Van Bender and the Burning Emblems (The Van Bender Archives #1) Read online

  “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.

&n
bsp; 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.”

  Everything about her was dark, except for her eyes. They glinted.

  “I’ll do it,” she said. “I’ll protect you at any cost. If I let you have your way, we’d probably all end up dead. Blown up, or something.”

  The Free Refills finished their song in an explosion of music and fire. The curtain dropped over the front of the stage. The band would exit opposite us, so I couldn’t meet them.

  “Richie, I’m just trying to protect you. Why can’t you understand that?”

  I shook my head. “Rock stars meet their fans and hang out with other rock stars all the time. Marti Walker posts on Facebook fifty times a day. She tweets.”

  The Free Refills began to exit the stage opposite us. Lights went on all over the stage and around us. I could finally see Mom’s face. She didn’t frown. Didn’t scowl. Just stared with those concerned eyes, eyebrows raised near the center. Behind her, crew members flooded the stage to swap out equipment. Out past the curtain, the crowd roared.

  “Richie, strange things have been going on. Rock stars have... gone missing. Been changed.” She looked around as if expecting a ninja to pop out of the shadows.

  I couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t sound like whining.

  She continued. “I’m not joking. Rock stars have disappeared. It’s too dangerous. It’s risky to let you perform tonight—even despite all the precautions we’ve taken.”

  Her concern always weakened my will. I could already feel myself about to give in, again.

  But she was already breaking one rule by letting me hold the concert. What harm would it do to meet the CMI?

  As I’d previously planned, I looked past her, out onto the stage, pretended to notice someone, and nodded.

  Mom turned and looked. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, she rotated her body back to me.

  “Who are you looking at?”

  “No one.”

  But I kept staring past her, and nodded again. She looked backward again, then frowned at me.

  “Richie, you’d better not be doing anything stupid.”

  “Right. Because I have so many chances to do stupid things.”

  I gave another quick nod at nothing, and this time she almost started to walk away. When I turned to go to my dressing room in about two seconds, she would be torn between investigating where I’d been looking, and following me to my dressing room. Hopefully she figured I couldn’t get into trouble there. After all, according to her plan, the Safe Zone was, well, safe. I couldn’t fathom how the CMI would get around that, but apparently he—or she—felt it wasn’t a problem.

  This was the moment of truth. It would bust the plan, or seal it with success.

  I turned and started to walk away, ignoring the general weariness in my body, willing Mom to go the other way.

  “Where are you going?”

  “My dressing room.”

  “What for?”

  “To plot world domination—I don’t know. Just to be alone for a minute.”

  “You’re on in five.”

  I barely heard it over the crowd that had started to chant my name. She waffled between following me, and looking out onto the stage, at my pretended accomplice.

  I held my breath as I walked away and looked back at her.

  She hesitated only a moment longer.

  Then came after me.

  My heart almost failed me.

  She walked by my side through the narrow, empty hallways. Blood rushed through me at a million miles an hour. Every step seemed to drain my hope and resolve. How to ditch her?

  Nothing came to me, and we didn’t speak until almost to the dressing room. I could only think about meeting the CMI. Three years. Three years I’d waited to meet a fellow entertainer. Would the CMI greet me as an equal? As a friend? Would I be able to articulate anything, or would my language skills go out the door in fan-boyish blubbering? Would I even get in without Mom messing things up?

  As we approached the door, she spoke.

  “Richie, it’s for your own good. You have no idea.”

  I almost gave a retort, but at the last moment I decided on a new tactic. Acting like I was giving in, and that it made me sad. Very, very sad. It might be my only chance.

  As I sighed and shook my head, we reached the door. I made sure to get there first, and grabbed the handle. I stood with my back to her, and let my shoulders slump. I sighed again.

  “I don’t get it,” I said. “Why can’t you just give me more information?”

  She rubbed my back reassuringly. “Richie, please just trust me for a few more years.”

  If I hadn’t been acting defeated, I would have gone ballistic at that. A few more years? A few more years? She might as well have said forever.

  “Can I just be alone for a minute?” I said. “I’m pretty nervous. I just want to think. Alone.”

  My heart thundered. This was it. Again.

  She patted my back. “Richie—”

  “Please, Mom. Just five minutes alone. So I can gather my thoughts.”

  She sighed and shook her head. “How can I leave you alone after the conversation we’ve just had?”

  I half-turned and gave her a desperate look. “Please, Mom. This is the biggest night of my life. Can’t I just be alone for five minutes before it starts? I’m not going to meet any fans. I promise. I was just messing with you.”

  She looked deep into my eyes, searching for lies. “No fans? You promise?”

  I turned the rest of the way and looked her in the eye. “I promise.”

  She caved. Her face softened with compassion. She shook her head as if she couldn’t believe what she was about to say.

  I held my breath.

  “Okay. Fine. Five minutes.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” My gratitude wasn’t even feigned.

  I started to pull the door open, but she stopped me. “Wait. Let me check in there.”

  My heart nearly stopped as she shouldered me aside, opened the door, and looked in the room. I stood there, eyes wide, blood frozen, waiting for her to spontaneously combust as she saw the CMI.

  But nodding, she backed out, holding the door open, motioning for me to go inside.

  “Five minutes,” she said.

  Disappointment filled me. The CMI hadn’t made it through Mom’s security.

  “Thank you,” I said, almost not hearing myself.

  I went inside, shut and locked the door behind me. The place was empty. Just a couch with its back to me, a TV with an Xbox, a dresser, and a few chairs.

  No CMI.

  Numb, I stood there, back toward the door, breathing hard. Mom had foiled the plot—whether through her security procedures or some other way. Maybe she knew everything and had cut it off it without my even knowing.

  I leaned my back against the door, closed my eyes, and let out a sigh.

  “Well, Richie, glad to see you managed it.”

  My eyes shot open. There was the CMI.

  And he was way cooler than Marti Walker.

  Chapter 4: The coolest guy I’d ever met

  I always thought Richie was cooler than his parents. I mean, besides
being a way better musician, he was also willing to take chances. Insane ones.

  -Nick Savage

  Nick Savage stood on the opposite side of the couch.

  The Nick Savage, who’s sold more than sixty million albums and done something much harder—had chart-topping albums through the 80s, 90s, and fifteen years into the new millennium. Last year, he published his thirty-sixth album, Death Slayers of Symbolic Dementia (and the Classical Music that Torments Us). I listened to it constantly while doing homework.

  Nick Savage.

  Of course, Savage wasn’t his real name. It was his stage name. I couldn’t remember his real name.

  He stood between the couch and the 70-inch TV, grinning.

  “We did it!” he said. Yes, Nick Savage spoke to me. Directly to me.

  Only a moment before the place had been empty. Mom had verified it. But here he was. I tried to ask him how he’d gotten in the dressing room, but only gibberish came out of my mouth. The shock had simply taken control of my brain and started to squeeze. Really, really hard.

  “I’ve waited a long time to meet you,” he said.

  So had I. For weeks Nick Savage had worked with my friends to arrange this secret meeting. He wanted to meet with me. He had something to give me.

  Holy. Freaking. Cow.

  Plus—and this caught me completely by surprise—he spoke with a Southern accent that didn’t match the black leather he wore from head to toe. His voice contrasted with the chains wrapped around his chest and waist, and the brushed metal rivets decorating the cuffs and collar of his jacket.

  And his accent certainly didn’t go with his hair, which stood at least nine inches in every direction off his head, purple in some places, green in others, and orange in yet others. At the front, a red spike stood out like a rhino’s horn. In one of his music videos he’d pierced the armor of a medieval knight with his hair. Awesome video.

  He smiled and stepped around the couch toward me, past the dresser and mirror. Again, gibberish spewed from my mouth.

  Nick Savage—Nick Savage—was in my dressing room!

  He looked me up and down with a critical eye. “You’re shorter than I thought, son.”