Sal here. Bit of a dilemma. I can't decide who should narrate the Roxie chapter, which is the one coming after this: Freddie, Danny, or Julia. They're all equally willing, but I'm open to opinions if ya got 'em. ;)  Now, let's continue.

Danny

"Sharif don't right click," I sing, bopping around as much as the seat belt will let me.  "Lock the taskbar!  Lock the taskbar!"

Mr. Adams turns down the radio.  "Danny, it's 'Rock the Casbah." 

"I like my version better," I say, then I go back to singing the wrong lyrics, and he just laughs.  I know what the actual words are, but I didn't always, because Mom always sings the wrong words as a "Weird Al" kind of joke on that song. Still, I like Nerd Clash better than Regular Clash. 

The weather outside is gross.  It's been half-snowing, half-raining most of today, and everything is cold, grey, and slippery.  But I feel great.  I didn't get in trouble today, and tonight Mom and I are decorating the tree.  Hopefully Freddie won't have left yet, and we can all do it together.  That would be fun.

I look over at Lauren and see she's moping. "You still mad I beat you?"

"You wouldn't have, if you hadn't made it best two out of three."

We always play "rock, paper, scissors" to decide who gets to pick the music we ride home to, and today I won- which is great, because when Lauren wins, all she wants to hear is Disney songs, and some of those are okay -especially the stuff from The Lion King, that's my favorite- but mostly it's pop stuff.  You know, the really high-pitched whiny songs with a bunch of stupid synthesizers blaring everywhere so people don't notice how overrated the singer really is. 

And I don't just mean Taylor Swift, either.  It's all of those newer guys too.

"That's what you get for leaving me and Jamal all alone at lunch today," I tell her, folding my arms proudly.

"I sat with you yesterday," she protests.

"But you promised me you'd tell me what you found about, uh- about Freddie." I had tried to get Jamal to look him up for me, but he was too busy listening to his rap music and playing some game on his phone.

"I had to," she says sadly. 

"Why?  We missed you."

"Yeah, but-" Then her voice drops down to shaky whisper.  "Campbell said she thinks you're my... boyfriend."

"What?" I shrink up against the car door. "Yuck!  Just cause we eat lunch together and carpool?"

Lauren shrugs.  "I dunno."

In the next second I get over that very scary idea, because Lauren is my friend- even if she's also a girl- and I say, "Well, okay.  Just tell her we're not boyfriend and girlfriend, and come sit next to me next time- or else."

"What?"

"Or else, I'll sit at the girls' table tomorrow and be annoying to all you guys."

"You're annoying already."

"Maybe- but you're way more annoying than me.  You're the most annoying best friend ever."

Smiling, she shoves me a little.  I hope she'll say I'm her best friend too, but she doesn't.  And now I'm a little embarrassed. 

I should have remembered.  Mom says I should be more careful about doing this, making myself look like a pushover at the wrong times.  She says I get that from my dad.

That's one of the things I wish I was like Mom about.  She's so tough.  I mean, she never, ever cries. The only time I think I ever saw her come reeeeally close was a few summers ago, when I was four.  We were with Uncle John and Aunt Veronica, and they were having an adult discussion- you know, the ones that happen when the adults all go off to one room and leave the door just barely cracked so that kids can just hear their voices but don't catch any of the words.  But at that moment, I felt like being nosy, so I pushed the door a little more open, and saw my godparents with an open photo album in their laps, and Mom sitting close beside them and holding a little square photo, which she was staring at with her other hand covering her mouth.  I don't know what the picture was, but it made a little tear slide down my mother's cheek- one she wiped away as soon as she saw me standing in the doorway. 

Of course, they shooed me away before I could see or ask, and I didn't think much of it; that wasn't the first or last time I've been caught spying.  But that was the only tear I've ever seen fall from her eyes- and that's the only reason why I remember it so well.

I try to be like that, try to be that tough.  But I still cry when it hurts too much.  Mom must not have minded that Dad could be squishy, I guess, because she still fell in love with him and stuff, so I figure if it's good enough for Dad, it must not be that bad- even I do feel a little dumb at the moment.

"Is What's-His-Name still there?  I mean, that Freddie Mercury lookalike - is he still living with you guys?" Mr. Adams asks suddenly. 

"Yes, sir," I nod.  "At least, I think so." 

He grins.  "Does he know he's trending?"

I blink.  "He's trending?"

Mr. Adams looks very proud, taps the touch screen in the center of the console, which becomes a Twitter page.  There I can see Freddie's trending status.  The lump forms in my stomach when he says, with a big I'm-so-lucky grin, "#Freddiestwin just broke the Top Ten most popular.  How cool is that?"

#Freddiestwin?

I gulp.  Now that I think about it, I did actually see that on my social studies teacher's overhead projector today. 

I try to be cool.  To Lauren I say, "But- but your account's private, isn't it?"

"Dad reposted my picture on his work's Facebook last night," Lauren says, and adds gloomily,  "His got three times as many likes as mine after just fifteen minutes-"

My voice gets higher, starts to shake.  "But not the video, right?"

"The video wouldn't upload like it's supposed to," she complained.  "Stupid Facebook."

That makes me feel a little better, but not much.  The picture is still out there, and this was supposed to be a secret. Oh, this could be bad- worse even than that one time when Mom found me watching South Park with Uncle Scott (which was his fault, not mine- although it was my idea...).

Aw, man.  I promised Mom.  I didn't think this was going to happen.  What's she gonna say when she finds out?  Worse, what's she gonna do?

"I can tell you some stuff now," Lauren suggests as we turn onto our street.  "My phone died, but I can say what I remember-"

"Tell me later," I say.  I'm too worried about myself to care about Freddie web-facts right now.  Besides, I can always just ask the guy straight up.  He seemed kind of annoyed when I asked him that one question, though.  Not sure why.  He's either really, really famous because of Queen, and he was mad I didn't know who he was, or he just thought it was a dumb question.  Maybe both.  I dunno.

I hop out of the Tesla once we slow down by my house, waving bye to the Adamses.  I have homework to do, and plus I'm starving.  Time for a snack.

I barely open the front door when Farnsie tells me there's good news and Fry careens around the corner to jump up on my legs.  That's weird.  Fry shouldn't be out at all.  Then I notice there's music playing in the living room- I think it's one of our records.  Listening closer, I find it's the one record we have by Aretha Franklin- Who's Zoomin' Who, probably.  It must be, because that's the song that's playing right now.  Is Mom already home, or did Freddie just never leave all day?  Maybe that's a good thing.  Then people couldn't take more pictures of him and go even crazier about him being around.

Then I hear him call from the kitchen, "That you, Mr. Phantom?"

Cool, Freddie is home!  "Yup!"

"Perfect," he says.  "It was far too quiet round here.  I'm making tea, would you want some too?"

I don't really like tea, not even when tea time happens at Uncle John's house.  Best part about it are the biscuits you get.  "No, thanks," I say, dropping my backpack off in my room and walking into the kitchen, where he's standing over the stove with his back to me. 

My stomach grumbles a little.  "Want some cheese toast?"

He turns, surprised.  "Cheese toast?"

"That's the only thing I know how to m-" I stop when I see his face- but I don't see the mustache.  And at first look I almost wonder if that's even the same guy. 

"That you, Freddie?" I have to ask.

He kind of laughs.  "Does it make that much of a difference?"

But the minute we make eye contact, and I hear how he says the c in "difference" with a little whistle, I know it's him.  But, man!  He looks so different!  I don't know how, but he looks way more friendly.  His teeth look a little bigger also, but I don't care, the mustache was the awkward part to me anyway.  But didn't he say he was going to keep it?  Who cares.  I like this better.

Freddie gives me a little smile.  He knows why I'm looking at him the way I am.  "Well, I know you've got an opinion, so - what do you think?"

Before I can answer, it hits me.  This is his disguise!  True, he still doesn't look like some random average dude on the street, but he doesn't look like a big famous rock star anymore, either- and now people won't take any more pictures of him, and people won't think he's the guy in the pictures already taken!  And Mom will never know!  Hurray!  I'm off the hook!

"THANK YOU, GOD!" I scream aloud, jumping up and down and doing the happy dance. "YEAH YEAH YEAH!  WOO-HOO!"

"Good Lord," Freddie says after about five seconds of this. "I had no idea it meant so much to you."

I calm myself down.  "Oh, no, I'm not dancing about that, I just found out that I'm not gonna die tonight."

"Well, that's always worth celebrating," he says, kind of arching his brow sarcastically.  For some reason, I decide to copy his expression and stand like he's standing- nose in the air, lips pursed, feet apart, one wrist bent against my hip.  I can see him trying not to laugh at me, but I'm the one who actually does break, and then he follows.

After we finish laughing, I ask again, "Did you want some cheese toast?"

Freddie thinks it over, and then he shrugs with a little wave of his hand, "Oh, no, I'm all right, but thank you."

So I turn on the broiler, bust out the block of cheddar and the bread and a sheet to toast them on.  After Freddie pours himself the tea, he asks me about my day at school, and where the knives are so he can sort of help out and slice the cheese up for me.  He really is nice- and he doesn't call me stupid things like "buddy." 

"Did you just stay here all day?" I ask him once it's ready.

Freddie shakes his head again, swallowing a gulp of tea. "No, I actually just got back not, uh- an hour and a half ago."  He looks at me.  "I had driving lessons today, and they, um, ran longer than expected-"

I take a big bite out of my toast.  "You're going to driving school?"

"Sort of," he shrugs.  "Your mum's teaching me."

I cover my mouth with both hands, eyes widening.  "Seriously?"

"Mm," he nods with a chuckle.  "It was her idea, you know, but- and I mean, for a first time, I think I did rather well myself."

"First time driving?  Like ever?"

"More or less. Yes."  he pauses, and gives me a sly look.  "I know, I'm a, um- a noob."

Oh my gosh, Freddie said 'noob.' 

"That's the right word, isn't it?"

I nod, but he can tell I'm trying not to laugh.  "So- was it hard?"

"Well, it wasn't easy.  I'm glad I had Charles sort of warm me up on his car first, otherwise things would not have gone as smoothly as they did, you know what I mean?"

"Did you hit anybody?"

"Oh, Danny, really!" He laughs, covering his mouth. 

"Well, did you?"

He waves his hand.  "Oh, not really, nobody important anyway.  Just some little kids at a bus stop, and some woman standing on the corner feeding pigeons-"

My jaw drops.  "Really?" 

"Oh, come on!" Now he's just a teeny bit embarrassed.  "Mr. Phantom, if I had hit anything, or anyone, your mother would have probably murdered me.  The only thing I kept killing was the motor- and the only thing I hit over and over again was the curb."

I hope he's going to say more about it, 'cause this sounds like the start of a fun story, but before he can, the record ends, and he sends me down to put on a new one; he won't listen to anything Modo will play.  It's kinda funny.  He hates Modo so much he won't even let ME talk to it. 

"Anything but BJ Thomas," he calls.  "I've still got that 'Raindrops on my Head' song stuck in my head."

"Aww.  You don't like that song?"  I only ask because Mom loves it, and so do I, because it's in one of those old Spider-Man movies. 

"I don't give a d- uh, I don't care one way or the other, but that's apparently all my driver likes to listen to, is BJ Thomas and things like that.  Bread, that was another one.  A little of that is nice, I suppose, but my God!"

So I start to do what I was going to do anyway: I pull out Prince.  I would put on some music by Freddie's band, to be nice, but we don't have any on vinyl.  We don't have any Queen at all, actually.  I looked around the house for some yesterday, but there wasn't anything.

I'm just about to set the needle onto the first track of Parade when the doorbell rings.  I wonder if that's Roxie come to drop off the costume.

"I'll get it," I holler, then race up to the front door.  When I open it, though, it's Lauren standing there, hand behind her back.

"Hi!" I grin.  "I thought you had basketball today."

"I do, but uh, Dad wanted you to check this out, so I brought it over for him," she says.  Then she puts a slightly scratched, gold-colored CD box in my hands.  When I turn it right side up, I see an awesome-looking crest type-thing, and the title Queen: Greatest Hits I & II.

"Whoa," I say.  "He's giving this to me?"

"Uh, no, it's more like a sort of a borrowing thing," she says quickly.  "But since I can't tell you about him tonight, here.  But you gotta give it back when you're through, before Dad knows it's gone-"

"But you said this was your dad's idea," I interrupt.

Lauren looks down, then back up at me, tugging awkwardly on her red ponytail.  Then she puts her finger against her lips and goes, "Sh."

Mom says that sometimes people have different ways of saying "I'm sorry"; this is Lauren's.  And I forgive her.  My way of saying that is giving her a hug and saying, "Thanks, fam.  See you tomorrow."

She smiles, then runs back down the steps, covering her head against the drizzle.  Lauren really is the best.

As I'm closing the door, I look at the track list on the back.  Yup, there's "We Will Rock You" and "We Are the Champions"- those I know.  And the one called "A Kind of Magic"- that sounds familiar.  I think that's the one at the end of Highlander.  I've only seen that movie once, though, so I don't know for sure.  But everything else is new to me.

But I have decided, that changes in two minutes.

"Who was that?" Freddie asks as I come back toward the kitchen, still staring at the crest.

"Lauren," I say, holding up the box.  "She's letting me borrow some music."

"Oh?"  Freddie takes another sip.  "Whose?"

"Yours."

He almost spits up his tea, he's so surprised.  But a little does go down the wrong pipe, and he starts coughing.  "What?"

"Lookit!" I exclaim, handing him the box.  Once he's calmed down again, Freddie turns it over, looks at the title, and then the tracks.  And he smiles, shaking his head.

"One and two, eh?" he says to himself.  "Very interesting."

"Wanna hear some?"

But he shakes his head.  "I'm fine.  I know what they sound like.  Most of them, anyway."

He doesn't seem very excited.  He's interested, but he's not going on and on about it or asking questions.  "That is your band, right?" I ask.  "Queen?"

Freddie looks at me, blinking.  "Has your mother really never told you about me?"

I push my glasses further up against my face.  "Not really.  No."

"Mm," he sighs.  "Yes, that's our band.  And some of these songs I wrote.  Hope you like them."

"I will."  Why does he suddenly sound so sad?  What did I say? 

He nods quietly.  Then for no reason, Freddie reaches over and gives my nose a pinch.  That always tickles my nose so badly, makes me rub my face till the tickle goes away. 

"Why'd you do that?" I mutter.

And Freddie shrugs.  "Nothing, I just couldn't help but notice it right then."

"Notice what?"

He points briefly at his face, then waves his big hands around a little while he says a little awkwardly, "You, uh- you've got a nose like your mum.  That's all."

The two of us (three, technically, because Fry's in there too, but I don't think he counts) just stand there a minute, until finally Freddie clears his throat and says, "Uh- don't you have homework to do or something?"

Aw, man.  Now he's talking like Mom.  "Uh, yeah, a little-"

"Well then, go do that," he urges gently, handing me the CDs and ushering me toward my room, "don't waste your time talking to me, go do something more intelligent.  Go on."

Okay, the guy wants to be alone.  That's fine, I guess- but I was really enjoying talking to him.  Oh, well. 

So I nudge my door closed, plop down on my bed, open up the box to the first disc.  Now that I'm actually thinking about it, a couple of the titles do ring a bell.  "Another One Bites the Dust," "Crazy Little Thing Called Love" (which is funny, because I always thought that was a song by Elvis or somebody like that), "Flash"- I recognize those at least a little.  But the thing that catches my eye the most is the first song.

"'Bohemian Rhapsody,'" I read aloud.  To myself I wonder, So they did rock and classical music?  Funny.

I'm curious.  So I pop the CD into the slot on my stereo, press "Play."  Then I go over to my backpack, start pulling out my homework.

But then I stop.  Because "Bohemian Rhapsody" is starting:

"Is this the real life?/ Is this just fantasy?/ Caught in a landslide/ No escape from reality..."

I feel goosebumps rise on my arms and legs, but I'm not cold.  It's the voices.  Clear, British, tenor voices.  I gulp.

Are those all Freddie?

"Open your eyes/ Look up to the skies,/ And see..."

I walk away from my books and sit down by the stereo again, turning up the volume, and I just listen.  As the song goes on, and the part about him killing a man begins, I get a weird, confused feeling inside- like when you see someone you think you know, but aren't sure if it's them or not, and you're trying to decide whether you should go up to them and find out for certain. 

"Wow," I whisper.  I can't believe I'm thinking this, but he sounds as good as Prince- and maybe he's even better.

Then the guitar solo shows up, which is cool- and part of me wants to memorize it so I can try it for myself, but then I realize the guy who's playing is way too fast and he's way too great.  Not as good as Prince, though.  Prince is the best guitarist in the world.  But I am loving this, so much so that I turn up the volume as high as it will go.

And then all of a sudden it stops being a rock song:

I see a little silhouetto of a man
Scaramouche, Scaramouche,
Will you do the fandango?
THUNDERBOLT AND LIGHTNING,
VERY VERY FRIGHTENING, ME!

Those last two lines nearly knock me off the bed, they play so loud. But I don't turn it down. It's kind of strange, this opera part, but I can't help smiling, even laughing when he goes "Mamma Mia, Mamma Mia." I am so into this; I've never heard anything like it before in my life, and it's so dang cool.

Then from out of nowhere the rock music roars back into action, guitars, drums, and everything. By this point I'm up on my feet, head-banging, dancing around like a maniac. I don't even think about how Freddie can probably hear me rocking out up here. I'm lost in the music.

And then my door bursts open. I whirl, startled. There he is. His eyes are wild, that's the best way I can put it; wild and crazy. And for the first split second I'm almost scared. But in the next, I burst out laughing.

"So you think you can stone me and spit in my eye?!" he sings at the top of his lungs, doing this jerky little spin. "So you think you can love me and leave me to die?"

Still singing, he flies out of my room, and I follow right behind him. Freddie's voice doesn't sound the same as it does in the recording- it's raspier, and he doesn't go all the way to the high C- but I don't care. He runs down the stairs, still dancing, using a broom from the kitchen for a microphone stand, and I run after him.

In time with the music playing overhead, Freddie finally swoops to our piano and pounds the notes out perfectly, plays the song out like a pro. Racing back to my room, I turn off the recording so I can hear him play better, then come back down as fast as I can. I don't want to miss a thing he's doing. 

Maybe I wasn't sure before, but I believe it now. He's definitely a rock star- and a great one at that- and right now he's living in OUR HOUSE. 

Why the heck didn't Mom tell me about him before now? 

"Nothing really matters," he croons finally, "nothing really matters," and he waits a long time, then leans dramatically back on the bench, eyes shut, then does this soft, really complicated loop-de-loop thing with his voice that goes on and on as he finishes up, "To-o-o-o-o ..... me!"

The song winds down, he sings the last line "Any way the wind blows," and it ends.  And I explode into jazzed applause. 

"THAT WAS AWESOME!" I yell.

Freddie nods toward me, smiling. "Thank you very much, Mr. Phantom.  Wooh, I needed that."

His face, I notice, looks a little more rosy; he's been kind of pale compared to the way he looks now.  And his eyes seem to flash.  I guess he's getting used to it here.  At least I hope he is.

But I soon realize what's going on in his head.  He glances at our upright piano, looks around the living room, and sighs- but it's a determined kind of sigh, it's not the sad kind. 

Suddenly he jumps up, rubs his hands together.  "Right. I need some paper and a pen."

"What?  Why?"

"The muse, the muse is upon me and I feel like creating.  Go find me some paper, will you?"

I grab a purple pen and that pad he wrote all those slang words on, and take them to him.  "Good man, good man," he cries, situating his hands across the piano again. 

"Anything else I can do?" I ask hopefully.

"Yes."

"What?"

"Your homework."

"Aw, but-"

"School comes first," he chirps warmly. "Now back up the stairs with you!  Chop-chop!  I've got to think."

He may be a rock star, but that doesn't mean he's not a nerd. Still, I run up the stairs with a big grin on my face.  I've already forgotten all about the pictures on social media, and the trending hashtag; I've forgotten to care about that.  Because I've got two whole CDs to go through while I work on math and science worksheets.  Tonight, homework won't be so bad.  And think of what I get to tell Mom when she comes home later- what I got to hear and see!

I skip to the next song, the volume turned down low- with my door still a little open so I can hear what he's cooking up downstairs. 

That guy is crazy. Cool and dorky and crazy and awesome. I wonder.  Does that make him weird?

Honestly, I hope so. Because then that would make three of us.