Warped

Chapter One

Determination is a funny thing. What's even funnier is the things a person can be determined to do. Okay, fine, the things I can sometimes be determined to do. And at that particular moment, I was bound and determined to stare down the dirty, tired guy sitting behind the merchandise table next to the one for my favorite band. More importantly, this dirty, tired guy was sitting behind the merch table for my little brother's favorite band.

"So what you are telling me is that the band isn't signing anything today? At all. Even after the show." My face conveyed how utterly unimpressed I was.

"Yeah sweetheart, that is exactly what I am telling you. The guys are getting right on the bus and leaving afterward. They have to get on the road ASAP to get to Utah for the start of Warped Tour," The guy shrugged.

"And what if I gave you twenty bucks to take this shirt backstage to the boys? It's for my little brother, man,"  begging wasn't really my thing, but I was willing to go above and beyond for Kyle. Not many girls had a little brother as cool as he was.

Merch Guy finally sighed and took the shirt I had just bought. He reached for the crisp twenty I had pulled out of my wallet, but I quickly snatched it away, making it clear that he and Mr. Jackson would meet only after I had a fully signed shirt in my hands. Merch Guy frowned and walked through a door with big white letters that spelled out "Authorized Personnel Only." When the door closed behind him, I allowed myself to let a smug grin spread over my features. The band may have canceled all signing, but there was something to be said for a girl on a mission. It was a rare day when I didn't get what I wanted.

A few moments later Merch Guy walked back out with the T-shirt in his hand and gave it back to me. I immediately looked it over, ready to count the signatures and verify that every single one was present and that he wasn't going to get away with any funny business before I handed over my cash. I flipped the shirt over twice before narrowing my eyes.

"This shirt is blank," I said through clenched teeth.

"Good observation skills, Nancy Drew." He said, sitting back in his fold-up chair.

I could feel my face heating up with rage that I was ready to unload on this guy who had the audacity to bring back a blank shirt, "Well what about our deal? I'm not giving you twenty extra dollars for a blank shirt."

With a bored expression, he shrugged his shoulders, "Sorry, Derrick said no."

That was about as much as I was willing to deal with while still being mildly polite, "He seriously couldn't take two seconds to sign a shirt? Well you can tell Princess Derrick to shove it!"

With that final addition, I turned on the heel of my black Vans and stomped off. I would just have to tell my little brother that it didn't work out. I would leave it at that though; there was no need to crush him by telling him his favorite rockstar was a raging bag of douche. Until then I would at least enjoy the music.

The opening act was just hauling the last of their things by the time I walked back towards the stage. My favorite band, a local group with a couple of kids I had met in passing took the stage. They were pretty awesome for a local band and it was pretty obvious that they were going places at this point. It didn't hurt that they were pretty much brilliant. Their set list went near perfect with only a thing here or there that a real fan would recognize. They would have more of those before long, though. When they got their things off stage, roadies and music technicians took over, setting up for the headlining act.

As much as it killed my very soul to admit, they had some pretty awesome equipment being loaded onto the stage. Just looking at the all-white 1960 Stratocaster in the guitar technician's hands made my heart melt a little while he got it tuned up and ready to go. It definitely was not a guitar that you smashed over an amp, no matter how much of a rockstar you thought you were. In fact, that would probably be considered a musical crime, directly offensive to Jimi Hendrix in heaven.

The crowd had grown restless and impatient during setup, though. Chants of "Derrick! Derrick! Derrick!" Or others began to pop up here and there around the crowd. I rolled my eyes. Why chant for the vocalist? It wasn't like he was a solo act. He'd be dead in the water without a band.

Then came the screaming of a thousand fangirls. Okay, I'm exaggerating slightly. More like five hundred, but I think for our purposes, a thousand is pretty accurate. Boy, could those little scene girls scream, and I quickly found out why. One by one the band was taking the stage starting with the drummer, followed by the bass player, rhythm guitarist, lead guitarist and then ultimately, Derrik himself exploded onto the stage in a burst of energy only given by the rush of being on stage.

"ARE YOU READY TO ROCK, L.A?" He shouted into the microphone.

The crowd screamed its enthusiasm.

Not needing a second hint, the band struck up an upbeat tempo and began their opening number. The fans in the front went absolutely nuts and I was glad to be nowhere near the chaos. The mosh pit didn't take long to open up and crowd surfers spilled onto the stage before being escorted off by security. The guys knew how to play to their crowd though. Derrick reached down into the sea of hysterically screaming girls more than a few times, drawing a cheer from the crowd every time, while the bass player and lead guitarist got into the music. If any act could convince someone to be a rockstar, this was it. You'd never hear me admit that out loud, of course.

Sure enough, all things come to an end and they were soon on their last song as confirmed by Derrik, "I wanna thank you all for being amazing. We are Frankly, My Dear and this is our last song, guys."

As if it were even possible, for the next three minutes, the crowd was even crazier, and the mosh pit was several times more rowdy than it already was. When the final drum beats sounded, the band members went through the usual rituals of tossing drum sticks, guitar picks and the setlist to the crowd. And finally they were done.

I was all too happy to be back in my beat up black 1998 jetta, heading home with a somewhat long drive before me. Miles of highway flashed past me with little to nothing interesting in between. Except for the jerk tailgating me from behind for a while, but I had learned from an older cousin how to fix that with a few casually tossed pennies out my window. The threat of a broken windshield usually sent a pretty clear message. However, that didn't seem to fix the problem at all and the vehicle passed me as we neared a Hilton Hotel. I looked over to give the driver a rather emphatic middle finger when I saw that  it wasn't just a vehicle, it was a tour bus. And they were stopping at the Hilton.

I was nothing less than scandalized at the boldfaced lie I had been told so that some spoiled little rockstar could get out of signing a few shirts and probably party with a few of the slutty little groupies from the show.

Utah, my ass.