BLINK

Solo Copyright © 2017 by Kwame Alexander

This title is also available as a Blink ebook.

Requests for information should be addressed to: Blink, 3900 Sparks Drive SE, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49546

Hardcover ISBN 978–0–310–76183–9

Barnes and Noble edition ISBN 978–0–310–62848–4

Target edition ISBN 978–0–310–62840–8

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This book is a work of fiction. Any character resemblances to persons living or dead are coincidental.

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Cover design: Micah Kandros Design Interior design: Denise Froehlich

Printed in the United States of America

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For my wife, Stephanie, because you love me — KA

For Garrett and the boys — MRH

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Part One:

Hollywood

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There’s this dreamI’ve been havingabout my motherthat scaresthe holy nightout of me,and each time I wakefrom itI’m afraid to openmy eyesand facethe world that awaits, thefractured worldthat used to make sense,but now seemsdisjointed— islands of possibilitythat float by— likea thousand puzzle piecesthat just don’t fittogether anymore.

So I thinkof Chapeland grab holdof the only other thingthat matters.My guitar.

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StringsMom used to playthis gameon the tour busto help usgo to sleep:

Who’s the best?

We’d go throughevery instrument:piano, drums, horns.Our favorite was guitar.

My sister, Storm, always saidEddie Van Halenwas her favorite,probably ’cause

he once made herpancakesat 4 amin a Marriott kitchen.

Ask Rutherford andhe’d say,I’m the best in the world,I’m outta this world.Electric soul brother interstellar man,which is ironicbecause he was tryingto quoteLenny Kravitz, who

Mom would saywas in her top threealong with Jimi Hendrixand me,just to piss him off.

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Chapelis the great songin my life.The sweet arpeggioin my solo.

Her lines bringcolor and verveto my otherwisecrazy life.

Without herI’d be a one- man band,with a played- out soundand no audience.

The magicwe composeis endless,immortal.

We could playtogetherfor centuries.If I’m lucky.

And I lovethe musicour bodiesmakewhen we’re dancing.

But there is one thingabout my girlfriendI don’t understand.She says

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she doesn’t believein sexbefore marriage,but she never

wants to get married.When I ask her, Where is this all going, then?she likes toget real close,

eyelash close,and say things likeLet’s live in the moment, babeor we don’t need labels,

and thenshe kisses melike we own the worldand nothing else matters.

It’s funny howgoing nowherefeels like it’sgoing someplace

fast.

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Texts from Chapel7:37 pmOn your way stop byBest Buy pls. Headphones broke.Red or purple. K?

7:47 pmThey finally left. Ihate hiding. Wish my dadwasn’t so CRAY. He

7:48 pmthinks all the thingsthe tabloids sayabout your family

7:48 pmare true. He doesn’t knowyou’re different, Blade.He thinks

7:48 pmyou’re going todrag me into sexand drugs.

7:49 pmHurry up and get here.They’re at Bible study’til 10 . . .

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Leaving in ten minutesSorry. Working on a song.Beats or Bose?And tell the Reverend Ionly did drugs once.

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The ShowMy father,Rutherford Morrison,can’t standto be awayfrom the stage.He has always cravedthe spotlight,needs itlike a drug,posing, posturing, profilingbefore millions— an electric prophet, or so he thinks,capturing concert worshipersin the vaporsof his breath,as if his voicewas preparing themfor rapture.

My sister and Ihave always livedunder the stage,beside it,behind it.

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The After- PartyThere was alwaysanother party.More loud music.More loud groupies.Boozeand still more groupies.

I was nine.

He grabbed meand helda sizzling cigin frontof my face.Only it wasn’t a cig.He blew smokecircles around meand laughed.My boy.

The band uncles gotin on the joke too,and I stuck my tonguein a shot glassfull of whiskey,soaked it uplike a dirty sponge.I loved making them laugh.

The whiskey hurtmy throat andstung my eyes.But the laughswere epic.

Before I knew it

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I was taking my fingerand dragging itacross powderedsugar that lookedlike ant snow trailson the table.Rutherford was too busykissing his egoto notice.I tasted it once,twice, anda few more times,trying to findthat sugar sweet.

But, it wasn’t sweet.It was saltybitterand it coatedmy mouthin numbness.

I woke upin the ICUfrightenedand embarrassedby my father,who sat bymy bedsidecryingin handcuffs.

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Hollywood ReportRutherford Morrison has kept rock alive for twenty- five years.His band, The Great Whatever, is credited with introducing a new flavor of

Hard Rock to America with the release of their triple- platinum album,The History of Headaches. Even after an acrimonious band breakup,

Morrison continued to have an illustrious solo career,selling thirty million albums worldwide.

His music has lasted the test of time . . . until now.Eight years ago, he was arrested for reckless endangerment of his child,

and he hasn’t released an album since.Most recently he’s managed three DUIs, and a drug overdose

that almost sent him to a rock- star reunion withKurt Cobain and Amy Winehouse.

Rutherford may not have much time left beforehe falls flat on 12:00. Midnight can be so cruel.

Who doesn’t feel sorry for his kids,left answering the hard questions, like

How does it feelto be the daughterto be the sonof a fallen rock star?

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Who Am I?I amthe wretched sonof a poorrich man.

I do not hatemy life.

I am not likeSebastian Carter,who foundhis father kissinghis girlfriend

and now hateshis life.

My life is, hmmm,inconvenient.

Butif it weren’t for Chapel  . . .

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