Chapter 1

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August 31, 1985

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     Sapphire machine-gunned the price stickers onto the cassettes with deadly accuracy. Slap, slap, slap. There, right on top of Madonna’s stupid face. She sighed and set the price gun down. It was Labor Day weekend, she should be on the beach enjoying the last sunny summer days before school started but instead she was stuck working in her parents’ record store. It was her own fault, she signed on for this indentured servitude when she begged them to loan her the money to buy a car. Whatever.

     Sapphire opened the next box of tapes. Tears for Fears. More wimp rock but with a bonus – she now had two faces to sticker. She picked up the price gun.

     Warm feedback hummed from the practice amp in the back of the store. She cocked her head. Really? Like it’s not bad enough that I’m stuck here now I have to listen some idiot beat up our guitars? The guitarist strummed a few chords then adjusted the volume and distortion on the amp. Sapphire rolled her eyes. Hello music fans and welcome to another episode of Shredder Time. Can’t wait to hear what today’s song choice will be. “Stairway to Heaven”? “Smoke on the Water”?

     The guitarist began to play. She bit back a laugh. Really? He’s actually attempting “Eruption”? Ha, good luck with that. She braced herself for the inevitable implosion.

    It never came. The dude not only nailed the Eddie Van Halen masterpiece, he dove right into the solo of “Mr. Crowley” without missing a note.

     Shit, who is this guy? Sapphire turned around. The guitarist had his back to her so all she saw was the Metallica “Ride the Lightning” patch on his denim vest. He looked to be about six feet with crimson hair squiggling down past his broad shoulders. Out of the corner of her eye Sapphire saw her father look up from the CD rack he’d been restocking, put on his sales-winning smile, and march straight over to Mr. Shredder. He waited patiently until the guitarist finished playing then said, “You got the pick of the litter right there. Great action.”

     The guitarist turned around. Sapphire did a double take. Thick black eyeliner. Blood red lips. And boobs she’d kill to have.

     “Not bad for a Les Paul knock-off,” Guitar Girl shrugged. “How much?”

     “Two ninety-nine with case.”

     “I’ll think about it.” She handed him the guitar.

     Guitar Girl gave Sapphire a slight nod as she walked past the checkout counter and disappeared into the mall.

      Moments later, Dad came over to her register. “Well honey, looks like you’re no longer the only metal chick in South Jersey.”

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* * *

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     First day of school, senior fucking year, and Destiny couldn’t wait to be thrown out. Northwood High wasn’t that much different from the other twenty-some schools she’d attended. Cleaner. No graffiti. Or gangs. Kids were richer. Didn’t matter, she planned on being outta there within the first five minutes of homeroom. She needed cash, not algebra. And she needed it now. Thanks to that idiot Morgan and his big mouth, she’d been guitar-less for five months. Might as well just chop off one of her arms. That guitar had been the only constant in her life since she was eight and Rhonda, who hated being called Mom, had shacked up with Paul. Best two years of Destiny’s life. When things went bad just as they always did and they had to pull one of their wait-until-he’s-at-work disappearing acts, Destiny tossed Paul’s guitar and Fender amp into the getaway car. Screw it, the dude had plenty of dough to buy more.

     The guitar was just a plain white Strat, not exactly what she would’ve picked if given a choice, but it was her best and only friend. Destiny could spend hours holed up in her room, just playing and not get bored. She couldn’t read music and other than those few chords that Paul had taught her, she never had a lesson in her life. Didn’t need ‘em, thanks to tab, which spoon-fed her the neck positions of the chords. Pretty soon she didn’t need that either. She’d just hear a song a few times and figure it out by herself. 

     Then along came Morgan. He seemed OK at first, stayed out of Destiny’s shit and vice versa. Until that fateful night when she was sitting on the couch playing along to MTV and Morgan and Rhonda stumbled through the door. She should’ve done what was expected whenever Rhonda brought a man home and bolted to her room but she’d been distracted by a Dio video.

     Morgan’s gaze fell onto her guitar. “Nice axe. What is it, a sixty-five?”

     “Sixty-four,” she murmured, completely focused on Vivian Campbell’s hands.

     Morgan nudged her mother. “That’s really cool of you, Rhonda, buying her such an expensive guitar.”

     Destiny tore her attention away from the TV.  Shut up, asshole.

     “That old thing?” Rhonda laughed. “It’s all scratched up, it ain’t worth nothing.”

     “Exactly,” Morgan replied. “Which means it’s all original. Gotta be worth a few grand.”

    For the first time, Rhonda actually looked at her guitar. Destiny could practically see the wheels turning. And yup, when the shit went south with Morgan, good old Rhonda took the one thing that Destiny had ever loved and fucking pawned it.

     Desperate, Destiny began to haunt music stores, pretending to be guitar-shopping so she could squeeze in a few minutes of playing before the salesman realized she was broke and kicked her out.  Next, she tried going out with guitar players. They all thought it was cute when she said that she played too. They saw it as an easy opening into her pants. They’d invite her over, she’d pick up their guitar, blow them out of the water, and that would be the last she’d ever hear from them.

     Which made the move to New Jersey almost a blessing. New music stores, new faces, new guitars to try. It didn’t take long for the New Jersey stores to catch on and ban her too. Destiny had pretty much given up on playing until one day when she was cruising the mall and spotted the guitars hanging in the back of the record store. Score! Yeah, they were all cheapies but she couldn’t be picky. That Les Paul rip-off she tried wasn’t bad for the price. Now all she needed was to get out of this high school shit and find a job.

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* * *

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     Holy crap, that’s Guitar Girl!

    Sapphire couldn’t believe her luck – they were in the same homeroom! So cool! Sapphire bounded over and slid into the desk next to hers. “Hi.”

     Guitar Girl looked up from doodling Iron Maiden’s Eddie skeleton mascot on her notebook cover just long enough to give her a fuck you nod.

     Well fuck you too. Sapphire stood up and shot Guitar Bitch a dirty look. Then she saw it. No way, she’s actually wearing Wasp’s “Fuck Like a Beast” t-shirt! 

     Sapphire sat back down. “You can’t wear that, you’ll get in trouble.”

     Guitar Girl smirked. “Good.”

     “Good? Are you crazy? You’ll get detention!”

     “Just detention? Damn, I was shooting for expulsion.”

     “Why do you want to get expelled?”

     “I need a job, not this crap.”

     “Hate to tell you but our principal Mr. Carson’s a bleeding heart. He’ll just give you detention and make you go home and change your shirt.”

     “Shit. I don’t need that hassle.” Guitar Girl tapped her pencil against her chin. “I know, how about I punch you in the face? Not hard, just enough to get expelled.”

      “That would do it but you might also wind up in jail. They always call the cops whenever there’s a fight. Super lame, right?”

      “Shit, so now what?”

     “We cover up your shirt.” Sapphire slipped off her denim vest and held it out. “Here, put this on.”

     Guitar Girl cocked an eyebrow. “You’re six sizes smaller than me, dude.”

     “Yeah, but it should cover the most offensive part of the shirt.”

     Guitar Girl eyeballed the large patch on the back of the vest. “Scorpions, huh? Well, at least you’ve got taste.” She slipped it on.

      “Saw them play the Spectrum with Dokken opening. Killer show.”

      Guitar Girl snorted. “Yeah, like you’re into metal. Bet your boyfriend had to drag you.”

     “I don’t have a boyfriend and I’m totally into metal - collecting it, listening to it, and playing it.”

     Guitar Girl folded her arms. “You play?”

     “Yup. Just got a Guild Aviator. What do you have?”

      Guitar Girl turned her face away. “Nothing.”

     “Oh. Guess that’s why you need a job.”

      “Bingo. Shit, you must be an honor student.”

      Sapphire felt her cheeks redden. Now it was her turn to look away.

      Guitar Girl cleared her throat. “Sorry, that was way harsh.”

      “It’s OK,” Sapphire shrugged. “Look, if you need a job my parents own Music Odyssey.”

      Guitar Girl blank-stared her.

     “The record store in the mall? You were there on Saturday.”

     “Wait, that’s your parents’ store?” For the first time, Guitar Girl looked at her with interest.

     “Yup. By the way, I’m Sapphire.”

     “Destiny.”

     “Destiny, huh? Don’t you love having hippie parents? I mean, what were they thinking when they named us?”

    “That they’re not the ones getting beat up at lunch.”

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* * *

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     Destiny spent the rest of the day yawning through her classes and puzzling over Sapphire.  She seemed smart, probably does all that college prep and student council shit. Probably wore a size two, or maybe even a zero. Bitch. She was also really pretty – with pitch-black hair streaming down to her narrow waist and eyes as blue as her name. And she supposedly played guitar. Yeah right. Probably just does a couple of lame Go-go’s tunes on her shiny new Guild. What a waste of a great guitar.

     After centuries of listening to teachers ramble on about shit she was never gonna need, the last bell finally rang. Destiny tossed her textbooks in her locker and hauled her ass out of there. As planned Sapphire was waiting for her by the front entrance. She looked like a toddler lost in a shopping mall, desperately scanning faces as people walked past. When she spotted Destiny she smiled and waved as if they were lifelong friends.

     Destiny stripped off the undersized vest, shoved it at Sapphire, mumbled “Thanks” and kept on walking.

      “Wait!” Sapphire called.

     Destiny slowed her pace but didn’t turn around. Sapphire ran up beside her like a playful puppy. “Wanna hang?”

     The “No” was on the tip of Destiny’s tongue until she remembered the Guild guitar. Maybe if I pretend to be her friend she’ll let me play it. She smiled at Sapphire. “Sure.”   

      “Great, my car’s parked just over there.” Sapphire beamed back. She all but skipped over to an older red Camaro.

       Bet Mommy and Daddy bought it for her, must be nice. Destiny climbed in and the second Sapphire started the car, Judas Priest blasted out of the tape deck. Destiny cried, “Hell yeah!” and turned it up even louder.

      Sapphire grinned and peeled out.  As they drove through the suburban blandness of Northwood City, Destiny tried to figure out Sapphire’s deal. Rhonda always said, “Everyone’s got an angle.” Destiny just needed to find out what Sapphire’s was – she had no real reason to help her out like this.

     Three Judas Priest songs later, Sapphire pulled up to a white Cape Cod with black trim and a slightly overgrown lawn. She killed the engine and they climbed out. The inside of the house was decorated in contemporary clutter with family photos and tour posters from the 1960s and ‘70s competing for wall space.  A well-worn sofa, loveseat, two easy chairs, and a coffee table encircled the console TV in the living room. Off to the right was a den with a big-ass stereo with a turntable, CD and tape racks, plus crate after crate of record albums.

      Destiny stopped dead in her tracks. In the middle of the den was a near-mint, late-fifties Telecaster cradled in its stand. I should just grab it and run.    

     Sapphire must’ve read her mind. She came up alongside and said, “That’s Dad’s baby. He doesn’t even let me play it.”

   “Oh. Is he in a band or something?”

    “He was, back in the ‘60s. So was my mom.”  Sapphire walked over to one of the crates, flipped through the records, then pulled one out. “Wanna see something hysterical? Check this out.”

      Sapphire handed her the record. Destiny glanced at the cover. “Pink Platypus?”

     “My parents’ band. Dad played guitar and Mom sang. Don’t worry, I won’t subject you to their trippy music.”

     Destiny flipped the record over. Four hippie dudes in bell-bottoms and a chick wearing a miniskirt and go-go boots stood sullenly in front of a pink paisley backdrop. All of them had hair down to their ass. She handed the record back to Sapphire. “Now I so have to hear this shit.”

     “Fine but don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Sapphire walked over to the stereo and put the record on the turntable. After some crackles and pops, the “music” kicked in. Thirty seconds in, Destiny shook her head and Sapphire skipped to the next song. Then the next. It didn’t get any better. Pink Platypus was a psychedelic cliché – mind-numbingly long antiwar songs featuring sitar, pan flute, wind chimes, even a Theremin.

      Destiny held up her arms. “I surrender!”

     “You were warned,” Sapphire laughed. She turned off the record player. “Hungry?”

     “Hell yeah.”

     Sapphire led her into the kitchen, poured two Diet Cokes, and opened up a Tupperware container.

     Destiny stole a glance. Granola? Really? No wonder she’s so thin. Still, she was starving so she scooped up a handful of the dry-ass gerbil food and crunched away. Then she opened the fridge. A six-pack of Heineken greeted her. She grabbed one and started opening drawers. “Dude, where’s your bottle opener?”

     Sapphire snatched the bottle out of her hand. “Don’t! My parents will kill me.” She quickly put the beer back.

    Destiny glared at her. “Right. Well, Miss Honor Roll, it’s been real but I gotta jet.”

   “But you haven’t even seen my guitar!”

     Destiny folded her arms. “See it or play it?”

     “Both, silly. Come on, follow me.”

     As Sapphire led her up the stairs she apologized, “My room hasn’t been redecorated since I was six.”

     That turned out to be the understatement of the year. The whole damn room vomited pink, from the bedspread to the shag rug to the walls, which were covered with posters of metal bands. The bed and bureau were squashed against opposing walls, mere afterthoughts to the Music Mecca that now greeted Destiny. A Marshall half-stack. A Shure SM58 microphone. Six Boss effects pedals. A triple guitar stand with a Martin acoustic, a white Gibson SG, and yes! A Guild Aviator.  

     Destiny sucked in her breath. The Guild was spring day blue with a black pickguard and an angled, pointed headstock, one double coil and two single coil EMG pickups, an ebony fingerboard, and curves that any woman would envy. She couldn’t wait to hear it. Scratch that, she couldn’t wait to play it.

     Sapphire plugged the Guild into her amp, tested to see if it was in tune (it was), and began to play. Not metal per se, but something like it only more emotional with the strings bent and held until they cried out for mercy.

     “I know, I’m not half as good as you,” Sapphire mumbled when she finished.

     “Dude, are you kidding? That song was incredible. What’s it called?”

     “Renaissance.”

     Destiny wracked her brain. “Hmm, doesn’t ring a bell. Who does it?”

     “Me. I mean, I wrote it.”

     Destiny eyed her up. “You wrote that? Wow.”

     Sapphire shrugged. “It’s nothing. I’m sure you’ve written better.”

     Destiny shook her head. “Dude, I’ve never written anything, never even tried.  But that, what you just played, was beautiful.”

     “Thanks,” Sapphire blushed. After an awkward thirty seconds of silence, she uttered the words that Destiny had been waiting for: “Would you like to play?”

     In a dream, Destiny took the guitar from her. It played as magnificently as it looked. She whipped out some Yngwie Malmsteen and Sapphire’s mouth fell open. When she finished, Sapphire asked, “What else can you play?”

     Destiny shrugged. “Pretty much anything I hear.” 

     After that they were lost in time, trading licks, shouting out song challenges to each other, Destiny doing Steve Vai and George Lynch to Sapphire’s Ritchie Blackmore and David Gilmore.

      Suddenly there was a knock on the bedroom door.

     “Come in!” Sapphire yelled.

     The door opened to reveal the blond-haired, blue-eyed, go-go boot-wearing chick from the Pink Platypus album cover, now twenty years older with her hair cut to a fluffy, shoulder-length style. “Oh, you have company!” she exclaimed. She smiled at Destiny. “Hi, I’m Evie.”

     Destiny stood up. “I’m Destiny. I was just leaving.”

      She was halfway to the door when Evie called out, “Wait, would you like to stay for dinner?”

     Destiny toed the carpet. “No thanks, I don’t want to be any trouble.”

     Evie shook her head. “No trouble at all, I’ll just toss some extra veggies into the stir-fry. Hope you like tofu.”

     “Um, sure,” Destiny lied.  What the hell was tofu?

     “Great,” Evie grinned. “Give your mom a call so she doesn’t worry and then you two can join me in the kitchen.” She whooshed out the door.

     Sapphire passed her the phone (bitch has a phone in her bedroom!) and Destiny reluctantly dialed and lucky day, scored the answering machine. She mumbled the appropriate info then hung up and dutifully followed Sapphire downstairs and into the kitchen. They spent the next fifteen minutes chopping veggies and chatting. Evie plied Destiny with questions and she spouted the usual lies – my mom’s a secretary, my dad’s dead, and sure, I’m going to college. After they finished eating the weird veggies and rice concoction, Sapphire drove her home. She chattered the entire way, already making plans for her to come over tomorrow after school for more jamming.

    Although Destiny smiled when expected and actually liked Sapphire and her mom, no way was she gonna delude herself about what they truly were – people just ripe for the taking.​

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