It was as if an electric arc shot through Bron and into the crowd. The audience responded with gasps of surprise, sighs of relaxation, feet tapping in time, a shuffling and swishing as people began to sway. Someone near the back of the crowd called excitedly, "Hey, you guys, come here!"
This is the way Stevie Wonder experiences music, Bron realized. He can hear when the audience captures the joy, can feel how he moves them. They blended seamlessly on the chorus:
Bron gave himself to the music then, as Whitney cycled through the verses. When she finished with the bridge, he hit the guitar solo and didn't even think about fingering, just capturing the joy of the tune, enhancing it. It was a complex piece, worthy of Slash or Keith Richards.
In it, he stripped Whitney's song down to its bare essence, like a humble cottage stripped to its foundation, and then he rebuilt it stone by stone, turning it into a castle bold and majestic, towering above the hills.
It was perhaps more complex and intricate a piece than he had first imagined, but he purposely embellished it, hoping to impress Whitney.
As Olivia had warned, he had just been too good.
In the silence, one young man whispered in awe, "Damn, you can grind that ax!"
Then the applause began, people hooting and clapping. Whitney grabbed him and kissed his cheek, and said a heartfelt "Thank you," with tears in her eyes. He gave her a brief hug, but she kept clutching him, as if she never wanted to let go.
Students surged forward to slap him on the back and tell him, "That was sooo great!" and he heard one girl tell a friend, "No wonder Mrs. Hernandez wants to adopt!"
Her friend answered, as if he were a puppy, "Oooh, I want him, too!"
Amid the congratulations and fist bumping a young man asked, "Can I get your autograph?"
Bron was so startled he said, "No one has ever asked me for that before."
The young man shoved a pen and paper his way. "Can you write on it, 'To Joel, my first autograph'? Then put the date on it?"
Bron signed the paper, glanced up at the crowd, wondering how Justin Walton might have reacted to the song, but he was gone. Bron imagined that he had just sulked off in anger.
A boy who looked too young to be even a freshman asked, "Where did you learn to play like that?"
"Uh, Guitar Hero," Bron lied. Other kids began to ask for autographs. The bell for first period rang, and people hurried off to class.
A young man with curly hair, beefy in stature, got Bron's guitar case and opened it, and then laid Bron's guitar in reverently. "Wow," he said as everyone else was leaving. "I think you're going to be the most popular guy in school."
Whitney smiled at that. "I think he will."
The young man stuck out his hand to shake. "I'm Kendall. I've got a band. Want to join?"
Kendall stood shyly, almost as if he were overwhelmed to be in Bron's presence, and Bron couldn't just say no. It would have broken Kendall's heart.
"Your band any good?" Bron asked.
Kendall shrugged. "With you in it, it could be great."
Bron nodded. "I'll give it a try." He glanced at Whitney, expecting a smile, but saw panic instead. He realized his mistake. "So long as it doesn't conflict with playing for Whitney."
Kendall nodded thoughtfully. "I think we can reach an amicable agreement."
Whitney clutched Bron all the harder, and her smile spread across her face, encompassing her entire body—eyes, skin, soul.
Bron reached for his guitar case, but Kendall swooped it from the table. "Allow me, sir." He took the guitar gingerly, as if it were a treasure. "I liked your playing," he said. "It was as if you ... took the essence of her song and stripped it bare. At first, I thought that you would hold it up for ridicule, something so weak and so pop, but instead you clothed it again, more majestically than I could have imagined, and then you just gave it back to her! Damn, that was righteous!"
Bron smiled. He appreciated the criticism, but he had to wonder: Is that what I was doing? He realized that in part, the young man was right.
"So what's the band called," Bron asked.
"Wasteland," Kendall said. "When we play, we all act like we're wasted. It's not a cultural statement or anything, just theater."
Bron peered at the guy curiously. Kendall was beefy, like a lineman on a football team, with dark curly hair and a killer's pale blue eyes.
I don't just have a band, Bron realized. I have a fan and a valet. Kendall walked with a dangerous swagger, as if he might beat up anyone who imposed on Bron's time. The kid seemed like a follower, one of those clingy ones who latch onto rockers and movie stars.
What am I getting myself into? Bron wondered.
Chapter 19
Warning Signals
"Once we give into weakness, others will define us by our weakness."
Olivia and Bron took separate cars that day. To avoid recognition, she drove Mike's pickup, and wore sunglasses, arriving at school later than usual. She checked the parking lot for any sign of strangers before she got out of the truck and hurried in. The broad walkway was set beside a creek, and every hundred feet or so, she had to leap up some shallow steps.
She had just reached the plaza when she met Mr. Petrowski, the dance instructor. He was eyeing students as they practiced their dance routines.
He jutted his chin toward Bron, who was just walking into the building, while Kendall McTiernan lugged his guitar. In a mild Russian accent Petrowski said, "You just missed a wonderful performance. Your foster son astonished the school, and he won the admiration of ... Mr. McTiernan."
A chill crept over Olivia. Kendall McTiernan had been the subject of more than one faculty meeting this summer. Not everyone at Tuacahn was a devoted artist. Some teens were special cases. Tuacahn was so new, it hadn't quite maxed out its attendance, and the administration had been pressured into taking a couple of students who didn't quite fit in elsewhere. The hope was that these students would thrive at Tuacahn. Kendall was one of these test subjects.
Kendall was trouble. Several teachers were trying to figure out how to save him. Others just hoped that his explosive temper wouldn't go off at school. Some said that Kendall was just another Columbine, waiting to happen.
"Are you going to warn your son to stay away?" Mr. Petrowski asked.
Olivia wondered. Kendall had his good points. He'd transferred from a rough neighborhood in Dallas, one where he'd watched his older brother get stabbed to death in a senseless gang battle. Ever since then, he'd been toughening up.
He was brilliant, ruthless, devoted. Mostly devoted. It came from watching his brother die. He'd never gotten into a fight where he wasn't protecting someone else.
His guitar skills were almost non-existent. Olivia had him pegged to become a roadie for a couple of years, then graduate to becoming a band manager, maybe even a record producer.
Kendall has a mobster's mentality, Olivia thought. He should do well as a record producer.
"I'll have a talk with Bron," Olivia promised.
Olivia didn't see Bron for the rest of the morning, didn't even really have much time to think about him—aside from the fact that half the school was talking about his "awesome guitar skills." The air was electric in the hallways. Tryouts were going to begin for the Hyperion Club. A bevy of students ran the club, but as the faculty advisor, Olivia's opinion carried tremendous weight.