rubber bands.

"No pain.no gain," I mumble to myself as I press my feet on the chilled, creaking, oak wood floor. A stark coldness starts at my feet and travels to my brain. I’m finally up and at
em
’.

My morning ritual always begins with a heartfelt greeting to my well-polished guitars hanging on the bedroom wall. "Hello Ladies," I yawn and greet the axes, patting my favorite, a Les Paul beauty I named Betty. She’s my very first expensive guitar. Betty is a looker, with a gorgeous, warm, maple finish and a shiny black fret board. Mama and Dad saved up all year and surprised me on my sixth birthday with the Gibson six-string. I will treasure her forever.

All of my nine guitars hold a special place in my heart. Small squares of soft felt cloth and bottles of special cleaning solutions litter my TV stand and desk—a speck of dust can’t be found on any of my babies!

I grab my iPod and plug it into the homing device stationed in the bathroom. Dave
Grohl
and The Foo Fighters' growling vocals and driving sound will help motivate me for the busy day ahead. My sister Megan and I share the hall bath, but it’s more suited to her décor. Mauve colored wall paper printed with tiny baskets of flowers, gilded cherubs on shelves, and bottles of every Bath and Body Works scent that was ever formulated clutter the counter space. Mama has hung an old, vintage, Led Zeppelin t-shirt on the door with a fancy Victorian hanger, which I think, was her attempt to help masculine the place up a bit for me.

Surveying my face in the mirror, I can’t help but be proud of the slight, fuzzy shadow growing on my chin. My teammates and I decided not to shave for the month of October, as well as November. After two weeks, I’ve given up on the hope of more substantial facial hair, but still think I look at least a year older. Thanks to outdoor football practice, I still have a tan. Mama says it seems to make my blue eyes glow. When I was little, I thought my eyes did get bluer in the summer—Megan still teases me about that one.

I scratch my scalp and shake my unruly blonde, curly hair. I’ve been accused of looking like a surfer dude, but I’m no California beach bum. Stepping back from the steamy mirror, I strike a stance with an imaginary guitar in hand and grimace as I play a silent, thrashing riff to the Foo Fighters song, "Pretender," that’s blaring in the background. I jump, my heart thumps, and my “all in” air guitar performance is sadly interrupted by a hard knock on the bathroom door.

"Forrest, get a move on or you're
gonna
be late…and turn down that music for Pete’s sake!" my dad, Tom, yells through the door.

"Sorry, Dad," I call out over the music. Turning the volume down is one of my biggest pet peeves. It always bums me out, and let’s just
say
my dad is certainly not a big fan of loud.

"Good luck at the game tonight, bud. I'll see you at the stadium. Oh, and Mom got you some vitamins." Dad’s voice trails off down the hallway.

"Bye, Dad…thanks!" I shake my wild, snake-like, Medusa hair one more time before jumping into the shower. The pounding jets and hissing steam soothe my aching muscles. I reach for the gold Dial soap, alias my microphone, and continue my a.m. solo, karaoke jam session.

After a half warm, half freezing cold shower, thanks to my sister Megan hogging up most of the hot water, I throw on my faded grey Levis and Metallica t-shirt and grab my bulky backpack. I’m still humming the Foo Fighters’ tune as I make my way to the kitchen. Mama is fixing my standard weekday morning breakfast—toast with chunky peanut butter and a tall glass of milk that she always puts in the freezer for five minutes to make it icy cold. She’s also laid out two horse-choking vitamins and a water bottle on the counter.

"Good
moorrning
honeeey
," Mama sings out. "Please remember to take your vitamins. Between football and band practice, you’re burning the candle at both ends. I want to keep my baby boy healthy," she says thoughtfully.

Mama’s precious comment isn’t lost on Megan.
"Yeah, Mama’s baby
booooeeeyyy
!"
My sarcastic sis mocks in a
Flava-Flave
like rapper tone.

"Well, she didn’t offer you any vitamins, so I guess she loves me more!" I open my mouth, which is full of well chewed up, gooey peanut butter. I know it will completely gross her out.

"Yuck!" Megan squeals, turning her head so quickly that a strand of her jet black dyed hair flings around and gets stuck in the corner of her mouth. “Your truck better not be parked behind me this morning or you're
gonna
have some major fender damage,” she lectures coolly.

"No, I didn’t park behind you, but watch out for the mail-box on your way out," I return with a whine, knowing I'm getting her goat. I down my entire glass of frosty milk in four big gulps, let out an award winning belch, and kiss Mama
smack
dab on the cheek.

Mama shakes her head, “Thank you
soo
much, son.”

Megan continues to protest. "Oh,
my
gosh
! Will I
ever
live that one down? It was just a small ding— the sun was in my eyes. It was
not
my fault!"

I love to rib Megan every chance I get, but we’re still very close. We have each other’s back if needed for sure. There’s not much difference between our ages. Megan is eighteen and I—drum roll please—am sixteen and a half and driving! We’re only one grade apart in school. Megan is a senior and I’m a junior. Secretly I know I’m going to
miss
Megan when she goes off to college. She’s been a 4.0 student each and every year and front runner for Valedictorian of her class. I’m very proud of my sis, but would never, ever, even under Chinese water torture, admit it to her.

My best friend, Kyle, is graduating this year, too. I sure dread the changes. I don’t know what I’ll do without my best buddy and my older sis. Kyle’s my confidant—I love him like a brother, and I’ll sure miss giving Megan a hard time on a minute-by-minute basis. I know I’ll be able to call Kyle anytime, day or night, and I figure I can always text my daily comic insults to Megan long distance, thanks to our AT&T family plan.

"You two
be
careful," Mama orders, as Megan and I suddenly begin a jostling footrace for the door to the garage.

“No worries, Mama. I’ll go set some orange construction cones out on the driveway…that way Megan won’t smash into the mailbox again,” I tease as I grab onto her backpack strap and spin her around three hundred and sixty degrees.

“
Forrreeesst
!”
Megan hollers. She grabs my t-shirt and knocks my flat-billed Batman cap down over my eyes as we jockey for position in the door frame. I win by squeezing through first.

A
s I toss my musty football bag into the bed of my Chevy, I can feel the nagging tightness in my shoulder from yesterday's tackling drills. I gently place my guitar case in the back of the cab and seatbelt it in like a child.

My white-with-blue-interior 2002 pickup truck is my pride and joy. I paid for it by teaching guitar lessons for the past two summers and quickly learned that when you have to pay for something yourself, you definitely appreciate it more. I understand now why Dad always nags me to turn off the lights, or why Mom gets discouraged if I pour too much milk and end up wasting half a glass. My truck may not be the newest model on the road, but it sports a killer speaker system with bass that can thump. I love my truck.

I pull into the street behind Megan and give her an annoying and unnecessary honk. She holds up her thumb and index finger in the shape of an “L” to signify that I’m a loser. She rolls her eyes at me and guns the engine of her measly four-cylinder Chevy Cavalier. I give her a peace sign and a goofy, sarcastic grin as I fly past her on a stretch of open road.

The early sky looks like rainbow sherbet with whipped cream clouds glowing in pink, orange and yellow heavenly hues. I yawn as I gaze at the inspiring color of the morning. I’m reminded of God’s power of creation and fall into a mini daydream as I stare at the heavens above.

Time to get the old juices flowing.
I return my concentration to the road and plug my iPod into the converter in my dash. This time the members of the
Zac
Brown Band are the rock stars of my truck cab concert. Their raspy, smooth, southern sound fills the air and makes me happy.

I pass six cars, and in five of them I know the drivers and their families by first and last name, as my hometown isn’t much larger than a peanut. Coweta, Oklahoma, population six thousand. My friends and I call it "Cow-Town." Our small town has more dirt roads than highways, more barb wire than city lights. Ranchers outnumber doctors and lawyers, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

After driving four more blocks, I spot Heather standing at the edge of her gravel driveway. She’s a picture of self-confidence, the type of girl that relishes the second looks she gets from the motorists passing by. I swear, where most girls would blush at the unsolicited attention, she tends to lean into the whistles and cat calls without a hint of embarrassment. Heather knows she’s a total
hottie
.

Heather’s silky chestnut brown hair always has the perfect part, her bright, jade-green eyes are mesmerizing…they’re what first drew me in. She also has amazing legs that look killer in a cheerleading skirt. Today is assembly day at school and she gets to wear her uniform and show those legs off.

Heather’s skirt is at least an inch shorter than those of the other girls on the squad. She said it was an accidental alteration, and since she’s the team captain, there‘s no one higher in rank to give her a hard time.

"Good
mornin
’, good
lookin
," I greet Heather, as I throw open the rusting passenger door. Heather grabs the “oh crap” handle, pulls herself in, and slides over next to me. She adjusts her polyester skirt and dumps her lead-heavy, hot pink Hurley backpack on the floorboard. Our oversized textbooks make our backpacks feel like we’re carrying around a small toddler on our backs all day.

Heather looks at me with a slight hint of agitation. "Why did you have to get a truck? It is
sooo
hard to get in and out of. Did you see
D.J.'s
new car? It's a brand new Honda Civic, all pimped out. You know…the shiny black one?"