Wild Cards. Джордж Р. Р. Мартин

Part 1

      LORIANNE’S STICKS FLEW OVER the drums, heavy beat pounding through the wild cheering of the stadium crowd. Led Zeppelin’s John Bonham looked on in awe while, off in the wings, Drummer Boy sat on the floor, all six hands covering his face as he sobbed. From the front row, Buddy Rich gave LoriAnne a thumbs-up—which was a bit strange since she was pretty sure he’d died about thirty years ago. But she couldn’t worry about that right now. Dave Grohl was about to finish up his solo, and then it’d be her turn.

      “Take it, LoriAnne,” Dave shouted. “Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee …”

      Her rhythm faltered. “Huh?”

       eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

      Dave Grohl and Buddy Rich burst into a million sparkles as the whine of a mosquito shattered the dream.

      “Aw, man, that was cold,” LoriAnne groaned. “You could’ve at least let me have my big solo.” She cracked one eye open to give the nightstand clock a bleary peek: 5:24 A.M. “Go ’way, skeeter. Got six whole minutes.”

      No such luck. The skeeter had been content to stay by the window last night, but now it resisted her attempt to send it away. Instead, it crawled to her ear to sing a cheery skeeter wake-up song.

       eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

      “Okay okay okay. Jeez. I’m awake.” She threw off the comforter, unable to keep from smiling as the skeeter danced happily around her head. It was tough to stay annoyed with the little thing. It had stayed tucked in her curls all the way from Louisiana and was probably just as excited as she was. Heck, LoriAnne was amazed she’d slept at all. Not only was this the biggest competition she’d ever been in, but it was the first time in her almost fifteen years she’d spent the night in a state that wasn’t Louisiana.

      Holeeeee crap. San Antonio. Texas! She’d been worried there wouldn’t be any mosquitoes here, but San Antonio had plenty. She’d counted a dozen in the hotel lobby alone. It sure helped her nerves to have some of her little friends nearby.

      And boy, did she have a lot of nerves. Not only was LoriAnne the youngest member of the Folsom Funkalicious Four, but she’d only been their drummer since December, after Reese Fowler’s mom got a promotion at her job and moved the whole family to Australia. And Reese had been the drummer when the band got the invite to the competition. Sure, LoriAnne had busted her butt to learn everything, and the band director, Mr. Sloane, seemed real happy with how she played, but she couldn’t help but be nervous.

      Her roommate’s bed was empty and neatly made. Man, Cassie was up and out early. Knowing her, she’d either found a quiet place to read or was off practicing piano. Not that Cassie needed more practice. She was ah-maze-ing.

      LoriAnne flicked on the light then did a double take at the clock: 6:24, not 5:24! She scrambled out of bed, excitement shifting to horror. She knew she’d set the time for the alarm, but she must have forgotten to turn it on. And on an important morning like this! Mr. Sloane had a six thirty A.M. reservation for the five of them at the restaurant downstairs, and had warned them not to be late. “We don’t want to lose our table,” he’d said. “Plus, it’s sure to be a madhouse in the morning, with eight bands all wanting to fuel up before heading over to the Tobin Center.”

      Now she was going to be late on the very first day of the biggest competition her band had ever been in. Way to make an impression, LoriAnne.

      Good thing she’d laid out all of her stuff before she went to bed. But too bad she didn’t dare skip a shower—not after spending eleven hours in the car yesterday on the road trip from Folsom, Louisiana. And the award for Stinkiest Musician goes to … LoriAnne Broom!

      No time to wash her hair, which sucked, but her hair was so darn thick and curly that it took a good fifteen minutes to dry. A freezing shower and a manic scrub of her smelliest bits took less than a minute, followed by a frenzied toweling off, a quick slap of deodorant, and a dash for clothes. She wasted two precious minutes trying to tame her insane cloud of curls before she finally gave up and shoved a sparkly clip into it to get it out of her face, letting the rest be a dumb brown curl-palooza.

      She pressed a hunk of curls to her nose and took a deep sniff. Ugh. Smoky, but at least it was from wood and not cigarettes. Halfway through the drive to San Antonio, they’d run into a hailstorm so nasty that the band ended up waiting it out at Buck’s BBQ and Bait Shop. The food was great, but the whole place had smelled like mesquite smoke with a side of day-old minnows.

      6:32 A.M. She was late, but maybe she could pull off being only kinda late? Makeup was a lost cause. She’d have to do it in the lobby bathroom after breakfast. Though she doubted she’d be eating much, with the way her stomach was busy twisting itself into knots.

      LoriAnne slung her stick bag over one shoulder and her tie around her neck, grabbed her backpack, and spun to leave. Then stopped, door half-open. “Well, c’mon already.”

      With a happy whine, the skeeter settled at the nape of her neck.

      At the elevator, she jabbed at the button then anxiously watched the numbers scroll lazily up toward “7.” Eventually the elevator dinged, and the doors slid open.

      The woman within the elevator gave LoriAnne a friendly smile. “Going up?”