Phoenix Rising Read Online Free

‘Enter At Your Own Risk.’”
    Lucas shook his head. “If she’d wanted you to read it, she wouldn’t have hidden it.”
    â€œIt wasn’t exactly hidden.” I felt like crying. It would be so good to talk about Helen. But Lucas won’t talk; he acts disgusted.
    â€œIt makes me feel close to her,” I said. “She’s talking about her thoughts.”
    â€œYou know what she thought.”
    â€œNot about everything. Helen was kind of a private person.”
    â€œMaybe she’d like to stay that way,” he said.
    We passed a highway sign with a fork painted on it, indicating an exit to a restaurant. A long time ago Lucas told Helen those signs meant we were coming to a fork in the road.
    â€œLook at the traffic,” he growled, taking the Circle Star exit. Isn’t he part of it? Does he expect his own lane? He likes to preach about the psychedelic sixties; how groovy they were, peace, love, and flowers. But behind the steering wheel, he acts just like Dad. Life’s no joy ride; it’s a trip to the dentist.
    Lucas looked strange when he got out of the car; not only because he climbed out the window. He was dressed in black, plus a scarlet silk-lined cape, and midnight-colored shades. He looked like a cross between a hippie and a hit man. Most of the people looked elegant, and I wished I’d worn something special. I could’ve borrowed one of Helen’s dresses.
    We had really good seats, down front, on the aisle. The place filled up fast.
    â€œI’ve always wanted to see B. B. He’s the best,” Lucas said. “And the opening act is good, too.”
    They played rhythm and blues. The music moved Lucas. As soon as it started he couldn’t sit still. He drummed his fingers, tapped his toes.
    â€œAll right!” He applauded, his face shining in the dark, happier than I’d seen him in ages. I imagined the two of us going to other places, hearing music, seeing movies. The cold stone in my stomach dissolved.
    Then it was time for B. B. King’s band. We were close enough to really see their faces. They were older than the warm-up act and dressed in slick suits. They cruised through the intro, giving B. B. a big buildup.
    The great man burst onstage. The crowd, including Lucas, roared, giving him a standing ovation. He smiled and waved and began to play—then everything went wrong.
    Instead of just playing and singing the blues, he hammed it up, he told jokes, he broke into fake sobs in the middle of one song until the audience howled with laughter.
    Beside me, I could feel my brother burning.
    â€œWhat is this, some Vegas revue?” he muttered. “I do not believe this.”
    B. B. waltzed around the stage, leading the audience in a round. “First the girls. Sing out,” he said. “Now you boys.”
    As if that were a cue, Lucas leaped up. “Let’s go.” He flew up the dark aisle, me running to keep up with him, past the happy faces, through the brightly lit lobby, out into the parking lot—
    â€œLucas, why are we leaving?”
    He looked at me as though he’d never heard such a stupid question in his life. “Where’s the car?” he shouted.
    â€œHow should I know?”
    When we found it, we didn’t head home. Lucas drove toward San Francisco, raving.
    â€œThe man is dead but the show goes on! He’s just going through the motions! Did you see that band? The zombie patrol! I’d be a junkie, too, if I had to listen to those jokes!”
    â€œI thought he sounded good, Lucas.”
    â€œHe’s sold out the blues! The man is betraying everything that’s made him great!”
    We drove into the section of the city my father’s warned me against: bars, topless clubs, liquor stores, and knots of people standing on street corners, as if they were waiting for an accident to watch.
    â€œWhere are we going?”
    â€œThis club I know,”