Free Born to Rock by Gordon Korman Page A

important part of all this had gone exactly right: the front man of Purge had pretty much admitted that I was his son.
    I may have been out of the Young Republicans, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t be pragmatic and businesslike. There was a purpose to this whole exercise, and it wasn’t for me to share a warm and fuzzy moment with the composer of “Bomb Mars Now.”
    In four to six weeks, the DNA people would confirm that I was one-hundred-percent Prince Maggot. Then and only then would I hit King up for my Harvard tuition money. Coming from his scientifically certified flesh and blood, how could he say no?
    Getting to know this person—it was a small price to pay.
    â€œI’d like that,” I said carefully. “Maybe when the tour is over, we could—uh—have dinner or something.”
    He shook his head. “It’s already been seventeen years. We can’t waste any more time.”
    â€œYeah, but you’ll be on the road with the band. You’re not going to be in—” I frowned at him. “I don’t even know where you live.”
    â€œI live in Malibu,” he told me, “but I’m not talking about the occasional dinner. Why don’t you spend the summer traveling with me?”
    I was floored. “You mean—”
    â€œWith Purge,” he finished. “On the Concussed tour.”
    It was straight out of left field, something I hadn’t expected in a million years. This total stranger, who didn’t even seem to like me, and must have sensed how I felt about him, was prepared to bring me along on his comeback tour—a thirty-city traveling punk rock festival that would make front-page news in every city it touched.
    How could I say no? Forget that it wasn’t my kind of music—and shouldn’t have been anybody’s kind of music. I wanted a future in the business world; this was big business, the blockbuster entertainment event of the summer. And I’d be a part of it, and see it from the inside.
    King must have interpreted my silence as reluctance, because he sweetened the deal. “Don’t worry about money. I’ll take care of your expenses. And you’ll have a job.” He turned to Bernie. “Have we got something for Leo to do?”
    He knows my name, I thought. It was the first time he’d spoken it aloud.
    â€œI can always use another pair of hands,” said Bernie. “Junior roadie. You’ll like the guys.”
    â€œI’ve already met them,” I replied, rubbing my bruised hip.
    King grasped my hand and shook it, and actually smiled at me. In all the CD covers and publicity shots and Internet sites, I’d never seen him smile before. It didn’t fit the image of the Angriest Band in America.
    â€œThanks for coming down,” he told me. “I’m really looking forward to this.”
    Then he turned away, and I wasn’t there anymore.
    It took me a moment to come to terms with the fact that, in King’s eyes, I had suddenly ceased to exist. It was Bernie who ushered me back into the main part of the suite, where the Post-it girl had awakened, and various Concussed officials were reclaiming their notes from her body.
    The manager gave me a sympathetic smile. “You get used to King’s style. When you’re the man , you’re like a drug, and everybody wants a toot. He’s not shutting you out. It’s just his way of making sure there’s enough of him to go around.”
    I didn’t reply. I was wondering if that’s how it was with my mother eighteen years ago.

[10]
    BERNIE WAS RIGHT ABOUT KING BEING like a drug. I must have been on something. How else could I have agreed to join a traveling punk rock festival without even considering what my parents were going to say?
    The thought didn’t occur to me until I was at a pay phone in Grand Central station, calling my dad to let him know what train I’d be