The Fiery Boys (A Sample)

We pulled into a motel and parked, kicking my heart into a thumping Fiery Boys beat. I knew it was just a meeting with the band manager, but that put me one step closer to the band. Tonight I'd be sleeping on the bus with my rock-and-roll heroes. Alone-I understood that part-but still on the bus. I fanned myself with my hand.

As we walked to the room, Big Tim explained. "The band members get their own bus, and the lowlifes crowd onto the second one. But Mr. Bartholomew is so important that he has his own car and stays in motels." He grinned. "Personally, I think he hates us. Don't know why he's managing this band." Big Tim stopped and knocked on a door.

Given that Jason Bartholomew didn't like this contest, I doubted he'd be happy to see me. Regardless, I was going to do my best to make friends with him. He could love me or he could hate me-it would be up to him. I knew there was no in-between with me anymore; peoples' opinions always fell to one extreme or the other.

The door was opened by a balding, medium-height man, wearing a button-down shirt and dark slacks. He squinted at me. "You must be Annalisa." Oozing propriety, he crisply shook my hand and escorted me into the room. I'd guess he was in his forties, going on sixty. And awkward. Either he disliked me, or this was simply his way with everyone.

I made sure my opening salvo was full-bore friendly. "I'm really excited to be here, Mr. Bartholomew."

"I'll bet you are." He gave me a smile that was half real and half plastic. I didn't mind-at least he was smiling. "Have a seat." He waved stiffly toward a chair. "And call me Jason."

We sat down at a table that was scattered with papers, many sporting the Fiery Boys logo. I noticed equipment manifests, song lists, security schedules, and motel reservations. Everything about the Fiery Boys was right there.

Seeing all this back office activity for my favorite band made me even more excited. I realized where I was, at the hub of Fiery Boys central, talking to the faceless man who pulled the levers. And he was preparing to admit me into the inner workings of the machine-the fabled Fiery Boys engine. I started to breathe a little faster.

Jason looked at me, and his smile grew slightly. "I assume you're a big fan."

He had me there. I fluttered my hands. "Oh, God! Huge. I hope I can keep it together when I meet them." I was barely doing that already, and this guy was just the manager.