Red Dirt Rocker (15 page)

"Sweetie, we just want you to follow your dreams. Your dreams are our dreams. We’re with you one hundred percent, whether you’re a football player, a musician, a mechanic—whatever. Dad and I are so proud of the young man you’ve become and all that you’re going to do. We love you so much," Mama assures as she wipes back a curl that had fallen in front of my tired eyes. “Now, go get ready for bed. We’ve
gotta
get you and Daddy to the airport by six thirty a.m.—I know, not rocker-friendly hours. I already bought the Red Bull," she chimes, slightly pleased with herself for her contribution of remembering every last detail of the packing process.

I stand up and bear-hug Mama. I lift her off her feet. She screams for me to put her down. As I do, she spins me around like a drill sergeant.

“All right, down the hall you go.
G’night
, babe.
I'll see you bright and early."

"You mean dark and early. Thanks for packing for us Mama…love you," I say tenderly.

"You're welcome, son. Love you, too," she smiles.
Teardrops well up and pool above Mama’s bottom lashes.
She blinks and her tears make tiny falling rivers that wet her flushed cheeks. I don’t think they’re sad tears, though. More like “my baby’s growing up” tears. I sure love my Mama.

I’m exhausted, but have so much on my mind, including worrying if I’ll be able to sleep. The trip is going to be so thrilling, but nerve-racking at the same time. I can feel the tension of knowing that I’m going to be a world away, almost literally, from my comfort zone. My life feels like a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle that’s been dumped out on the floor. I’m starting with the middle pieces, the ones where all the color and shape just blends together. Most kids my age are still working on the borders—the straight edges—the easy part.

As confused as I am, I’m more suited to the challenge of starting in the center. I never wade into the frigid water at Baron Fork Creek in the springtime. I just bail right in. And I’m usually the first one of my buddies to take a dare, so I guess I’m pretty suited for this life. I’m ready to jump off the bluff, feet first, into the icy current without hesitation. I’m excited to start the puzzle from the inside out. It’s not always easy, but it’s more satisfying when the picture is complete.

As I enter my room for the evening, I rub my tired eyes and look around. It can clearly be seen that my domain is a house divided. One side of my room is dedicated to the Coweta Tigers. On the shelves and walls are orange and black pennants dotted with tiger paws, gold plaques, trophies, and certificates from my athletic achievements over the years.

The other side of my room is plastered with posters of rock legends. Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd,
Pantera
and, of course, Metallica, are a few of the bands displayed. I also have magazine cutouts of some of my favorite new bands:
Needtobreathe
, The Foo Fighters, and The
Zac
Brown Band, to name a few. They’re each a source of inspiration to me. They all influence my musical style and writing.

My custom San Dimas guitar and my Boulder Creek acoustic hang securely on my bedroom wall. Betty is in the steadfast grip of a special hanger that looks like a giant silver hand jutting out of the wall from a square wooden block.

I pull my Gibson gal down and strum her silver strings. The liquid metal sound fills my ears and puts me solely in the moment at hand. I begin to play the Coweta Tigers fight song. I’ve never played our school song on a guitar before. It sounds so puny compared to the Tiger marching band’s spirit-rousting version.

My fingers settle still on the strings. My thoughts drift to Sophie. I’m going miss her next week. As I return my Gibson to its hanger, my BlackBerry alerts me to a text message. I can’t believe it—it’s from Sophie!

Hey, Forrest! I just
wanna
wish
ya
luck in Sweden at your KISS show. Still can’t believe
your
gonna
get to open for them.
my
dads
freakin
out! :) I know
youll
be amazing!!
call
me when
ya
get back—maybe we can hang out…OK? <3

A feeling of warmth spreads through my chest. Sophie has signed off with a heart next to her name.
I text her back, hesitating as I type so that I can search for the perfect words.

thank u
soooo
much, Sophie…
thanx
for
bein
there for me…
Im
glad
weve
gotten to know each other better the past few weeks…see
ya
when I get back.
Id
love to hang! I'll call
ya
for sure! :) Forrest

I push the send button on my phone and watch the tiny envelope icon rotate and disappear on my
cell screen. I know in my heart that Sophie and I have both made it official—we’re falling for each other.

I dread my next text. It’s to Heather. She’s not been around much, which leads me to suspect that that she’s hooking up with someone else. She won’t break up with me, though, because of all the media attention me and my band are getting. I know she’s using me. Right now, being with me gives her popularity points at school. I’m definitely going to end it with her as soon as I get back from Sweden. I begin to type:

hey
, Heather!
just
wanted to say
gdnight
.
see
ya
when I get
bk
from Sweden. Hope
ya
have a good week. Forrest

It takes several minutes, and the return text from Heather reads,
Oh, hey!
have
a good time Forrest…YOU ROCK! : )

"You rock?" I whisper to myself—how cliché—how Heather.

I set my trusty Superman alarm clock for the unholy, donut-making hour of 5:30 a.m. and nestle into my cozy, soft blankets. Mama washed my sheets today. They smell fresh, like Aunt Carmen’s meadow in the springtime. My fuzzy fleece blanket crackles and sparks tiny purple static electricity lights as I pull the warm cover up over my cold ears. I’m so grateful for the things my mom and dad do for me. My eyelids become heavy. My soul feels content. I whisper a prayer for a safe trip, for my dad to have a good time, and for my teammates to have a great game.

I
’m always on time—on time to school, on time to football, on time to band practice, gigs, etc. I’m always on time to the airport as well. This isn’t the case for Jake, Randy and Cody. My
bandmates
, God love '
em
, are chronic late arrivers, and this morning is no exception. Of course, they all overslept.

I look up to see them making their way to the baggage check line. They resemble long-haired, brain-seeking zombies. Their pale faces are expressionless as they slowly shuffle their feet toward the airline attendant.

"Dude, one of these days you guys are
gonna
miss the boat," I state in frustration.
"Late, late, late!
Duuudes
, you guys are ALWAYS LATE!"

"Hey, man, it's all good. We got an extra hour of sleep," Jake boasts.

"I wonder if we'll ever have to take a boat." Cody ponders.

Randy opens his mouth wide, expelling an exaggerated a.m. yawn. “Yeah dude, don’t be such a time warden, Forrest.” He pops the tab on his Diet Mountain Dew. It spews everywhere—I shake my head.

After a vice grip hug and kiss, and then another hug, and another kiss, my dad and I say our goodbyes to Mama and Megan. Megan informs me that I have to know she loves me a lot because she got up at 5:30 in the morning to see me off. I banter back that the only reason she got up early was so she could go to Sticky Buns Donut Shop on the way home—and then I call her a fatty.

“Bring me back
somethin
’ good!” she accepts my good natured insult with a grin.

“And take lots and lots of pictures!” Mama adds. Her fingers are laced nervously together.

As Dad and I step across the security check line, Mama raises her hand. She makes Aunt Carmen’s “rock” sign. She’s saying I love you in sign language. I sign “I love you” back. We turn and wave three more times before disappearing through the gate to board the plane.

My chest tightens. I feel like I’m boarding a NASA shuttle for the moon. It’ll be a ten hour flight. Dad and I thought we were going to get to sit by each other, but he’s seated four rows up with the MTV film crew that’s accompanying us. Unfortunately, I’m stuck sitting next to a man named Buddy, who is a very large and obnoxious man. Buddy snorts as he laughs at all of his not-so-funny jokes, and smells like stale
Cheez
-Its.

Luckily, seated on the other side of me is a very pretty young woman. She’s dressed comfy for the flight in black yoga pants, a pink t-shirt and grey ballet flats. Her name is Gretchen and she tells me that she’s returning home to Sweden after visiting some of her family in the U.S. I find her charming and very interesting, easy to make small talk with.

Gretchen has actually heard of Cellar Door Is Gone in Sweden and knows our song, "Rocket." She’s thrilled to hear the story behind my band, and even has a cousin who’s actually going to the KISS concert in Stockholm.

It truly is a small world after all,
I think.

During the tedious flight, Buddy keeps butting in on our conversation. He brags about being a “fine wine connoisseur,” but drinks beer most of the flight. Buddy thinks it is priceless comedy when he asks the flight attendant for a
Hiney
. "That’s short for Heineken,” he hee-haws. “Get it?” The stewardess rolls her cart and her eyes as she continues forward.

I have to let Buddy squeeze by me every thirty minutes or so for a bathroom break, which becomes ever so annoying. Cody looks up from his Sky Mall catalogue as the brash comedian lumbers down the aisle for his fourth potty break. Buddy’s crack is half exposed, thanks to his oversized, stretchy elastic-waist pants.

“Looks more like he’s a connoisseur of sweat pants,” Cody comments casually, before going back to making out his airline catalogue Christmas list.

The sarcastic comment isn’t lost on Gretchen and me and we giggle groggily. We’re all very relieved when Buddy finally passes out, five hours into the flight—that is until he starts snoring.

I put my headphones on to block out the nasal- knocking sound of Buddy sawing logs. The song, “Slow Ride,” by Fog Hat, is cued up. I shift in my seat. My rear end is numb. I cover my upper body with the minute blue square of sterile cloth that is the airline blanket. I’m on a “slow ride” to Sweden.

After two long naps, three meals, eight water bottles, two cranberry juices, and three in-flight movies, the plane touches down with a landing fit for balancing eggs. I bid my new international friend, Gretchen, goodbye, and autograph a cocktail napkin per her request.

Buddy even wishes me luck. He says he’ll Google me, and snorts one last belly laugh, accidentally shooting a salted peanut out of his mouth. I’m so glad the flight is over. We’re finally at our international destination.