Chapter 1

Chapter 1

M ark kept his list secret from his family, but he pulled it out whenever he was alone. The names grew smudged from so much handling as he dreamed of playing in each of those places. And when he went downtown, he sometimes stood outside the clubs, wishing he had the courage to go inside. But his conscience held him back. No way could he defy his upbringing any more than he already had.

He and his friends met several times a week to practice together, and Mark did solo sessions, sometimes several times a day. Both his parents pressured him to join one of the conservative youth groups like his older sisters. Instead, Mark hung around with the rebellious youngie . Some of his friends even had cell phones, computers, or cars. Most of them still dressed Plain, but a few wore Englisch clothes when they cruised the town on Saturday nights.

One night, they passed one of the clubs on Mark's list. On impulse, he shouted to Jerry Gingerich, who was driving, "Let's stop and listen to that music."

Jerry Gingerich screeched to a halt in the middle of the street. Cars behind him slammed on their brakes and laid on their horns.

"He meant to pull over, dude." Sam Keim cuffed Jerry on the side of his head, sending his straw hat flying.

"Why didn't you say so?" Jerry slid into a parking space as the cars he'd blocked drove around them, yelling obscenities.

He retrieved his hat, plopped it on his head, and they all tumbled from the car. Mark led the way to the door. He'd scoped out this teen club several times during the day, but he'd never been inside. His heart thumping in time to the music, he paid the cover charge, entered the dimly lit club, and led the way to a table tucked in the corner. Unlike Jerry, who strutted and preened in his Englisch clothes, Mark and Joel Wickey, their bass player, disliked drawing attention to themselves.

As they wove their way through the crowd, plenty of teen girls eyed them. Some of them giggled when they caught sight of the Amish buwe . Even Jerry and Sam in their jeans still had bowl-cut hair and straw hats. Jerry whipped his off and tried to hide it as he gave the Englischers flirty looks. Sam followed his lead.

They sank into chairs in the far corner, their hats in their laps, and ordered sodas. Then they all leaned back to listen.

After a while, Sam said in a low voice, "We're much better than them."

Joel nodded. "I wish we could show people here what we can do."

Mark fingered the list in his pocket. It had been almost a year since Mrs. Musselman had given it to him. Maybe they could.

When the band took a break, Mark gathered his courage and headed toward the bar. "Is the manager around?"

The server jerked a thumb toward a thirty-something man chatting with one of the band members. Mark headed toward them but stood a respectful distance away until they finished their conversation.

"Seriously, man. You've got to let us out of our contract. This hotel gig's a big deal."

"I can't find another band during the Christmas season. Everyone's already booked."

Mark approached the manager and cleared his throat. "Excuse me, but I couldn't help overhearing you. Our band would be happy to play here."

The manager snorted. "You and a million other amateurs." He studied Mark's clothing, and his lips curled. "Thought you Amish weren't allowed to play instruments."

Shame coursed through Mark. " Neh , we aren't, but Mrs. Musselman—"

"Adele Musselman?" The manager's face softened. "She was my piano teacher."

"Mine too. She taught me a lot of things."

"Wait. Are you the dude she told me about a while back? She did mention someone in an Amish band."

"That's us." Mark waved toward his friends in the corner.

Scowling at the performer, the manager snarled, "Looks like I found your replacement. But don't ever expect to get booked here again."

"So, what's your band's name? You got a manager I should talk to?"

Mark gulped. "I'm the manager." He'd formed the band, so he guessed that counted. "And we're called, um—" His mind went blank. Why hadn't they chosen a name? Swallowing hard, he blurted out the first thing that came to mind: "Amish Rebels."

With a sardonic smile, the manager held out a hand. "Great name. I'm Bud Reeser. You got publicity stuff—photo, posters, whatever?"

Photos? Mark tried not to cringe. Playing music was bad enough, but pictures? With the manager waiting impatiently for an answer, Mark fumbled out an excuse. "Not with us, but we can drop something by on Monday."

"Guess we should make sure you're available for the dates. Hang on."

The band had returned to the stage by the time Bud came back. He tapped a finger on a tablet and scrolled through a list. Mark memorized the dates Bud spat out.

"We'll be there." Mark only hoped the others would agree.

"We pay a percentage of ticket sales. Might attract a curious crowd the first night. After that, it's up to you to get them back with your music."

His thoughts whirling, Mark returned to the table. His bandmates thought he was teasing, but when the truth sank in, they all looked as dazed as he was. Then the chatter started. Joel worked at an office supply store and could get someone to make posters.

Tomorrow was Sunday, but first thing Monday morning, they'd get together for a photo. Since the band name was Amish Rebels, they'd wear their usual clothes. They'd need to find someone with a van or a truck to transport them.

Mrs. Musselman was thrilled to help, gladly took the photo, and enlisted one of her students who'd drive them in his cargo van for the privilege of attending their concerts. He even had backstage and sound experience. Everything fell together perfectly, and on Monday, Mark dropped off posters, new business cards, and publicity materials Mrs. Musselman had helped him prep and package.

The night of their first concert, the line was out the door. At intermission, Bud came over and shook Mark's hand. "You guys keep playing like that, and we'll have standing-room-only crowds. We even have a few reporters here to spread the word. Most publicity we've ever had."

* * *

Joline Lapp pushed her nine-month-old baby sister and two-year-old brother down the sidewalk in a double stroller. When Daed had remarried three years ago, she'd been twelve, the oldest of his five children, and Nettie's four had been even younger than her siblings. Now the nine children had grown to eleven, and Joline could see endless years of baby care stretching ahead of her.

Still, she loved living at the STAR Center, where Mrs. Vandenberg had created a place to keep city kids off the streets and out of gangs by offering art, music, computers, sports, crafts, tutoring, and tons of other activities plus free food and clothes. Although Joline could attend any of the classes she wanted, she had to sneak into some of them, like music lessons and gymnastics. Her parents would be horrified to know she had a leotard, which she covered with T-shirts and sports shorts to make them a little more modest. Luckily, she did the wash, so they hadn't found out. Sadly, as much as she longed to, she'd never be able to compete or play music in public.

Her parents stayed so busy running the center and training gang members, they depended on Joline to care for all the little ones and cook meals. Most of the time, she didn't mind, but it meant she always had children chaperoning her. That was her parents' way of making sure she didn't get into trouble.

But once she dropped her siblings off at the center's activity rooms, her parents had no idea what lessons Joline took. She also used the babies' walks as an excuse to get out and explore the city of Lancaster, so different from the small country town where they'd lived before. She loved popping into little shops, getting an ice cream cone, or talking to Englisch girls her own age. Now that she'd finished school last year, she had plenty more free time. And she took advantage of it.

As she passed one of the teen clubs, she came to an abrupt stop. A poster in the window had five Amish buwe playing instruments. Were they really Amish? She couldn't believe it. The sign said they'd be playing that Saturday night from eight to eleven thirty. She had to come here to see.

Joline spent the next few days making plans with two of the Englisch girls she often hung out with, Amari and Elise. After her family went to bed around nine, she sneaked out, avoiding the doorman at the STAR Center, and went to Amari's apartment, where she dressed in one of her friend's sparkly dresses. When Elise arrived, already dolled up, she and Amari insisted on doing Joline's hair and makeup.

A sick feeling in her stomach, Joline removed her kapp and unpinned her bun.

"Wow!" Amari's eyes widened as Joline's hair fell to her waist. "Girl, don't you ever cut your hair?"

Joline shook her head. "We're not allowed to."

"You got a curling iron?" Amari asked Elise. "Maybe we can make her hair look a little shorter."

Joline fidgeted. "We're going to miss the whole thing if we don't go soon."

But Elise raced upstairs to her family's apartment and returned holding a long metal rod with a handle. When it was hot, she wound sections of Joline's hair around and around it. By the time Amari finished, Joline's hair reached far below her shoulders rather than to her waist.

"Come look at yourself, girl. You look amazing." Amari grabbed Joline's hand and pulled her toward the full-length mirror.

Joline gaped at herself. Who was this glamourous Englischer staring back at her?

"You're drop-dead gorgeous," Elise proclaimed.

Joline had to agree. She'd never spent time looking in mirrors. She could see why the Amish didn't hang them all over their houses. She could get used to gazing at herself this way. A sure path to hochmut . It was hard to stay humble after seeing yourself in beautiful clothes with all your best features enhanced by makeup. She flipped the curls over her shoulder.

A snake of guilt twisted inside her. This was wrong. So wrong. She should scrub her face, get back in her Plain clothes, and pray for forgiveness.

Amari jostled her arm. "Let's go, girl. Ready for your big night out?"

The sensible side of Joline vanished in the excitement. She ignored the still, small warnings of her soul, took Amari's arm, and marched toward the door with determination. Nothing, especially not nagging little voices, would spoil tonight for her.

Crowds stood around on the sidewalk, waiting to get in, stamping their feet in the slush and blowing on gloved hands to ward off the icy chill. Some stood, shivering in ragged clothing, staring longingly through the windows at the band. The frigid air vibrated to the pounding beat.

Shimmying to the music, Joline and her friends joined the line, inching slowly closer to the door. Finally, their turn came when several younger teens headed out, and Amari snagged their table. The three friends sat almost directly in front of the stage. The noise and energy reached out and grabbed Joline with its intensity. Her eyes locked on the instruments and the players. Her lips curved into a smile at the familiar Amish black broadfall pants, suspenders, blue short-sleeved shirts, and straw hats.

Her heart flipped when the lead singer's throaty voice crooned "Whenever I Dream of You," and his eyes locked with hers. Her breath caught, and she got lost in the depths of his green eyes. Was he singing this song for her?

When the last notes died down to one final guitar chord and the light ting of the cymbals, the audience broke into thunderous applause, cheers, and whistles. Many jumped to their feet for the standing ovation. The lead singer broke eye contact and glanced around as if dazed at the response.

The drummer stepped up to the mike. "Give it up for our own Mark Troyer, who wrote that original."

The crowd went wild.

Joline sucked air into her constricted lungs. He'd written that? Amazing. What a magical talent!

Amari leaned over. "That song was lit." She squealed. "And he's into you. Couldn't keep his eyes off you."

Others had noticed? To her, the two of them had been on an island by themselves. Everything had drifted away except for him, his words, his gaze . . . and the music pulsing between them. Joline had never experienced exhilaration like this before, and she wanted it to go on forever.

Sadly, he connected with others during his next songs, and Joline felt bereft. Still, the music was incredible, touching part of her she'd never before tapped. She'd been on a roller coaster once at Hersheypark. Like that, the music kept pulling her to peaks, then pitching her over the top to stomach-dropping thrills.

In between, the drummer, who'd turned out to be quite a joker, kept up humorous patter that made everyone laugh. She probably giggled the loudest because most of his jokes were about being Amish, so she understood the humor better than anyone else in the tightly packed audience.

A few times, Mark's eyes flitted to her, assessing, curious. He seemed to be studying her, wondering about her. She squirmed. Could he tell she was Amish? Did she want him to know?

Joline was torn. In one way, she did, but in another, she'd rather he see her as an Englischer. She hoped he couldn't tell she was only fifteen. The makeup made her look older and more sophisticated. So did the slinky dress.

The two hours flew by until Joline couldn't possibly fly any higher. She'd never been this giddy or bubbly in her life. And just when she thought she'd reached the pinnacle, the drummer stepped up to the mike again.

He announced, "Our final song of the night is another original by Mark, ‘Only You.' "

Mark gazed at the spotlight around his feet as he began singing. When he lifted his gaze, their eyes met. As he sang each word of the beautiful love song right to her, Joline floated into the stratosphere. Never had she been so connected to someone else like this. Her eyes shimmered with tears.

When the song ended, she smacked her palms together as hard as she could. That had been incredible. Simply incredible.

He kept his head bowed, looking humbled at all the adulation, which made her admire him even more. Was it possible to fall in love with someone through music? Joline wasn't positive, but she thought she had.

* * *

After the crowd left, Mark focused his attention on packing up the equipment and tried to shake off the odd feeling that had come over him when his eyes met that girl's. For some reason, he couldn't look away. She was only a young girl, but his heart swelled at the yearning in her eyes. The longing of a true music lover. One who experienced the pulse of music through her whole body and deep in her soul. That girl was a kindred spirit.

He frowned. Something else had drawn him to her. She had a rebellious spirit that matched his. And if he wasn't mistaken, she appeared to be Amish, despite her makeup and sequined dress. Everything about her—the uneasiness in the way she sat, her eagerness to drink in new experiences, her wide, surprised look when her gaze lighted on unfamiliar things—all revealed her as a first timer at a teen club.

Something deep within him compelled him to pray for her. Her innocence could easily get her in trouble.

Please, Lord, keep her safe. Don't let her do anything foolish to spoil that eager, open spirit. And protect her from those who might want to do her harm.

Jerry elbowed him. "You're standing there dazed, like somebody hit you over the head. You fall in love or something?"

Mark's laugh came out shaky and hollow. "Don't be ridiculous. When would I have time to fall in love?"

That was for sure. Their lives had become a whirlwind of practices, sneaking out to gigs, and keeping up with the chores at home. And late at night, while the rest of his family slept, Mark labored over new songs—sometimes in his head, other times on a pre-charged laptop Mrs. Musselman had loaned him. He shielded it with his covers so he didn't wake his younger brothers. Mark often woke groggy-eyed and exhausted the next morning, and sleepwalked through his chores. Often, the secret knowledge of his latest creation was the only thing that fueled him during the day.

His life had become divided into slogging through the day and coming alive at night as music poured out of him. Already, after three performances, the adulation and applause had become a drug. A drug he needed to survive. Everything else faded into unimportance. Music held center stage in his life.