Van Bender and the Burning Emblems (The Van Bender Archives #1) (2 page)

I saw none with machine guns.

Inside, I came to the conclusion that the CMI didn’t have a chance to get to me.

Chapter 2: The Inner Sanctum

The security might seem extreme, but not when you consider the powers some of these people have.

-Elizabeth Van Bender

Mom gave me a tour of the entire stadium, kindly pointing out every little security feature along the way, as if trying to suck the fun right out of having a concert. Mostly, her security consisted of people, dogs, barricades, and temporary walls. She didn’t appreciate it when I pointed out that people could be bought with money, and dogs with steaks.

We spent a great deal of time in what she called the “Safe Zone,” and which I dubbed the “Inner Sanctum.” It consisted of my dressing room, a hallway leading to the stage, and a set of bathrooms.

Not including access to the stage, the Inner Sanctum had two entrances, each guarded by a handful of security guards and dogs. While they didn’t have machine guns, these ones did carry side arms. The guards did—not the dogs. Although dogs with guns would be awesome.

“Once this area was cleared yesterday,” she said, “no one has been allowed in it. No one will be except for you, the show manager, and me.”

“I thought Kurt and Sandra could join me?”

She nodded in concession. “When they get here later on, they can join you. But no one else will have access to the Safe Zone.”

We walked out onto the stage. The stadium seats rose up all around us, tall and empty—except for the security guards that already spotted the area. A white barrier covered the grass, including a space of about thirty feet between the stage and a waist-high concrete wall that stretched across the entire football field.

Mom pointed at the swath of green. “No one will be able to get within thirty feet of the stage.”

“Lame,” I said. “There won’t be any video shots of security guards tackling thirteen-year-old girls and dragging them off stage by their hair.”

“Exactly,” Mom said. “Everything has been designed to keep fans at a safe distance.”

I frowned. Here was an opportunity to get Mom thinking, worrying. Five minutes before I was to go on stage, I needed her to leave me alone long enough for me to enter my dressing room alone. Sandra, Kurt, and I had come up with a plan for that. We would pretend we were trying to get me to meet some fans. With luck, she would follow them, figuring I was in a secure enough location. As far as I could tell, I would be.

After all, she’d named it the “Safe Zone.” She must have felt pretty good about it.

Right now, I just had to purposefully let the wrong thing slip. As I’ve learned, it’s quite a fine art to let the wrong thing slip at just the right moment. But I’ve got the skills.

“Hmm. So, the guards know what I look like, and what Sandra and Kurt look like?”

She gave me a confused look. I widened my eyes as if in alarm.

“I mean, ah, too bad Dad can’t come, tonight.”

She narrowed her eyes. She was doing that a lot.

I kept going, talking fast. “I really wish he could. Seems stupid that he can’t make it.”

Obviously aware that I was purposefully changing the subject, she shook her head. “He tried everything. His job basically depends on him being there today and tomorrow.”

He worked at the Smithsonian in D.C. as some big shot. He’d indicated he couldn’t come to the concert the next day because he had some huge work meetings to attend to. He’d tried and tried to get out of his obligations, but simply couldn’t.

I didn’t buy it. He supported me and my music career to the ultimate degree. He always wore my T-shirts and listened to my music. Every time I visited him in D.C., he had my music on in his car, or on his iPod at home. He would do anything to come to the concert. The only thing that could stop him was Mom. I was certain of it.

They’d been separated for about four years—since just after my cancer went into remission. I’d thought their relationship to be cordial, but now I suspected she had something to do with his not coming to the concert. It infuriated me.

“I think that’s stupid,” I said. “What kind of sucky job won’t let you go to your son’s first concert?”

She shrugged. “It’s very complicated.”

“Oh yes, very complicated. He wants to come. His work won’t let him. Simple.”

Trying to calm myself, I looked out over the field, imagining the sea of ninety thousand people waving their arms and holding up their cell phones. Kurt and Sandra would be on the front row with Bryan, Kurt’s dad.

I pointed down at the space between the general admission area and the stage.

“Why can’t Kurt and Sandra and Bryan just sit in there? Why make them stand out in the general admission?”

“Richie, if you’re trying to find a way to get fans closer to you, it’s not going to work.”

My ploy was working. “They’re not fans, they’re—”

“Yes, but if I let Kurt, Sandra, and Bryan, the next thing you would ask for would be if we could just let a few other fans is there, too. The answer is no.”

I sighed, but wanted to smile. She was buying it. Now I just needed Sandra and Kurt to do their part later on. Mom would fall for it. I would get to meet the CMI.

I acted like I wanted to change the subject again.

“So, did you or Dad ever play a stadium this big?”

She laughed and looked over the field. “Not even close.”

Back in the mid nineties, Mom had been in a band called the Purple-Headed Lady Bugs. They’d done pretty well for a few years, opening for some bigger bands and putting out three albums before breaking up due to everyone having families. But they’d never gotten huge.

In fact, she was more famous now, as my mother. She’d become quite a celebrity. Kurt and Sandra teased her about her image with the media and public. The evil, over-protective mom that didn’t let her rock star son do anything. A pretty accurate image, as far as I could tell.

“Has Dad’s band said anything else about doing a reunion tour?”

Mom shook her head. “He hasn’t said anything about it.”

His band—the Wiffle Bats—had been bigger than Mom’s, actually headlining one tour throughout the United States, and another in Europe. His band mates had contacted him, asking if he wanted to do a reunion tour. He’d declined.

Probably his work, again.

My parents weren’t the only former rock stars around. Kurt’s dad, Bryan, had also performed about the same time. Mom had said once—a few days after Bryan started teaching me the guitar—that she’d met Bryan years before and hadn’t liked him much, although Bryan didn’t remember meeting her. As far as I could gather from Mom’s vague comments, the prominence of all three faded quickly at about the same time, although I’d never understood why.

One thing was certain, my parents had better band names than me. I was stuck with
Richie Van Bender,
even though I’d tried to talk Mom into letting me use a sweet name. Like maybe
The Cancer Bashers
.

“Anyway,” Mom said, “everything is fireproof.”

She gestured at the temporary, angled walls on both sides of the stage, the IMAX screen above the stage—from behind which a curtain would drop—and the wall at the back of the stage. Along the wall sat a drum set, keyboard, and several guitars. Lights and lasers hung all over the place. Little nozzles lined the sides and front of the stage.

“The fire comes out of those?” I said.

She nodded, and pointed at thick white lines drawn on the stage, about ten feet from the edges. “Those are the fire safety lines. You’ll need to stay inside those, or you’ll risk being barbequed.”

“I bet I’d be tasty barbequed.”

“Which—by the way—is another reason we can’t have Kurt and Sandra and Bryan right up next to the stage. We don’t want them catching on fire.”

“That hardly seems fair—making that decision for them. I’m pretty sure Kurt has said he’d like to know what it’s like to be on fire.”

Mom gestured at the instruments. “The Free Refills will do their sound check in about an hour. You’ll do yours after them. Other than that, you get to hang out in your dressing room until the show.”

I sighed and rolled my eyes. “All tucked away, nice and safe. Just the way you like it.”

She nodded. “Just the way I like it.”

We continued my tour of the security features—er, stadium—and before I knew it, music from the Free Refills echoed through the venue as they did their sound check. Kurt and Sandra arrived not long after, joining me in the dressing room to play some video games. Then they had their own private concert as I did my sound check.

Then, back to my dressing room, the center of the Inner Sanctum.

Mom, of course, stayed with us every second.

The time passed quickly when I considered that soon I would have the chance to make mistakes in front of ninety thousand people. But it also crawled when I thought about meeting the CMI.

Just who was the CMI? New names came to me every time I thought about it, but one always returned—Marti Walker, a teenage country star who’d risen to popularity a year after me. She and I were competing against each other, a young opera singer, and a kid-rapper named F-Nasty for the Best Young Entertainer of the Year award. It would be awarded in two nights. I was going to perform one number at the award show.

As the afternoon turned into evening, the dull buzz of a crowd grew louder and louder. We went out to the stage twice, to peek out of the curtain and look out at the crowd. An hour before the Free Refills would take the stage, the place was packed.

And before I knew it, I was side stage with Kurt, Sandra, and Mom, watching the Free Refills work the crowd. As they played a dozen of their hits, night fell fully upon the stadium.

And the next thing I knew, they’d reached their last number. The time had come to get to the dressing room alone.

And Mom wasn’t about to make it easy.

Chapter 3: The ploy

For years I wondered if Richie wasn’t getting my hints, or if he was just naïve. I also couldn’t decide which I preferred.

-Sandra Montoya

I stood. Sandra joined me, standing so close that our shoulders touched. Kurt stood on my other side. Mom stepped ahead of us, closer to the stage, as if to keep me from running out there.

Well, I sure wasn’t about to do that. I needed to get back to my dressing room.

Onstage, gouts of flame spewed up all around the drummer, bassist, two guitarists, and lead singer. Lasers, strobe lights, and colored LEDs lit the stage, screen, and back wall. People in the crowd cheered, jumped, and waved their arms, nearly drowning out the music. Many of them had waited just as long as me for this concert.

Mom turned halfway toward me and my friends. The light from the stage outlined her shape, illuminated her face so it looked almost like a demon from the cover of some heavy metal album.

The moment to execute our plan had arrived.

I took a deep breath and opened my mouth to speak to Mom.

But halted.

Sandra leaned in close to me. Her fingers fumbled for mine and she squeezed my hand. Her touch sent tingles up my back. The light from the stage illuminated the soft features of her face and dark hair. What fifteen-year-old looked so beautiful? Only the ones in movies, who were actually twenty-three-year-olds acting as teenagers.

I returned the squeeze, and let go in a hurry.

“Do it,” she said.

I barely heard her over the concert. It filled my senses—the sound in my ears, the vibration in my chest and all along my skin, the sweaty smell and taste of a crowd gathered on an unusually hot fall evening. Not to mention the reek of fire, the flavor of spent flames.

“Don’t hesitate,” she said. “Do it.”

On my other side, Kurt leaned in close and whispered right in my ear with his raspy voice.

“We’re with you, man. This will work.”

I hoped so.

Mom looked at us. She had her arms folded. Her eyes narrowed. At that stern gaze, Sandra leaned away. Kurt actually took a step back, as if afraid of splash damage.

“What are you saying to him?” Mom said.

We’d worked too hard to reach this point, had risked too many things to not execute the plan. I couldn’t stop, now. My friends had already done too much for me to let them down.

I glanced at Kurt, then Sandra, making sure to communicate some false message that would be obvious to Mom, and stepped forward.

“Mom,” I said. “I’m going to meet some fans tonight.”

She turned fully to me, so the light hit her from behind, casting her face into shadows. She spoke loud enough for me to hear over the crowd and amplifiers, and took a step toward me.

“What was that, Richie?”

Kurt coughed and cleared his throat, just like we’d planned.

“Uh, I think I need to get to my seat,” he said.

“Me, too,” Sandra said.

She gave Kurt a significant look, with raised eyebrows. They glanced at me and nodded ever so slightly, then hurried off.

It was perfect. Mom bought it. With a frown and furrowed brow, she watched them go with narrow eyes. Gears turned in her head.

“What’s going on here?” she said.

I shrugged.

Her tone rose in pitch. “Richie, what is going on here?”

I licked my lips and set my jaw. I double checked my resolve to make sure I really wanted to do this. I hated to deceive her. Despite all of the insane sheltering, I knew she only wanted to protect me. She didn’t deserve this. But what was the harm in meeting another rock star?

“I’m going to meet some fans, tonight.”

She placed her fists on her hips. “We had a deal. I let you perform tonight, and you—”

“Turns out I want to break the deal.”

Really, we wanted her to think that Kurt and Sandra were going to give their credentials to some other people, so they could come backstage.

She stepped closer to me. “I can cancel this concert right now.”

“And face a mob of ninety thousand people? None of us would survive.”