Page 109 of Dear Rockstar (Dear Rockstar 1)

“You’ll be my Bonnie, baby,

I’ll be your Clyde

You’ve got my shotgun

On this suicide ride

If they ever catch us

They ain’t gonna like what they find

We’re taken no prisoners, baby

No one gets out alive…”

I sat and watched them, quietly sketching Dale. We were in the academy auditorium and Black Diamond was practicing on stage. It was going on four o’clock and we’d been there since two-thirty. They were finally gearing up for the finals in April—they had sailed through the semi-finals as easily as the first round. They were a favorite to win the finals, which would be held in New York and televised on MTV.

Dale had written this song and they were trying it out and drawing quite a crowd with it.

“If we’re going down

We’re going down in a blaze of glory

Our burning hearts will tell the story

We will rise from the ashes, baby

Going down in a blaze of glory…”

Dale was playing to an audience of about thirty who’d been drawn by the music. There were two janitors who had decided to stick around and watch and the rest were fans who had heard he was practicing and had decided to stay after to watch. My sketches of him were getting better, I decided. I’d managed to capture part of his energy on paper, but it was still so difficult to do.

“If we’re going down

We’re going down in a—”

Dale stopped singing. “Whoa, whoa, wait a minute!” The music came to a clanking, jerking halt and I looked up. “I don’t like this key. My throat is killing me.”

“Lower or higher?” Terry asked.

“Lower.” Dale played a few bars in a lower key on his guitar. “Can you guys get that?” They picked it up in an instant.

“All right!” Dale grinned. “I’ll be back in a minute. I’ve got to get a drink.”

Dale set his guitar down and hopped off the stage, heading toward where I was sitting. I smiled up at him. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

“Want to come with me?” he asked. “If this keeps up, I’m not going to have a voice left at all.”

“Sure.” I closed my sketch book and took his hand, following him toward the auditorium doors.

“What did you think?” he asked, heading toward the drinking fountain in the hallway.

“What do you think?”

“I hope we’ve got it wrapped up.” He shrugged. “Finals are April twenty-second. You’re coming, right?”

He’d only asked me a hundred times.

“Of course. I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

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