Chapter 3 of Sammy Keyes and the Boyz in the Band

CHAPTER 3 (The font changes once and a while, I dont know why, sorry.)

The first thing I noticed when the Guard Boss led us into the conference room was the

tension in the air. I wasn’t being acutely perceptive, or anything—it was like a blowtorch

coming off the adults in the room. They were talking to each other in loud voices, looking

stressed out and totally spun up.

I was about to tell Marissa, Look! There’s that guy we saw in the hallway! because

I recognized his gray suit and fluffy ponytail, but just then Marissa squeals, “There they are!”

and points out The Boyz sitting together near a table with deli trays. The three of them are

looking pretty sullen, and not much like rock stars, but it doesn’t seem to matter to Marissa.

She starts bouncing up and down, going, “I can’t believe it! I can’t be-lieve it!"

Then the Guard Boss announces, “Good news!” and the room falls quiet as people turn

to stare at him. “Everything’s under control,” he says. “We should be ready to start the event

in about fifteen minutes.”

Now, the funny thing is, once he leaves, no one comes up to us and says, “Hey, who are

you, and why are you here?” The adults just go back to blowtorching, and The Boyz kick back

in their chairs like, Yeah, yeah, whatever.

So after a few seconds of just standing there, Marissa whispers, “Come on!" and leads me

to where The Boyz are sitting. “Hi!” she says, and let me tell you, she is sounding way too

perky for my comfort.

“Hey,” the three of them say, giving each other knowing grins. Like, Are we babemagnets,

or what?

So they’ve said one collective word, and already I hate them. But Marissa gushes, “I’m

Marissa, and this is my friend Sammy, and we’re really, really honored to meet you!”

Honored? Honored?

Anyway, all of Santa Martina already knows that the one with the hoop earring is Toby,

the guy with the black close-cropped curls is Jackson, and the one with the spiky bleached hair

and million-dollar smile is Ace. But they go ahead and tell us anyway.

“I’m Toby.”

“I’m Jackson.”

“I’m Aaaaccce.”

Ace is trying to be all, you know, suave, but what strikes me is how small he is. And I’m totally amazed that this little guy could have so much power over the girls at my school. They thought Toby and Jackson were cute, but Ace? They got ridiculously swoony over Ace.

Then we hear a high-pitched voice singing, “And I . . . will love . . . you . . . forever!” Ace backhands Toby and growls, “Shut him up, would you?” So Toby reaches over a chair and swats, saying, “Knock it off, Evan!”

A kid about ten or eleven with bright brown eyes and blonde hair pops up from behind the chair and pulls off some headphones. “What?” he asks.

“You were doing it again,” Toby says through his teeth, then he turns to us and says,

“Evan wants to be in the group—real bad.”

Evan smiles at us and says, “I know all the moves . . . all the words . . .” he spins around

“. . . I’m good!”

Now it’s funny—if Ace had said the same thing I would’ve thought, What a jerk. But

Evan was so cute that Marissa and I couldn’t help laughing, “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah!” he says and starts singing, “Girl, you know I always think about you, Wanna build

my world around you . . .”

“Enough!” Ace snaps, making Evan dive for cover. Then Ace turns to Marissa and asks,

“So how’d you chicks rate a security escort backstage?” He gives her a lopsided grin. “You the

mayor’s daughter or something?”

“The mayor’s daughter?” Marissa asks, and you can tell—she doesn’t know what she’s

saying. She’s lost in his million-dollar smile.

So I butt in with, “No, we’re reporters from our school’s paper.”

“Awwwwgh!” Ace and the other two groan, flopping back in their chairs. Then Jackson

says, “Sorry, but they just kicked all the reporters out of here.”

Then a deep voice behind me says, “What’s going on here?” So I whip around and find

myself face-to-face with a woman wearing tight black pants, a bell-sleeved blouse, and hoop earrings so big trained seals could dive through. “Well?” she asks, and I don’t know if it’s too many cigarettes or what, but this woman’s got the voice of a cement mixer.

“It’s okay, Vanessa,” Toby hurries to say. “They won a contest at their school. They’re here

for a quick meet ’n’ greet.”

Marissa smiles at him like, Thanks, and then Ace picks up the thread, saying, “It’s cool,

Vanessa. Just let ’em hang.”

Vanessa looks skeptical, but she switches gears, rasping, “Okay—we’ve finally got things

squared away. Ace, we’re going to shoot you doing lead first—”

“But why?” Jackson asks, getting up, and let me tell you—he’s not looking too happy.

“Easy, Jackson,” Vanessa says. And then, like she’s explaining something to a kindergartner

she adds, “Everyone’s agreed, okay?”

“But I’m the one singing lead on the demo!”

“And we’ll shoot with you singing lead, too,” Vanessa says. “We’ll get tape of everything.”

“Yeah, chill, would you?” Ace says to him. “So I’m first, so what?”

Toby puts his hand on Jackson’s arm and says, “Just go with it, man—you know it’s going

to be you in the end anyway.”

“Then why are we doing this?”

“Because it ain’t all about you, dawg,” Ace says.

Jackson squints at him. “Me? Whose dad’s here, throwing his weight around? Who’s like,

in the face of every reporter, cutting in on every answer? Who’s—”

A man I hadn’t seen before appears behind Ace. He’s got brown, slicked-back hair and

is wearing a dark blue banded-collar shirt and black jeans. His belt is out a couple notches from its worn position—like he’s recently put on a few pounds—and seeing him makes Jackson

clam up.

“Here you go,” the man says, handing Ace a can of soda. “Ice-cold cherry cola.” He gives

a friendly snort. “I finally found a machine, but it wasn’t easy.”

Now, this guy’s voice is like the opposite of Vanessa’s. Instead of deep and growly, it’s high and squeaky. Like his collar is splitting his vocal cords into bass and treble, and only the high notes are getting out.

“Thanks, Dad.” Ace says, swabbing a rim full of water off the can with a napkin before

cracking it open. He grins at Marissa. “Gotta have my cherry cola.”

Meanwhile, a sweet-looking lady with a total doll face and a blonde bob that’s banded back

with a red scarf has grabbed Evan and moved in close to Toby, while a woman with very short

graying black hair and dangly wooden earrings has stepped beside Jackson.

“We’re all right—everything’s all right,” Vanessa says to the hovering adults. “Tell your

kids that we’re all on the same page, would you?”

Toby’s mom nods, but Jackson’s mom says, “I know I agreed, but I’m with my son—I

don’t understand why we’re switching everything around.”

“I thought we’d settled this an hour ago,” Ace’s dad says.

Vanessa glances over her shoulder at the guy with the fluffy ponytail that we’d seen in the

corridor. “We’re doing it this way,” she says dropping her voice to a guttural whisper,

“because Barry Rich from Warner is interested in his options.”

“So what are you saying?” Jackson asks. “He thinks Ace should sing lead?” He points

at Ace’s dad. “That’s probably because he’s been bending his ear nonstop since he got here!”

“Look,” Vanessa says. “You hired me to take this act to the next level and that’s what I’m

doing. I’ve got you a mall full of screaming girls and a record exec to watch you perform.

Don’t blow it!” Her voice softens but it still sounds like a cement mixer when she says, “You’ll

each get a shot, so when it’s your turn just give it your all. Eyes on the prize, boys. Ma-jor

re-cord deal. Fame. Fortune.” She shoots a look our way. “Girls.”

I pull Marissa to the side, muttering, “I’ve seen enough. All this hype and they don’t even

have a record deal?”

 “But . . . but they must have . . . something!”

“Have you seen a CD?”

We look over at The Boyz. They’ve each gone to their separate corners to huddle with

their parents, while Vanessa’s gone back to talk to the Ponytail and some bald guy who’s

with him.

Marissa blinks at me. “But they played one of their songs on the news. . . .”

“It was the same song, over and over. They have one song. No CD. No deal. This whole thing is all just a bunch of hype!”

“But . . . I didn’t even get a picture yet!”

“A picture?” But rather than argue, I stick out my hand and say, “Fine. Give me the

camera, I’ll take a picture.”

So she digs her camera out of her bag, and right then Ace appears, giving Marissa a coy

little smile. “Sorry about that buzz-kill. But the show’ll be sizzlin’ You wanna watch from

backstage?”

“Really?” Marissa gasps. “That’d be great!”

Now, for Marissa I choke back my extreme nausea and say, “Mind if I take a picture?”

“Cool!” he says, then puts his arm around Marissa and gets cheesy for the camera.

Ace is several years older than Marissa, but he’s only about a quarter inch taller. So when

I’m done snapping the photo and he says, “Did either of you happen to see some really big

girls out in the corridor?” I almost blurt out, Dude, anyone older’n ten is gonna seem large

to you! But Marissa gushes, “You mean the Amazons?”

I shoot Marissa a look to remind her that we were sworn to secrecy about large ladies tying up guard bosses, but it’s too late. The room falls quiet, and suddenly everyone is moving our way.