How to Kill a Rock Star

by Tiffanie DeBartolo

“Oh, God,” I said in a panic. “Let’s just lay this on the table right now. Because I don’t want to think this is one thing and have it turn out to be the other. Is this real or is it crap?” “Jesus,” he said. “The sun isn’t even up yet.” “I mean it. I need proof. Tell me your real name.” “Proof?” He huffed. “You want proof? Give me your goddamn hand.” Skeptically, I did as he asked, and he proceeded to sing the chorus to one of 66’s meaningless songs, mimicking Amanda Strunk’s whiskey-flavored voice, pointing to my arm. Nothing had changed. Then he sang the last verse of “The Day I Became a Ghost” and every one of my hairs stood on end. “See that?” Paul said. “Ten goddamn seconds.” “I don’t get it.” “You didn’t even have to hear the whole song, just a few lines, and you still got chills and that swirly, happy-sad feeling in your gut, didn’t you?” “So?” “So?” he huffed. “That’s the difference between the real stuff and the crap. I know which one you are and you know which one I am.” He flipped over and buried his head in his pillow. “That’s all the proof you need. Wake me up in an hour.”