Free Thunderbowl by Lesley Choyce Page A

smashed two brake lights. It cost me twenty-five dollars. You drive,” he said to me.
    I sat for a second without saying anything. “Uh, guys,” I began, “I have a confession to make.”
    Al was shaking his hands in the air. Sweat was literally dripping off. Drek was staring straight into the windshield, his mind fixed on something none of us could see.
    â€œI can’t drive,” I said. “At least not legally. I haven’t got a license.”
    â€œWho cares?” Al yelled at me. “Just drive.”
    So I got out and walked around, sat down in the driver’s seat and started the van. I popped the clutch and we lurched out into the traffic. I almost ran over a man walking a pit bull terrier.
    â€œWhere’d you learn to drive?” Al grunted.
    â€œI told you, I didn’t.”
    â€œMaybe you should try shifting,” Drek advised in a shaky voice. I was going pretty fast for first gear. The engine was roaring like it was about to explode.
    â€œOh, yeah,” I said. I shifted, grinding my way into second gear without using the clutch. It sounded like I was trying to cut a battleship in half with a chain saw.
    â€œNice work, Germ,” Al criticized, still hanging his hands out to dry.
    I decided it was time they knew my real age. I hadn’t really lied before. They just assumed I was older. I didn’t ever come out and say anything. I just thought we’d never get to play a place like The Dungeon anyway. They served all kinds of booze. I wasn’t old enough to drink, so I wasn’t old enough to play there. “What I’ve been meaning to tell you…” I began again.
    â€œBrake,” Drek interrupted in a low, uncertain voice.
    â€œHuh?” I asked.
    â€œBrake!” he screamed into the wind-shield.
    â€œOops.” A stop sign had appeared out of nowhere. It wasn’t my fault. I slammed the middle pedal, hoping that it was the right one.
    It was. Nearly half a ton of musical hardware slid forward into our backs as we came to a screeching halt. With my nose squished up against the glass Iwatched a Pepsi truck squeak by in front of us, inches from the bumper. I figured I had done pretty well.
    â€œI’m only sixteen,” I announced. “They won’t let me play The Dungeon even if we do win.”
    Whoever won the Battle of the Bands was going to get a contract to play four nights a week. The money was good and The Dungeon had the wildest audience in town. But now my little secret was out. And now the dream might not come true. Not for me. Not for any of us.
    Drek gave me a look of despair. Al just glared at me from across the van. He was rubbing a bump on his head where a flying mike stand had connected with the back of his skull.
    â€œDrive,” Al said in that low, threatening voice of his. “From now on you’re nineteen. And you better play that damn guitar like your life depends on it.”
    I wasn’t in any position to argue with him.

Chapter Two
    Cars were parked up and down the street in front of The Dungeon. It was dark, but there were bright lights in the doorway. The smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke was heavy in the air. Inside the bar I could hear a heavy-metal band cranking it out. The battle had begun. I pulled the van to a stop around the corner, half on, half off the sidewalk.
    Now I was the one who had the shakes. Drek and Al were calming down. “All we gotta do is stay cool,” Drek said.
    â€œLike ice,” Al added.
    We opened the rusty doors to the van and started to unload. Al dropped his amplifier on his foot and howled like a wounded wolf.
    Just then a jacked-up 4x4 pick up truck pulled up behind us. It sounded like the muffler was off. Whoever was driving hopped the curb and drove in tight to the side door of the bar. We were blocked. No way could we get past them to haul our stuff inside.
    Already Al was making ugly threats with his fist. Drek was