Bro Code

Chapter Two - Ryder

“Alright,” I spoke into my mic, turning to look at Chapman, who was messing around with his electric guitar. “This song, was written out of boredom on- . . . Which stop was it, Christian?”

Christian fixed the bandana around his forehead, squinting his obnoxiously blue eyes under the lights above his drum set. He chuckled. “Sydney?”

“Ah, yes!” I exclaimed, turning to face our still-screaming audience. “Sydney, Australia, good place. Do you agree, Toryn?”

Toryn looked up from his bass guitar and laughed. “Shut up.”

“Toryn, here, had a bit of a slip-up with the ladies. Not-so-smooth Toryn. Sydney is a place of heartache for my dear friend.” I stuck my lower lip out, my hands leaving my acoustic guitar to spread out, inviting Toryn for a hug.

Toryn shook his head and laughed again.

“Anyways,” Chapman cleared his throat. “Song, Ryder.”

“Song, yes!”

The crowd cheered, the low stadium lights allowing the signs to seemingly light up in my vision.

Chapman tied his long hair into a ponytail and sighed. “This song was written by Toryn and I while we were on stop in Sydney with Mixest. It is called . . . “

“Roslyn!” I cheered, throwing a fist into the air before laughing.

“Too slow of a song to cheer for, Elza.” Christian laughed and shook his head.

On went the concert, on went the Meet & Greet, then on to a small car rented by our main bodyguard, Whyatt.

That stop, Liverpool, England, was only a simple stop on our way back to Wales, where our temporary living quarters remained until we went back to America. The boys were more than happy to be done with singing and playing for a bit, only for me to remind them that we had rehearsal the minute we got to Wales.

The short yet loud car ride to the airport was soon silenced, then quickly filled with the snores of my band members.

Kick Start has had great success in the two years we’ve been together. We didn’t start out together, though. At first, we were solo artists, all aiming to win, as cliché as it is, American Idol. I met Chapman, a boy of fifteen - a year older than me - right before my audition. He was quiet and reserved, and that’s why I liked him. Back when I lived in Illinois, all the kids at my middle school were obnoxious and skin-deep. With Chapman, he gave me something to think about, and we quickly became friends, despite the age gap. Chapman was already friends with this Irish guy, Toryn, a homeschooled hippie know-it-all. Bleached blonde hair, tall frame, another set of blue eyes I didn’t have. He had never played a video game, and prefers breathing exercises to the wonderful pain meds they were always giving us for the noise headaches.

We went along the competition, all as solo indie artists, hoping to win but remaining friendly through it. We got pretty far, but we didn’t think we would. Toryn thought so, especially. Christian Klier, a sick rock artist and amazing drummer, all leather jackets and perfectly styled hair, he had us all squished. Killer voice and original songs. But he was first to go. Now we were really scared.

Soon, Toryn was gone, then Chapman. All in the same day. I was still there, but it would be completely boring without anyone my age (or a year older) to hang around. I talked to Toryn and Chapman, and they both seemed to love the idea of forming a band, just so they could stay in the competition. I was about to go find a judge, up until I saw Christian.

Sitting in the corner with red cheeks, talking to his dad on the phone, talking so quietly I couldn’t hear him, but noticeably beat up over his humiliating first-boot.

I went back to Chapman and Toryn a minute later and convinced their first threat to be in the band, too. When I went back to find him, Christian was walking outside into the winter air, shaking in the north California cold. I was able to catch up with him before he got into the taxi - probably going back to the hotel. Gratefully, he accepted my offer, and asked if he could be the drummer. He asked almost sympathetically. Toryn was a great bassist, but a terrible drummer, and I’m pretty sure Christian noticed that. I agreed.

We were all great musicians for our ages - Toryn, Christian, and I being 14, and Chapman being 15 - and the judges thought so as well.

We won the competition.

A few months later, we were the opening act for my favorite band, Mixest, for a few months. A pop-punk band from Scotland, a forever classic. Ever since, we’ve been increasingly popular, among both genders. It was an amazing thing to see, but by now we were getting used to it.

Now, a year later, we were rehearsing for our own tour, starting in America. While we knew we were good, and all but one of us were American, we didn’t think we were “tour America” good. It was a shock to us, but now we’re just excited to get started.

“We’re here,” I spoke up, clearing my throat. I shook Chapman in front of me, to which he groaned and swatted the air in front of him. I moved on to Christian, who had fallen asleep on my shoulder.

“Do you boys want to get the instruments or the luggage?” Whyatt asked, turning the wheel and parking the rental car.

I shook Toryn, who wasn’t as much of a priss as I thought in the beginning, until he woke up and smacked his lips, a sound I absolutely hated. “Mm, personally, I’ll get my guitar and backpack, you, big guy,” Chapman slapped Whyatt’s arm. “can get my suitcase.”

“You’d think someone with so much hair wouldn’t need as much pomade.” Christian, in his groggy voice, commented on the suitcase full of clothing and hair products.

Chapman scoffed and tossed his long hair over his shoulder. He turned around, glaring his brown eyes at Christian. “At least I do better than you!”

“Shut up and get out.” Toryn snapped, still tired. He opened the door, and the cool summer air was quick to come in. It was a great break from our stuffy van air.

“I don’t care,” I replied to Whyatt’s forgotten question.

Whyatt, a 6’8” tower of muscle, clad in black jeans and t-shirt, nodded and took the keys from the ignition.

All five of us got out, and I was surprised to see only a few fans waiting for us, not the usual hundreds maybe thousands. We waved to them, though the ever-hyper Christian ran over to greet a few of them.

In all the glow the street lights provided, we pulled suitcase after suitcase after backpack after guitar case from the van. Then, all stocked up and sure we didn’t leave anything, we went into the airport just in time to catch our one hour flight from Liverpool, England to Swansea, Wales.