Power Chord by Ted Staunton Page A

shining on them, and everybody is watching. They’re trying to look cool, but you can tell they want to giggle like little kids.
    Do I want that? Yes I do. I turn to Denny and say, “Let’s do it.”
    â€œWait.” He’s still texting.
    â€œWho are you texting anyway?” I ask.
    â€œI’m not texting.” Denny looks up and grins his big maniac grin. “I’m tweeting.”
    â€œWhat?” I say. “Since when are you on Twitter?”
    â€œSince today. Look, I just told the world.” He holds up his phone as No Money Down stomp off their first song. On the screen it reads: Hot new band startup 4 u. dr. d & ace will rule. watch for more later.
    â€œLet’s do it, Ace,” Denny says.
    â€œProps.” We bump fists. I’m in.

Chapter Two
    We decide the first thing we need to do is find a drummer. We start at three on Saturday afternoon. We’re not what you call early risers.
    â€œWe’ll get Pigpen,” Denny says to me on the phone.
    â€œI didn’t know Pig played drums,” I say.
    â€œHis older brother has drums. He was in that band, remember, when we were in grade eight.”
    I do remember. They were pretty good, even though at the time, I said they sucked.
    â€œHis brother plays drums, but that doesn’t mean Pig does,” I say.
    â€œI heard Pig tapping pencils in study hall,” Denny says. “He’s great.”
    We meet at the bus stop. Pig lives a ways from us. When the bus arrives, Denny insists we sneak on the back doors as other people get off. Not many people get off on a Saturday.
    Right away, the driver calls, “You in the green hoodie!”
    Denny looks around as if he’s not wearing a green hoodie. He’s also grinning.
    â€œAnd your buddy,” calls the driver. “No free rides. Get up here. Pay your fares or get off.”
    Everyone stares at us, which I don’t like. Denny grins bigger than ever. We shuffle up front, digging in our pockets for cash.
    It’s a seven-stop ride. When we get to Pigpen’s house and ring the bell, his mom answers. Denny blathers all over her, the way he always does with adults. I wait. Actually she is pretty nice.
    â€œJared!” she calls down to the basement. Jared is Pigpen’s real name. “Friends!” She sends us downstairs.
    Pigpen is not exactly a friend of ours, but we knew him in grade three. Then his family moved. We met him again this year when we all started at the same high school. His nickname is kind of a joke, because he’s a neat freak. He has a buzz cut and always tucks in his shirt. His jeans are pressed. Even his locker is organized. It’s spooky.
    When we get downstairs, Pigpen is polishing a pair of black combat boots. I wonder if he’s a closet punker. Sure enough, a drum kit is set up in the corner.
    Denny makes his pitch. Pig listens, then nods. “Okay,” he says.
    Pig isn’t a talker. He could have been in silent movies. Denny is a talker. In fact Denny is a motormouth. I can be a talker with my friends, but not around adults.
    â€œCool,” says Denny.
    There are more props all round. I notice Pig is wearing latex gloves to keep his hands clean as he polishes.
    Denny says, “I’ll bring over my Tely, and Ace has got a bass and amp and—”
    â€œCan’t,” says Pig.
    â€œHuh?” we say.
    â€œCan’t.” Pig dabs more polish on a boot. Then he says, “Mom won’t let us. Too loud. Said New Teeth made her grind her own.” New Teeth had been the name of Pig’s brother’s band.
    â€œBut the drums are here,” I say.
    â€œGotta move ’em,” Pig says. He starts buffing the toe of a boot with a brush. “My brother won’t care. He’s away at school till Christmas. We can use his microphone too.”
    â€œThere’s no room at my place,” says Denny. He’s right. That leaves us with my place.