Born to Rock by Gordon Korman

pulled off a cymbal and Frisbee-ed it into a lighting array, taking out a three-thousand-watt flood in a shower of sparks. Zach Ratzenburger ripped all the strings off his electric bass, producing a squeal of feedback that was close to unbearable.
    And Neb Nezzer hurled himself straight up in the air in his signature scissor-kick, landing on the stage in a full split.
    I watched him, bug-eyed, counting off the seconds.
    He didn’t get up.

[13]
    ONE OF THE LESSER-KNOWN RESPONSIBILITIES of a roadie—it was my job to ride in the ambulance with Neb, who was in a lot of pain, and not taking it well.
    â€œJust relax, sir,” soothed the paramedic. “Tell me what happened.”
    â€œI’ll tell you what happened!” roared Neb, temporarily the angriest member of Purge. “I’m dying, and somebody’s asking me stupid questions! That’s what happened!”
    I tried to be helpful. “He did a split and couldn’t get up. I’m pretty sure he has a bad back.”
    â€œIt’s not my back, it’s my crotch!” he howled. His agonized eyes focused on me for the first time. “Who the hell are you? Do you work for me?”
    The paramedic prodded Neb’s abdomen and got a caterwaul of protest for his trouble. “You do that again,” the patient promised, “you’re a dead man!”
    â€œSir, I have to find out what’s wrong with you.”
    â€œAre you deaf?” Neb bellowed. “It’s my crotch! It’s broken! Sprained! Whatever!”
    In emergency, the doctors discovered that Neb had been right all along. The problem really was his crotch. More specifically, somewhere during the leap/kick/split, the guitarist had popped a hernia that had become strangulated.
    â€œBut I used to do this all the time!” Neb protested. “It was my trademark back in the eighties!”
    The doctor smiled patiently. “How many of us can still do all the things we did back in the eighties?”
    While Neb was rushed into the operating room, I called the only number I had—Bernie McMurphy’s cell.
    â€œThis better be good!” was his salutation.
    â€œIt’s Leo.” My voice was quavering. “Listen, Neb has a strangulated hernia. He just went into surgery.”
    There was dead silence, during which I heard music and laughing voices.
    â€œAre you listening? Neb is having an operation. They’re doing it this minute !”
    â€œI’m thinking!” Bernie snapped. “A hernia. That’s nothing, right? He’s okay to go to San Francisco tomorrow?”
    â€œIt’s strangulated!” I exclaimed. “The doctor says it’ll take him weeks to recover.”
    A string of curses greeted this revelation. “First day of the tour, and we’ve got no guitarist. Why me?”
    â€œIt isn’t you,” I said reproachfully. “It’s Neb.”
    He took a deep breath. “Okay, sit tight. I’m sending Cam over to pick you up. I’d come myself, but I’ve got to find a replacement guitarist, and they’re all here at the party.”
    â€œParty?” I repeated. “Neb was carted away by ambulance, and you’re partying ?”
    â€œYou’ve got to understand, Cuz, in this gig, parties are like meetings. It’s where a lot of business gets done.” There was some feminine giggling at very close range, and Bernie mumbled, “Not now, babe. I gotta go.”
    â€œIs King at the party too?” I asked.
    â€œHe’s not here.” I couldn’t tell if it was true or a manager’s automatic reflex to protect his star. “Just keep an eye out for Cam. He’ll be there soon. And listen, kid—good job. You stuck by Neb when he needed you most.”
    I was the only one.
    Actually, I got to stick by Neb a lot longer than that, because Cam didn’t show up. I was there when they wheeled Neb out of recovery at three A.M . and