Born to Rock by Gordon Korman

and mugging for a gaggle of photographers. Guitarist Pete Vukovich was shirtless, showing off a brand new diamond stud in his pierced nipple. I thought Dad was going to throw up.
    â€œCome on,” I chided. “To each his own.”
    But the piercing wasn’t what offended Dad’s sensibilities. “Poser,” he scoffed. “When did you ever see Johnny Rotten with a two-carat rock in his boob?”
    I pulled up short. “You know about this kind of music?”
    â€œIn high school we used to take the train into the city to go to CBGB. Everybody was there—the Ramones, Patti Smith, Television, the Dead Boys—”
    â€œPurge?”
    â€œThey came later,” he told me. “I’m talking about the early days, when punk was just starting out.”
    Could it be that Dad was more comfortable in this scene than I was?
    Everybody was ignoring us. Worse, we seemed to be in the way. Photographers kept backing into us. Dad knocked over a TV crew’s lighting rig, which nearly brained one of the Hatchlings.
    Finally, he marched up to a small desk and barked, “Is King Maggot available?”
    A young man with a reverse Mohawk—bushy hair on the sides and a bald stripe shaved down the middle—surveyed him up and down. “And you are?”
    â€œHis son’s father.”
    Reverse Mohawk never even questioned it. “King’s in with Rolling Stone right now,” he told us. “You’ll have to chill.”
    We chilled on the edge of a leather ottoman, sharing space with a stray amplifier. As regular business hours drew on into evening, new people continued to arrive, rougher around the edges, if such a thing was possible. A room service cart packed with champagne bottles was wheeled into the suite. Someone cranked up the music—all I could make out was the refrain, which sounded like “kill the poor.”
    â€œDead Kennedys,” Dad supplied. “Early eighties.”
    The business office was transforming into a party. Women, dressed to shock, were trawling for rock stars. Pete Vukovich was the catch of the day. “Shove over, yo,” he mumbled to us, joined at the lips to his hoochie. As they squeezed in beside us, she climbed onto his lap for space conservation and possibly other reasons.
    â€œLet’s get out of here,” I hissed at Dad.
    His expression would not have been out of place on the stone heads of Easter Island.
    A hot buffet showed up on another room service cart, along with more champagne. I checked my watch. It was coming up on eight o’clock! Where was King?
    And then a familiar earlobe appeared out of the throng, attached to the body of my bio-dad. Bernie was with him, steering the punk icon through the maelstrom of worshipful high fives that swirled around them. The cousins McMurphy looked tired and anxious to leave. But Bernie stopped when he spotted me on the edge of the ottoman.
    â€œHey, Cuz—have you been here all this time?”
    It had to be the most awkward moment in history. “King, Bernie”—my voice sounded unnaturally high—“this is my father. I mean—”
    Dad spoke up. “I need to talk to you, Maggot or McMurphy, or whatever your name is. You’ve only been a father for a few hours; I’ve been at it for seventeen years, so let me give you a little friendly advice: if you’re going to let your kid go gallivanting across the country with a man like you, you’d better make sure he’s not going to be exposed to anything sick.” He tossed a thumb in the direction of Pete and his girl, who were approaching the “get-a-room” stage.
    I waited for King to sic the goon squad on us. But the rock star didn’t call for his army of roadies. He didn’t even seem to be offended. He looked like he was thinking it over.
    Finally, he said, “What do you suggest?”
    Dad, who had been anticipating a punch in the nose—and