Free Born to Rock by Gordon Korman

the verdict came down: “I don’t remember her.”
    I could feel my face turning red. “That’s it?”
    He shrugged. “Nothing personal.”
    â€œIt’s personal to me !” I practically yelled at him. “It’s the reason I’m alive! But you don’t remember, so too bad, kid, take a hike.”
    He was surprised. “I’m not sending you away. I’m just telling the truth. I don’t remember. I wish I did.”
    I wasn’t sure exactly how to take that. After all, we were talking about my mother ! Technically, I shouldn’t want this old letch to remember anything about his brief encounter with her. On the other hand, it was plain that the act that began my life was completely meaningless and forgettable to this rock star. It really burned me up.
    So he was a celebrity. So what? He wasn’t even famous for the right reasons. It wasn’t like he’d developed a vaccine or negotiated world peace. He was a cultural bad boy, worthy of attention only because of his outrageous behavior and his unflagging capacity to offend. Except for hearing-impaired counterculture nut-jobs like Melinda, everybody agreed there was zero value to his so-called music.
    At that moment, I didn’t care about Harvard or my future or even the fact that I was on his turf, and I would probably end up in the garbage again. I was going to introduce my bio-dad to a little piece of himself. It was time for McMurphy to crash this party.
    Just as I opened my mouth to let him have it, Bernie, the manager, poked his head back into the room. “So?” he questioned. “Are we related?”
    â€œDefinitely,” said King without hesitation.
    If he’d hit me with a brick, I couldn’t have been more astounded. Definitely? What did he see in me that made him so positive? Was it my almost display of temper that would have knocked out the back wall of the hotel? As the real McMurphy, was he so attuned to rage that he could recognize it even in its potential?
    â€œHe has the ear,” King told his cousin.
    â€œThe what ?”
    He took my hand and raised it to my right ear. “Feel that little notch in the lobe? It runs in the family.”
    He turned his head to the side so I could see the anomaly on him. Bernie picked up a small makeup mirror and held it out to me. I found the right angle and took in the sight of King Maggot’s earlobe hanging off my head.
    I looked at both of Bernie’s ears. No notches.
    He shrugged. “Not all of us have it. It skips the occasional kid. But if you do, you’re a McMurphy.”
    So it was definite. Not that I’d ever doubted it, because why would Mom make up such a horrendous thing? But to be here, standing right beside the guy, seeing what a jumped-up, uncaring jerk he was, and that’s when it gets confirmed—it was the living end. I felt like jumping out the window, but unless I was holding on to King at the time, what would be the point?
    â€œWe’ll do DNA testing too,” he told me. “To sew it up nice and neat for the lawyers.”
    I nodded. Of course he didn’t trust me, or a romantic partner he didn’t remember, or even the evidence of his own family trait. Only indisputable scientific evidence was enough for the great King Maggot. Every minute I spent with him, I liked him a little less. And he hadn’t been very high in my estimation at the start.
    â€œThe final results take four to six weeks,” he went on. “I think we should use that time to get to know each other.”
    My cheeks burned from the sheer hypocrisy of that statement. Purge was about to embark on a coast-to-coast tour. Concussed was scheduled to go to Europe in the fall. Get to know each other? How were we supposed to do that—by carrier pigeon?
    Calm down, I told myself. Meeting King had been a lousy experience—offensive, dehumanizing, and generally unpleasant. Yet the most