Lukey Kid

“Did it hurt?” Joey asked.

“No, but the stitches did,” Mr. Zach answered.

“Gnarly. No antiseptic?” I grimaced.

“Nope. They just sewed it up in the medical cabin.”

“Dude, that’s sick. I’m wincing just hearing about it.”

“Do you still got the scar?” Brendan inquired.

“Yeah, but it’s faded. I got a tattoo to cover it up, but that only made the pain worse.”

“When’d you get the tattoo?” Ren spoke.

“Back in -”

All of a sudden, a supersonic shriek pierced the air. Soria’s dad leaped off the couch with more vigor than a high school track star and ran into their rec room where the sound was coming from. The rest of us followed, but Soria wasn’t getting her head ripped off like I’d predicted. I mean, really. We were just sitting around in Soria’s house, hanging with her and her dad and she broke off to check our FlySpace. Pretty boring day if you ask me. That was a bit of a shock to our system.

Our FlySpace page was on the computer screen. Soria had her hand cupped over her mouth like she was going to puke. And all six of us had the same reaction when we read the comment that was on the screen:

“KIDS;;youguys freakin ROCK;;lol. love ur sound- very rockish. lolz. u need to come TOUR w/ ME!!!!!! lol! srsly, I’m telling not listening records bout u kids. ur NOT getting enough word. comment back plz!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
_RAWR;;_ollilolli c:”

The text in the comment was big and pink, like hearts in the form of letters. Brendan, Soria, Ren, Joey and I took a moment to throw a three second party, until her dad calmed us down and took a moment to ask…

“Who’s this Olli Lolli kid?”

Soria answered, “He’s one of the biggest FlySpace musicians of the year! He’s a total scene king, but if he lives up to his word, we could get a record deal! Provided he’s not just screwing with us, of course.”

“He sounds queerer than a 3 dollar bill,” he grunted.

“Yeah, he does this real poppy stuff, but he’s huge. Everyone on the Internet knows who he is,” Joey explained.

“Quick! Comment back! Or message! Whatever!” Brendan said, grabbing the keyboard. I urged him to take it easy, but he didn’t. With shaking hands, Soria went to Olli’s page and clicked to send him a message. Immediately, Brendan got to typing.

“Fifr. [;rsdr-” he paused to hold the backspace key - “Dude, please! We need all the help we can get!”

Ren took control and added on. “Thanks, Olli. –Soria, Ren, Brendan, Luke, and Joey”

Brendan clicked the mouse, and it was traveling through hyperspace at lightning quick speeds.

All week long, our fingers were crossed.

- - -

“Holy shi-” Brendan started.

I cut him off. “Language, man!”

“Sorry. Crap.”

“Ya dang right, holy crap! Can you believe it?!” Soria gushed, flailing.

“No, I can’t-” Ren took the opportunity to reference our music.

Joey cut straight to the point. “Seriously, did you hear what Olli said?!”

“I got ears, yeah I did!” Brendan laughed.

Within 2 days of our message sent to Olli Lolli, Joey’s email inbox was graced with a shiny new message from Olli himself. A pristine-quality video mail showing the Popcore King was watched by us at least ten times before we could actually believe what he said.

“Hey! Thanks for replying. Can I guarantee you’ll be in Miami by next Friday? LOL. But seriously, I told Not Listening records about Plaster Caster, and the manager – Rai - totally loved you. He wants to fly the five of you - that includes Joey - down here to make a CD! And you’ll be in the studio with me! Eeek! Isn’t that awesome?!”

He paused to do an epic hair flip.

“The point is, Not Listening wants you on the label. Rai sent five tickets for you guys - and girl - to Miami. Well, just send something back and we’ll talk more! Rawr!”

Olli waved goodbye and the video was over. We went quiet.

“What the hell are we waiting for? Let’s make a video!” Brendan urged.

“Nonononono! Wait! What about our parents?” Soria pointed out.

I thought of a plan. “Let’s get them here tonight so they can watch the video.”

- - -

Our parents weren’t immediately won over by the idea of us flying down to Miami with no adult supervision. I didn’t blame them for that - I mean, if I were in their position, I’d hesitate too. The oldest one of us was Joey, and he was only sixteen. And since he was on the same maturity level as his brother Brendan, he might as well have been around fourteen just like the rest of us.

So I put together all the persuading tips I learned in eighth grade language arts to convince our parents to let us go.

“This is the opportunity of a lifetime,” I informed, “and everything’s already taken care of…”

“Housing, food, tutors…” Soria jumped in.

Her dad was quick for a rebuttal. “What’s housing? Like, a hotel?”

Brendan took the floor. “A five star hotel. Two rooms, four beds. And it’s got a heated pool.”

We were at his house in their living room, all of our parents huddled in a circle before us, as if to defy whatever we would say. “And so this Olli kid’s gonna be with you when you’re recording?” Mr. Hawker asked.

Joey nodded. “But Raimundo Asbury - the founder of Not Listening records - is taking us to our hotel when we get there. Er, if, I mean. And he invited us to dinner at his place if we go,” he added.

“How long would you be gone?” Ren’s mom said, her eyes filled with concern.

“Um…we don’t know. How long does it take to record a full length CD?” Soria said. And she spoke the truth, since none of us were sure. All of our favorite bands either hid that kind of information, and the ones that posted studio updates on their websites were so varied.

“What about school?” Brendan’s dad asked.

“Oh, that’s covered. Rai hired a tutor, and Olli’s at college at the University of Miami, so…” I trailed off.

All of our parents took deep heavy breaths. Finally, Mrs. Hawker spoke.

“Alright. A dream is a dream, and I know I can’t encroach upon that.”

And knowing how simultaneously supportive yet overprotective of her son she was, it was easy to assume that the others would follow. Soria’s dad agreed next, then Brendan’s parents. Thomas sucked in a breath, looked at Sarah, and my foster parents said…

“You can go.”

Go. Ha. My favorite word.