In a run-down black van, its sides tattooed with pictures of skulls and rock instruments, there sat a young woman.

"Hey-hey, mama, said the way you moooove, go'a make you sweat, gonna make you groove!!!"

Summer Hathaway waited patiently for the howling roar of a Zeppelin riff die away as the first verse surged on. Annoyed, she quirked an eyebrow at her close friend, mentor and client Dewey Finn as he convulsed at the wheel, shrieking like a caged monkey as his hair flailed all around.

"Oh-oh, child, way you shake that thiiing, gonna make you burn, gonna make you stiiiing……!!!"

Again, as the vocal solo of Black Dog died away, the music exploded to life and shook the van like a small earthquake. Unperturbed, she looked back down at her schedule and measured her wristwatch against it. Dewey, meanwhile, was slamming his head against the seat, pulling faces that, when she thought about it, were quite frightening.

"Dewey," she said sternly, but not even she heard it.

With a sigh, she reached for the volume knob and killed the noise.

"Dewey!"

It took a small while for the School of Rock frontman to wind down. When he did, he gave her a troubled glance.

"Summer, we've been over this before," he chastised her, "You never stop the rock before the rock says its okay. And that little number just started, what's the big idea?!"

"I was thinking it'd be nice if we could just hum along to the ringing in our ears for a while," she muttered with no small amount of sarcasm.

"Uh-oh," said Dewey, a psychotic smile creeping over his features, "Sounds like Madame Sassy von Sasstraum is hankering for a dose of The Who!"

"No, that's not what I – "

Whatever she had to say next would remain a mystery to all but her, as Dewey expertly changed CDs and was quickly back in action. With a hopeless sigh, she put her PalmPilot in the glove compartment and folded her arms, falling against the seat as she did so.

In the seven years that had passed since Principal Mullins gestured for Dewey to step into her classroom and her life, Summer Hathaway had become quite the lady. Since it was her duty from the start to be prim and punctual, her gilded-edge attitude stood firm no matter how crazy things got – in retrospect, she'd helped propel the band to the point that they'd reached. She was elegance and grace sitting curtly atop the mad beast they called The School of Rock, and it showed in her appearance: her dark, smiling eyes; long raven hair; ruby red lips and fair, dimpled cheeks harked back to a time where she was a small girl unconvinced by a bogus substitute teacher and his manic take on education. But at the same time, her added height, casual dress and sweet tone of voice made her completely approachable. The band was indeed very fortunate to be under her guidance, and they were often reminding her so.

The song came to a resounding finish, and Dewey tried to emulate the sound of a screaming audience. Unsurprisingly, (and much to Summer's displeasure,) he pulled it off. They were three blocks into their East Coast tour, and already she needed an aspirin.

"Aw-haw-hawl-RIGHT, THEN!" he hollered, pulling up against the curb, "First stop on the ROCKIN'-est roadshow since Woodstock 1……LAWRENCE'S HOUSE!"

With a nod and a grin, Summer ticked her checklist.

0-o

As Summer leant over the seat and chatted politely with Lawrence, she had to admire Dewey's handiwork. The body of the van was like a Reggae artist's basement, with brightly colored beanbags, weird and shocking designs up and down the walls, and of course, expensive guitars framing the entire ensemble.

She was thankful for Lawrence, even though they didn't know one another very well. She liked how his prep school stiffness took her back to a time before success – reflection seemed to make the present sweeter. Yes, he still walked and talked like he was wearing a back brace, but having spent years watching Dewey aneurysm and scream bloody murder into the microphone, a slice of sanity was like a breath of fresh air for her.

After they'd picked up vocalists Alicia, Tomika and Marta, the van rocked its way downtown for their drummer, Freddy Jones. That afternoon, he sat on his stool on the sidewalk, twirling a drumstick absently and thinking about the coming tour, their first ever interstate trip.

Seven years well spent, he mused with a small smile. After the Battle of the Bands, School of Rock had been in high demand, if only because the gimmick of kids playing great music was so novel and cute. As they grew, however, the gimmick wore away and their music stood on its own, building a following across New York and its neighboring states, and at last sending them on the road to blow minds on foreign turf. In that time, Freddy had plunged headlong into the world of contemporary punk, favoring Good Charlotte, Sum 41 and Blink 182 over most of Dewey's music. It showed in his appearance, too. The spiked look stayed long after the final bow that afternoon, and his face, which had been striking even at ten, had matured into that of a poster-boy punk rocker with deep, narrowed eyes, a sandy blonde goatee and a set jaw.

"Heya, Spazzy," came a sing-song call as he tossed a drumstick into the air.

"Katie!" he cried, startled. The airborne drumstick decked him across the head on its way down.

She giggled. And oh, it melted him. She checked both ways before crossing the street, her beloved bass guitar in tow; and all the while a broad, excited smile stayed with her. Cursing under his breath, Freddy grabbed the stick before it rolled into the gutter and bolted upright as soon as he did, trying to maintain his composure as she came ever closer. It wasn't that he liked her, per se, it was just……well, yes. He really did, and who could blame him? At Horace Green she was by far the prettiest girl he'd known, and as time went by, she got a lot prettier. Her supple skin had become a beautiful shade of bronze, and her naturally full lips were always tinted with an off-beat and distinctly Katy color. Today it was lavender, and Freddy's urge to share in it had never been stronger. She saved her frizzy dreads for the stage only, and he was glad for it – he loved the silky straightness of her dark hair, streaked with magenta highlights. Then there were her eyes……

"Freddy?"

"Huh?"

She was giving him a dubious look. He shook his head and returned her stare with a sheepish grin.

"Sorry," he chuckled lightly, "Kinda tuned out there for a sec. What are you doing here?"

"That's what I was trying to tell you," she scolded, "I thought I'd save Dewey the effort, so I had my Mom drop me off here. Where's the rest of your kit?"

She paid mention to the absence of most of his drums. All she saw on the street corner were his sticks, stool and snare.

"Oh, the venues agreed to provide a kit for me," he explained, "Y'know, just to save some room in the van."

"Oh, cool."

"Yeah."

The two of them smiled and nodded in what Freddy considered an awkward moment, but Katy paid it no mind. She turned her gaze to the end of the street, waiting to hear the muffled roar of hard rock and the haze of exhaust fumes that went with it. Freddy, meanwhile, went back into his trance, admiring her slender body from the neck down. As usual, she was dressed in casual clothes that smacked of tomboy, but on her it was so becoming. A turquoise Radiohead T-shirt, acid-washed denim trousers with the knees torn open and a tattered pair of red sneakers was all she cared to throw on that morning – and in Freddy's eyes, she was still the most beautiful thing he'd seen.

She gave a joyful squeal at the sound of a sputtering engine.

o-0

"Well, that only leaves one more," said Summer.

"I think I know who!"

Laughing like a maniac, Dewey pulled over at the front of a lavish home and blared the horn. And the door swung open almost immediately.

Zack Mooneyham was a far cry from the Horace Green 5th grader Dewey had been introduced to way back when. His comb-over had long been replaced by a Paul McCartney Beatles-era bowler cut, with a fringe that covered half his eyes and sideburns etched down his jaw. Since school was out of session, his chin was peppered with small, dark whiskers – but it was still Zack, no matter how many changes he'd made in seven years. His lips were still pursed and wet, his face sallow and fair, and his big dark eyes hooded and lazy, like the night before had been the wildest gig ever.

He had blossomed into the tallest of them all, certainly taller than Dewey (as if that were an achievement) and almost an inch higher than both Lawrence and Tomika. And his lanky frame was decked out in a worn Ramones long-sleeve and burnt auburn bell-bottoms, the style harking back to a young Robert Plant fronting Zeppelin in the Seventies. No-one appreciated the look more than Dewey. That drawn-out, absent stare was so Kurt Cobain! Zack was Dewey's protégé, his heir to the throne of psychedelic solos and unkempt hair. No drugs, no liquor, just music – the very soul of music.

"Zack ATTARRRGHK!!!" bellowed Dew, pumping his fists like a madman.

"'Sup, guys?" grinned Zack. His lopsided, hesitant grin.

His voice was deep and hollow now, not that he cared to exercise it very often when his guitar spoke loud enough for the both of them. For a guy who melted faces left, right and centre, he was still as quiet as a mouse.

Summer straightened almost immediately, her peaches-and-cream complexion becoming noticeably peachier. She'd felt a certain way about Zack ever since he blew a thousand heads off at the Battle of the Bands, when they were all only ten. However, in true Summer fashion, 'Win Zack's Heart' had been jotted down as a memo, beneath a thousand different things to do on her PalmPilot. But with many vacant hours on the road ahead, a lot of her schedule had been cleared……

Katy, also a Zack fan, was far more discreet in her attraction. Instead of staring or blushing, she turned away and began to make room for his guitar and amp, shifting her bass to a pedestal further to the back of the van.

"Thanks," said Zack, running a hand through his hair.

He lifted his guitar through the opening and Freddy hung it on a wall adjacent to him.

"Climb on in, bro," the drummer smiled, hoisting Zack into their makeshift rumpus room.

Zack greeted everyone with mellow enthusiasm once inside, sorting through his duffel bag for some CDs for the trip. Dewey, of course, had most of what he had already; so Zack set aside Hendrix and Pink Floyd and took out some modern rock that Dewey was yet to hear. The Darkness, Green Day and Jet were to become popular favorites along the way.

"Alright!" called Dewey as his posse settled into the assortment of beanbags behind him. "Is everyone wearing shoes? 'Cuz there are asses out there that need kicking!"

"Yeah!" cheered the eight of them, cracking open a case of Coke and toasting their success.

The van shuddered to life to the strains of Sweet Child of Mine, and in a cloud of smoke, they were on their way.