“What kinda drugs is that cat on?” he whispered.
Marty closed his eyes, struggled to his feet. “I…don’t feel so good…” he mumbled.
On the dance floor, many of the young people were so wrapped up in the magical moment they failed to notice the band’s disintegrating sound. George McFly in particular was totally oblivious to mere music. Having been shunted aside, he saw Dixon encircle Lorraine’s waist with one arm as he prepared to take her hand.
Lorraine looked helplessly at George.
George’s hesitation was brief. Taking along stride toward Dixon, he said simply: “Excuse me.” It came out in the best Clint Eastwood tradition, a soft phrase with underlying tones of businesslike, very confident menace. Reaching out with one hand to shove Dixon ten feet away, he took Lorraine with the other and folded her to his chest. Turning her chin upward, he kissed her gently on the lips.
Marty felt a surge of new energy race through his entire body. Jolted upright as if struck by an electrical shock, he looked at his right hand and arm again. No longer were they transparent!
“Thank God!” he smiled.
Whipping the family photograph from his pocket, he laughed, did a little pirouette on the bandstand, and grabbed the guitar again. Linda, Dave and himself were all back in the picture, completely intact, and the feeling in his hand told him his musical powers had been restored.
“All right!” he shouted. “Let’s do it!”
Picking up the beat again, he led the group in a snappy windup to “Earth Angel.” The crowd applauded.
“Say, you’re good, man,” Marvin Berry said. “Do another one.”
Marty looked at his watch. Through the far doorway at the end of the gymnasium, he could see a flash of lightning. “No, I’ve gotta go,” he said.
But Bob Jordan had grabbed him gently but firmly by the arm. “Come on, let’s do something that cooks,” he smiled.
Marty decided there was time.
“Well, all right,” he said. “You guys will just have to follow me on this one…” Stepping to the microphone, he said: “We’re gonna do one more. Where I come from, they call this rock ‘n’ roll!”
He hit a guitar riff, took a beat and then looked at Jordan. “Gimme a blues beat, like this,” he said, picking out the rhythm. Jordan, smiling, grabbed it immediately and sent the pulse moving.
“Good!” Marty said. Turning to the bass player, he hummed a two-bar line. “Do this and then pick it up when I change,” he said.
The bass player nodded, getting it.
“Piano, take the bass line and play it up three octaves,” Marty continued. “And sax—improvise on the three chord progression.”
It was ragged at first, but a moment later, the team started functioning—and the music sounded like vintage rock ‘n’ roll. On the dance floor, heads turned and the kids started dancing faster. A few minutes later, pandemonium started to spread—they had never heard music like this before. Getting caught up himself, Marty whipped off his sport jacket and threw it into the crowd. His movements became more and more like that of Mick Jagger…then Michael Jackson…then he drifted into pure Heavy Metal, putting his guitar next to the amp so as to generate feedback. Laughing and shouting encouragement, the band members improvised wildly, following every progression Marty made with amazement and then professional dexterity. Within the walls of the gymnasium, only one face remained cold and unaffected by the new sound—that of Gerald Strickland.
“Just when you think they can’t get any worse,” he muttered to himself, “they turn around and find a way to get worse.”
George, dancing breathlessly with Lorraine, felt a new spirit moving through him. He’d finally done something right and the evening seemed magical! Lorraine, the music, the congratulations of those around him, everything meshed into a pattern that said Happily ever after. He wanted the night to continue forever.
That, of course, was impossible. All too soon, Marty wrapped up the song with a final riff and stepped back, smiling, to acknowledge the thunderous applause.
Everyone started to talk at once—about the music and George McFly’s exploits. As he and Lorraine walked toward the bandstand, George felt a dozen hands reach out to touch him.
“Hey, George!” one voice said. “I hear you laid out Biff! Nice going!”
“George, did you ever think about running for class president?” an attractive girl asked.
“We sure could use you on the team, George,” another boy said.
Not knowing what team he represented, George could only hedge pleasantly. “Well, I’ll have to think about it,” he smiled.
Lorraine, basking in his notoriety and newfound respect, grasped his arm tightly and smiled up at him.
A smiling, perspiring Marty came up to them, stuck out his hand for George to shake.