There were nine of them in the back of the Fleetwood Seventy-Five, and though the advertisements boasted the ability to seat nine people comfortably, that could only be accomplished if the front seat was used for three of them. The only one sitting up there was the driver, and he made passenger number ten. On the rear-facing bench were four of them squished side-by-side: the drummer (a position in the band that changed so frequently Gerry never could remember what the name of the day was), Bella, Mark, and himself.
Across from them sat Phil, with a white-skinned, freckle-faced girl that Gerry hadn’t seen before on his lap, Moss, and two other band members, one of whom also held his own version of Phil’s pet over his lap. Bella had tried to follow suit, making the attempt to wiggle onto Ma
